​Today I had brunch with my first grade teacher.  She’s an absolute rock-star!  The woman who organized it was in her first grade class in 1957, before she was a missus and before she was a doctor.  I was there 20 years later just after she earned her doctorate.
 
I was honored to say my name and have her remember me before she turned to someone at the table  share about the two weeks of indoor recess while I recovered from my tonsillectomy.   I was even more amazed when I extended a hug and a message from another classmate and without skipping a note, Dr. Nolan shared with me more stories of Grace and her sister.  Dr. Nolan remains sharp as a tack and I’m just stunned.
 
Dr. Nolan was truly the first person in my life who I felt believed in me.  Distinctly I recall a meeting between my mother and her – I sat at a little table we would use for SSR and listened intently while I pretended to be occupied in the book I thumbed through.  “She’s really quite special,” Dr. Nolan said.  My mother pursed her lips and nodded.  “Her stories are wonderful.  Have you considered …”  Dr. Nolan already wanted me to be the best I could be.  My mom declined even entertaining the idea of me doing any more than was required.  At home, the comics I made were crumpled papers and the stories I told were frequently regarded as nonsense. 
 
I thought I was walking around for years holding on to this affinity for someone in my memory with importance, while in her thoughts, I was just another student.  And for crying out loud, I was six years old!  Did I have a personality then?  How could I be memorable?
 
I sat in a room today with others who had stories of Dr. Nolan.  Dr. Nolan was important to each of them for their own reasons.  It was lovely.  I spoke with ladies who were in her class 20 years before I was there and 10 years after me.  Filled with emotion, I cried twice when I spoke with her.  I gushed with gratitude for being a part of the afternoon. 
 
I was in the fortunate position of telling someone how important they were to making me the woman I am.  

​I also sat next to a woman who -  one of my surrogate big sisters.  I adore the person she is.  I sat next to a woman who is strong and smart and I would say brilliant, although she kept saying gifted.  She is brilliant -  Smart and a shining light.  Another teacher.  Another of my teachers although I never sat in her class. 
 
I am lucky to have these figures in my memory and in my life.  The importance is in me because of them.  I wish I could gather all the important ones together and just say thank you to every one of them.
 
So, I’m an accountant.  And I answer the question, ‘how does an accountant decide to write creatively?’  Well, I’ve always written.  But it was never good enough.  I realized that the only person my dad spoke of with an inkling of respect was his accountant.  I work with numbers.  It is not who I am but it is my skill.  Is this because from the start, I worked with numbers for that acceptance?   Is It because there is no question if my number work is good?  It’s not a subjective art.  If the bottom line makes sense, I did a good job.  My writing doesn’t always make sense.  And it’s not as easy to take criticism in my writing because there is not a definitive way of fixing mistakes.
 
I started writing seriously again about 10 years ago.  I’ve gotten credit for my writing in the past five years.  I’ve even made some money from it.  Dr. Nolan is a reason I write.  Ms. Beverly Carmene, my chemistry teacher from high school is yet another reason.  I didn’t think I would have the opportunity to thank them in person for being so important.  Sadly, Ms. Carmene passed away before I was writing again and it may have been the news of her death that triggered a surge in my story.   Today I was able to personally give thanks to Dr. Nolan.   
 
I’ve become more comfortable telling people I write.  I used to be the accountant who writes.  Now I am the writer who works as an accountant still.
 
Why am I writing today?  I walked through the morning with an intention to announce how important it is to tell those who are just how.  But there’s something else at play in my thoughts.  I’m thinking about my cub scouts.  I’m thinking about my kids and their friends and everyone with whom I connect.  I’m thinking about the friends we played with in the schoolyard and which ones remember me and which ones don’t. 
 
This winter past, I met up with some kids with whom I went to elementary school.  The first girl I smoked with.  My first drinking buddy missed the night.  The boy for whom we met didn’t remember me.  It was – alarming.  It could have been embarrassing or humiliating if I was a different person.  But honestly it amused me that he did not remember me.  I considered then his importance in my memories.  The importance of how he made me who I am now.  I considered then, as I’m thinking now, who remembers me that escapes my mind?  For whom was I important?
 
For whom AM I important?  Not that compassion and care we have to check on our fellow human beings – but who has contributed to the attributes I have and who has discouraged poor behaviors of mine?  Who left a piece of them with me that I can’t ever return?  For whom am I that type of important? 
 
I’m a different person than I was at six years old, of course.  (Mostly I suppose.  Maybe there is some six year old me left inside?)  I’m in a different place in my life for sure than I was then.  (I’m in a different place in my life than five years ago, for crying out loud!)  But in seeing Dr. Nolan today and talking to many people who also were influenced by this amazing woman, it occurs to me that every moment of importance makes me who I am.
 
Thank you to all of you!  Everyone in my past and present and those of you I haven’t met yet.  You make me me.  And that’s a pretty great thing to be a part of.   

