There are dozens of things that happen in childhood that foreshadow later moments in life.
Some big. Most small.
Oh your favorite class is reading? You might be an author, your parents think.
You bat both left and right? You’ll play varsity baseball, your coaches think.
If we used my childhood, I’d be a large fuzzy animal of some sort. Yeah, I was healthily (not weirdly) obsessed with stuffed animals.
I did not, in fact, grow up to be a loveable, huggable, snuggable animal. I’m only 23, so there’s still time.
Instead I found the creative life. Or rather, the creative life found me.
You see, I wasn’t a creative kid.
The stuffed animal in which I was inseparable from was a bear dressed in a duck costume. (Flipping. Adorable.)
You know what I named him? Bearduck. Bear effing duck. I gave him a literal name. One so bad it's like I was repelling creativity.
The most creative thing of my childhood was the language D, E and I spoke to each other before we knew the widely accepted usage of English. I’d like to say I came up with it, but that’s probably not the case. Plus, in retrospect a.k.a. home videos, we sounded like idiots communicating through the use of grunts and babble.
So no, I absolutely didn’t come up with it.
Even more creative: the way I defended myself. Biting. I bit people. And you know whom I learned that from? Dana. I took my sister’s defense mechanism and used it against her.
Like how obvious: “I bet she’ll never expect this.”
She was an even better biter than I was. We have the home videos to prove it.
.....
Was I a leader growing up? No. We split that job three ways.
Was I creative? No. You should see my pinch pot from art class. Actually you can’t since I’m sure my mom tossed it thinking it was a forgotten ball of hardened clay.
At the time did I think I was good at all things? Yes. And that’s truly how we got here. I could be anything I wanted. My dad said so.
I chose writer.
Did signs point this way? Hell to the no.
But here I am. So suck it, 7-year-old Amy. I did it without you.