When I was three years old, I wanted to be a ballerina more than anything else in the world. I was undeterred by the fact that my legs didn’t work the way that they were supposed to; it didn’t bother me that I could hardly stand in one place without toppling over, much less twirl and execute movements with grace. I watched ballet videos for hours while sporting a frilly pink tutu, mesmerized, and imagined myself someday performing perfect pirouettes in front of an adoring audience.
|Me in my ballet outfit, age four :-)|
I don't remember exactly when that dream faded away, but at some point I decided that I'd rather be a writer than a ballerina. And so it began; I discovered that I loved words even more than I loved ballet.
I was still a dancer, but now, instead of putting on my slippers and dancing with my feet, I picked up a pencil and danced with my words.