I have an opportunity to connect with about ten more people who may be interested in reading my words.  Today I mailed copies of Sevy's Cosmica Sidera to Connecticut.  I'm exhausted.  
This totally could be filed under Heating a Home on a Hot Plate instead of over here on the writing side of it, given that it is probably a bit of mental illness.  But in my reflection of the moments, I think it should be parked right where i put it.  
I'll take you through this journey.  
A facebook post from a literary agent calling out for writers with whom she is connected to submit copies of their books for sale at a market.  Excitement that I can contribute to an organization for which an acquaintance holds passion.  Then immobility.  
I did nothing for months.  Well, i talked about it and thought about it and then took no physical action to bring my books into her hands.  
Finally when it was clear that the calendar was churning along, creating nights that turned into days with a threat of the word September rounding the bend, i panicked.  i had again done nothing to move into a lifestyle in which i may wake up, drink a cup of coffee and write.  Sure i do that now, but not to pay my bills.  Not to support my health insurance and fancy dog food.  At any rate, i thought i had missed this very lovely opportunity.  So i emailed the acquaintance, expecting a very professional, 'yes honey, you have gloriously missed out!'  But, i received an enthusiastic message of acceptance.  
All i had to do now was sign each of (only) ten books, slip a card in each copy, and then pack up the box to ship. 
For another, this may have been an easy task.  It's a flow chart for crying out loud!  Are the books signed?  No?  sign the freakin' book!  Yes?  put the book in the shipping box.  Are there more books?  Yes?  Go back a step!  No?  Seal the box and get to the post office!
It was hard! 
So, i signed half the books last night and half this morning over coffee.  I packed up a tote with the books and other stuff needing to go in the box and walked out of my house without my wallet to pay for shipping.  Seriously - I walked out of my house, thought, i have to sweep the front steps.  Maybe i should do that before i walk to the post office?  Walking along my street and seeing debris from the week, i thought i would sweep the street before the morning turned to playtime for the little ones who live on the block.  Then, thought about NOT putting my wallet in the tote before leaving and turned back to start all over. 
I was in a loop.  Where was i in the flow chart?  Do you have everything you need?  No?  get it together girl!  Yes?  Move on - TO THE POST OFFICE!  No where on my flow chart of productivity was, interrupt your journey to sweep the street.  I had to regroup.  I had to breathe and focus on the goal.  
What is the goal?  Wake up, drink coffee, and write.  Easy.  I can do this.  
I went home, put my wallet in my tote and started again.  'Don't look at the trash.  It's a distraction.  Stay on target.'  At the corner of my street where i only need to turn left, i notice my feet.  Clad in flip flops and in need of a pedicure.  I'm making myself sick looking at my unkempt toes with the audacity to show themselves in public.  How is this the image that I am portraying with this giant leap into the path of grahaming?  I resisted the urge to turn back and pressed forth.   I just had to make it to the post office.  
Walk, walk, walk.  I should have brought a coffee in a travel mug.  I should go two blocks further than the post office to get a coffee.  Clearly, i cannot stand in line without caffeinated motivation.   My legs fatigued.  I was three blocks away from my house.  Two more to go to get to the post office.  Maybe I should have brought the shipping box i had from home.  I hope this branch has not run out of supplies.  
One block away.  There are an awful lot of school buses on the street.  I wonder if there is an event around here for the weekend holiday.  It's a holiday.  The post office is probably not open.  I should just go home and mail these out on Tuesday.  How far away is the dunkin'?
The post office had plenty of boxes.  I packed up the books neatly and made sure everything enclosed.  Sealed it tight and waited my turn in line.  The postal worker told me the zip code was wrong.  I said the words, "Oh give it back to me.  I'll just mail it later."  He assured me that he could look up the proper number.  I stood to the left.  I couldn't even be present while he was keying in the insurance and providing me a tracking number.  I was ready to exit stage left.  He asked what the contents included and i took a breath.  "It's books,"  i said with a smile curling around my lips.  I was doing it.  I was shipping books with my name on them.  Words that i grouped together to tell a story.  I was giving a box of books to reach out to folks intrigued enough to turn a page holding my words.  
While walking home, i got to the corner of the post office.  Four blocks away from my home and i was ready to fall down.  I  was exhausted.  I was sweating in my hoodie with the fall air crisp against my cheeks.  I wanted nothing more than to fall down and rest.  I was certain this whole excursion could have waited until i had the energy to move.  I did not need to get these books out today.  
In the next block, i thought i should have spent more time on the tasks.  perhaps wrote less when i signed them?  Maybe just my name on the page?  Did i really refer to myself as an independent?  I walked along my block and saw the trash lying at the curb again.  I need to sweep.  I can't leave this trash outside.  
And i walked into my house to find the dogs lazing on the couch and waiting for my return.  I just mailed my book for people to read.  
There is a fear in exposing myself like this.  I tell friends who want to read my work that i can be critiqued, but not criticized.  (Unless you're mad at me)  I stopped writing for years because of criticism.  It was dished out brutally and drawn in with ferocity.  
There are days i feel like a writer.  I'm growing more and more comfortable with that designation.  And still finding the strength to move forward as a writer is terrifying.
Today was a baby step.  But it's farther than i've been before.