The booklet is in, the treadmill space is getting there, webpage updates are steeping, the garden awaits.

The courage to declare myself a writer
I have always wanted to be a writer. In my dreams, not asleep ones but awake fantasies, I always write a lot, what and when I want, and my work is published, adored, it pays my bills, and then some. I remember as a teenager, family members teasing me, calling me John-boy, since to be a writer was his dream also, on that 1970s TV show The Waltons.

But then I guess I have always been a writer. I have several old youthful stories that my mother saved, also file folders filled with later copy, then storage boxes of floppy diskettes (not to mention this machine's hard drive). Stories written at home and for school. Stories for classes, school newsletters and newspapers, for the entertainment of family members, for slumbering unread as incomplete fragments in a file box, and after the advent of email, for a select group of test readers. Stories about cats and boat trips to Lake George. Stories about Thanksgiving turkeys and Halloween pumpkins. Stories about the hassle of having a name that no one can spell. (This problem was remedied somewhat, not completely, by the mayor's visibility.) Book reviews, cartoons and satire. A series of newspapers from the fictional town of Nileston (I also created the physical location using boxes, glue, tape and paint).

First in crayon, followed by pencil, printed and in script, for a while I flirted with fountain pens, and later I banged out stories on my father's manual typewriter with the "S" key that barely struck, cranking them out on a template for making dittos. A series of electric typewriters came next, and then a 286 PC, 486 laptop, the Pentiums and finally, the Internet. Stories scribbled on the back of envelopes. Snippets captured during a frenzy at 3 AM, and feverishly written in a journal designed for the purpose, or sometimes in a spiral bound school notebook, that was not. Written on the train, and while waiting for the bus. Written in the middle of the night, because an idea took over and refused to let me sleep. Written during my annual one-week summer vacation that was planned for that purpose. No exotic locales here, just me and big blue.

Writing alternating with reading; books shared between me, Aunt Jean, my grandmother Mimmie, and my sister. At first, books like Dr. Suess, Peanuts collections, and Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions. In a more serious vein, Nancy Drew mysteries and Pinocchio, by Carlo Collodi. Then came teen fiction like That Was Then, This is Now, A Separate Peace, and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Then funny romantic novels, mostly old and out of print, like those written by Georgiette Heyer. Humor by Erma Bombeck and furniture refinishing by George Groltz. Next, historical sagas by John Jakes and Gore Vidal, followed by a smattering of the classics, in no particular order: John Steinbeck, Flannery O'Connor, Kate Chopin, Edith Wharton, F. Scott Fitzgerald, J. Fenimore Cooper, Maya Angelou, and many others. Books that were once considered racy, like those by Erskine Caldwell. Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. Poetry by Robert Frost. So many others, from the U.S. and all over, some well-known, and some not. Nonfiction works on New York State regional history, biographies of famous, mostly dead, mostly white, men, and accounts of war and disasters. Journals of revolutionary soldiers, and long-dead British ministers. Popular fiction like Patricia Cornwall, Robert James Waller, John Grisham, and Terry McMillan. Lately, I like the work of Sandra Dallas, and many magazines: Organic Gardening, Preservation, American Heritage, Yankee, Dog Fancy, Smithsonian, and of course, Kaatskill Life. And most enduringly, important and dear of all, the complete works of Mark Twain.

On my office bookshelf, there are inspirational works: Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones and Room to Write, Viginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own, National Book Award Authors' The Writing Life, Stephen King's On Writing, and Women on Writing from the NAWW; technical works like Barrington's Writing the Memoir, Kaplan's Revision, Whitman and Simon's Recipes into Type, Dietrich and Sundell's The Art of Fiction, and Buchman and Groves' The Writer's Guide to Manuscript Formats. Reference works include annual editions of Writer's Market and Writer's Handbook, Webster's II New College Dictionary, that old standby Strunk and White's The Elements of Style, and various style guides (APA, Turabian, MLA, Chicago, New York Times). Years of The Writer magazine (I still can't forgive them for the ghastly redesign) and Writer's Digest are stacked behind the door.

In high school I liked English class. My favorite teacher's note in my yearbook: "Keep Writing!" and although I am not even sure where that yearbook is at present, I still cherish that inscription. I don't think, in spite of the awake dreams, that I ever seriously considered being a writer as my main profession; I'm not completely sure why, but I always knew the odds were not great for success, and I didn't plan on the academic path, an English degree followed by a creative writing MFA, that might have been an option. I had vague notions of being a lawyer, mostly because I was a good student, liked to debate and was sort of interested in politics. My first semester at college quickly erased that possibility, and instead I found I preferred studying U.S. history, just for the love of learning it. I think my first thoughts of a career in college administration may have come during those undergraduate days. I met some nice, understanding and helpful folks among the administrators, and it seemed like a pleasant profession. But those ideas were only a flicker, and they didn't stick at that time either.

I didn't care for college-level composition courses, but I did find the services of the writing center on campus to be helpful, and there I found a mentor. He was a retired editor and writer of radio plays. I remember the marvelous experience of those sessions. During that time I did a lot of writing, and this was also when I first began to research the market, and tentatively send out a few pieces of fiction and poetry to literary journals.

Needless to say, I received two responses to those juvenile submissions: silence, or rejection letter. Does the ability to revise so easily now actually improve the writing? Or does it instead stifle the passion? Do we produce draft after draft for a reason? Oh, I do know revision is a necessary process, and wordprocessing really is a wonder, but at times I ponder the utility of all this on-screen, on-the-fly editing.

Skip ahead - there were always breaks in the writing flow as I focused on moving, gainful employment, completing some degree or other, renovating a house, and partying. Another flurry of writing, and journal entries, pre-graduate school. A few more short stories circulated, and rejected. As I struggled with what to do with my life, I experimented with a temporary job in public service, and found a good fit. This led to a master's degree, and an eventual job in education, and these activities occupied about 150% of my time. Fast forward to mid-doctoral degree. Frustration. I want to write. I have always wanted to write. I need to set writing goals, and find the time to pursue my beloved, and temporarily abandoned, hobby. In 1996, I decide to compile my grandmother's recipes into a cookbook and folklore story. I work on this for the better part of a year in my spare time, stealing time from wherever I can find it, all the while contemplating a leave of absence from the doctoral program as the solution. But I don't do that; instead I make a decision to not study for the looming comprehensive exams, and just get them out of the way. I sign up and take them with the barest minimum preparation.

Writing sparks more writing, and I produce many short essays and fiction stories. I decide it is time to test the waters, and the first short essay I send out, Scapegoating, is accepted. If only it could always be that easy! It occurs to me now that I wrote that essay in the middle of the night, awakened by an urge to write that could not be ignored. Interestingly, its subject is anti-Catholicism, something that is even more commonplace, accepted (and essentially politically correct) in our culture, five years later. Sad! I was paid $10 for the one-time rights, and before depositing the check I took it to Kinko's, to have them make a color copy. That was before I had my own personal all-in-one color printer; in fact, it was before almost anyone, besides copy places, had such equipment. The kid behind the counter refused my business, saying they were not allowed to photocopy such documents. I argued weakly, and left. Down the street was a small, private office supply store - and there the owner was happy to share my proud moment. My diplomas are in a bookcase, not in frames on the wall, but that color copy of a check for $10 hangs beneath the clock in my little office.

I continued to make progress on my book proposal, and also to turn my attention to trying my hand at query letters for non-fiction articles. I had never been interested in writing non-fiction, but I learned it was easier than selling fiction. And it is writing. I send the newly completed book proposal out to three separate batches of publishers in the next couple of years, making extensive revisions after each try when I get several "thanks, this is lovely, but not right for us" letters, alternating with silence from others.

After I finished my doctorate, I immediately found an administrative job, although I had promised myself while I was working on my dissertation that I would really take my time and contemplate my options. Instead, for some reason I felt the need to see how fast I could find a decent position that met my criteria. The answer was, pretty fast. So? I worked for a while, and then realized again what I already knew: being an administrator wasn't really what I wanted to do any longer, at least not full-time, and not right now. I looked down my list of goals and I found that I had a lot of things checked off. What would be my next goals? A new living room sofa or car just weren't what I had in mind as bullets. I figured I might finally have the skills needed to support myself through freelancing. In other words, I could now teach part time, and maybe land educational consulting projects and education-related writing assignments. This would be my income source, and it would free up some additional time to pursue creative writing, the ultimate goal.

The writing contract work, while not as personally rewarding as writing fiction or even nonfiction of my own design, is still writing. Over the years, during my days as a staff member in academic affairs and later when working for an educational grant program, I wrote memos, letters, brochures, and reports. On mathematics readiness in college, on transition to college, on the economic returns of a college education, on gender and vocational education, on rising junior testing. I've said, I'll write after I finish designing these databases or entering data in this spreadsheet. I've read research studies and journal articles and promised myself that I could write when I was done reading. Next week. Next year. Tomorrow. Later. After graduation. After I get through this chapter. After I grade 35 exams. After the slide show is designed. After I balance my checkbook. After I fold the laundry. When I get back from the party. When Seinfeld is over (not really). After the garden is planted and the plants are watered. I didn't give myself the freedom to be a writer, or to think of myself as one anyway, until I had completed my educational goals. As if being Dr. somehow validated the creative process, made it OK to spend time doing it, no apologies. I guess I was afraid of not making a living, of the failure. I needed some significant accomplishment as a back-up.

All creative endeavors are ultra competitive, and not always very lucrative. The back-up became the lead. If I'd made a more serious, continued effort as a writer would I already be successful (whatever that means) and over the risky part? Don't "they" say you can only write to please yourself, and because you are driven to do it, and not for the income generated? Don't "they" say if you really wanted to write, you could find the time somehow? Don't "they" say, don't leave your day job until you have at least 10 major sales and a guarantee of some stable income from regular assignments? Well, I may not have held to that last guideline exactly, but luckily I was close enough.

So now I am more than seven months into this new journey of goal-seeking. I was already a fairly prolific writer, when not in one of those long silent spells, but since being free I have written an educational book and booklet, I'm teaching part-time and mentoring a graduate student, I've created a website, Gully Brook Press, and online journal, I produce occasional essays and short stories, I've sorted through a lot of old material, I've joined the National Association of Women Writers, Blog Sisters, and several webrings, and I regularly read Inscriptions (the best thing since Inklings and Inkspot bit the dust) and other online writing newsletters, and I sporadically write in a paper journal (this is how most of this was originally captured, actually; it is 1 AM, this wouldn't keep, and so I write in my little bound book with pages that are too small. Warren Kimble's America the Beautiful is on the cover, and my pen is wonderful, a Pilot rollerball fine point, black). My book proposal is being considered by a publisher - seriously considered - a victory in itself as that's the farthest I've gotten so far. I continue to circulate a few stories and essays here and there, I'd like to do more of that. I still don't have as much time for purely creative writing as I'd like - I want to produce more fiction and I have a few non-fiction, non-education queries brewing, trying to get to paper, threatening future 1 AM sessions.

I'm still undecided about whether online journaling makes up for what it voraciously consumes in time by its undisputed benefits of oiling the wheels of creativity and building a sense of community. I remain amazed by the phenomenon of weblogs; where have I been? What is this all about? What will the future bring? An area for much future reflection. I want to perform the analysis: count up journal entries, frequency of certain words, age, gender, subject, color, enter the digits in a spreadsheet, arrive at totals, find theories from communication, technology, methods, policy, make generalizations, bar graphs, pie charts, figure it all out.

The contract work is writing - and I admit to being at least somewhat interested in educational subjects; after all, I spent many years pursuing degrees in the discipline and working in the field, it is a kind of cozy home to me. Teaching is a joy (at least most of the time; the plagiarism plague is water under the bridge), and as my father would say, it's not a bad way to make a living. But both are very time consuming, when compared to the financial returns. It seems I work harder now, for less. There's the constant "sales" element, to network and get assignments, but I have to say, overall it's more on my own terms. And, I definitely am writing, really doing it, I think more than in the past, with the possible exception of a select few occasions that were planned, intensive, and short-term. So the end result is a good one. I have to get a bit better at not procrastinating, and although I do keep to a fuzzy schedule, I'd like to be even more organized.

I've done some thinking now and then about how much time I can give to this endeavor. I don't mean per day - the list of priorities constantly shifts as I juggle projects and budget time. I mean, at what point do I maybe return to the 9-5 world of academic administration and work at a college campus? It does have its immediate benefits, in terms of income and a predictable cash and workflow, seeing interesting and wonderful colleagues, eating delicious lunches out, the occasional happy hour, having the opportunity to wear something besides tee-shirts, shorts and my wicked good LL Bean slippers, and who could forget those stimulating conferences on assessment, or applied learning, or fixing mathematics aversion, or technology integration in classrooms - filled with workshops, keynote speeches, vendor areas, and dinners of chicken a la Marriot with a side salad topped with mandarin oranges and viniagrette dressing.

I do know the answer, at least sort of: Maybe never, but definitely not yet. I'm at least a galaxy away from that option. (With thanks to my mother for relating a story about my father's clever use of that great word.) Which is good. Although being grounded and realistic have their charms, the fact that I still am asking the 9-5 question means I have to do some additional work on the courage part.