Gratitude from a Late Bloomer

Here I am. The scientist, by all accounts. Except I don't care about science. Not really. It's interesting, don't get me wrong. So interesting I even majored and minored in it and am currently employed in the field. While I do enjoy my job and the aspects science has to offer (namely incredible technology, theory, and brilliant co-workers), I've discovered something else. Something that usurps all of my thoughts, all of my time, and, consequently, all the ability to do housework. Writing.

I've always loved reading. Getting lost in the adventurous tales of peril, whether it be physical or emotional. From the depths of Mordor to the crazy donkey-chasing Aunt Betsey in David Copperfield, I love them all. The lessons, the struggles. I was perfectly satisfied losing myself in them, until one bright shining day, Ben, my devoted 6'5" cheerleader without pom-poms, suggested: "Why don't you try writing?" "Me?" I gasp. "Remember I do numbers and Greek letters, not words." But there sat that obnoxious idea, forcing every other idea out.

Scenes began to flicker in my mind. Scenes of people I didn't know, places I'd never seen. I became curious. Curiosity turned obsessive. Obsessive turned to the computer. And ideas spewed forth.

It is as an adult that I've discovered a love (and obsession) for writing. Whether anything comes of it, or it remains simply a passion of mine, remains to be determined. In the meantime, I fight with my computer. Fight after drag out fight. Edit after harrowing edit. (Me and the delete key are still coming to terms.) There are many of you--many supportive, encouraging, amazing people--that have helped me tremendously as I embark on this unique endeavor. Reading draft...after draft (Ben, you're amazing). Giving honest feedback so that I may learn how to create a great story. Thank you for giving me hours and hours of your undivided attention, reading the pages I hand to you, believing in me through the process--I feel blessed to have so many people near, genuinely excited, helpful, and supportive.

I'm still working (almost everyday) on that story some of you have read. After some soul-searching and reading books on writing, I'm on re-write number 4 and draft number 10,000 (or so it feels). There's much work to be done, but I'll let you know when I reach my next stage: submission (shaking).

It's been 1.5 years now. The journey is incredible in ways I never would've imagined, and I'm grateful to all of you for keeping me on it! I couldn't do it without you.

The Greatest Fear of Samson the Terrible

Samson is our dog. You may have seen him perched in the window, scanning the perimeter for trespassers. For hours. You may have dared cross his path, earning yourself bark after relentless bark, hoping to get away with your pants still intact. But just like any terrifying creature, he has his fears.

Ben was away for a Dental School interview. I was left with Samson. Samson is excellent company, usually. Always watchful. Always wanting to play. I was busy writing and had forgotten about him (mistake #1).

To get my attention, he hops on the couch with droopy ears, trembling. Violently. "What's the matter?" I ask. Of course he understands everything I say to him. He's brilliant.

He trembles some more, licking his lips like he always does when he's scared. I walk around our house turning on all the lights so that nothing can hide in the shadows. Everything is fine. And Samson is still shaking.

I press gently around his huge, muscular frame, checking for injury. Nothing. I throw his buddy--a fluffy bone made of lamb wool. He just stood there and watched it land. If you've ever been to our house, you know this is strange. Very strange. Now I'm scared.

Samson slinks off into our dark bedroom, hops on the bed, and curls up with a sigh. I've called Ben, called my mom to get the number to the animal hospital, and figured out how to budget our food for the next few months to pay the vet bill.

As Samson lay there on our bed, I heard a soft squeak. He whimpered. Soon after, another squeak. It suddenly occurred to me how many Greenies we'd given him over the course of the past few days (mistake #2). More than normal, because of all the travel. We felt bad (I certainly hope this habit doesn't carry over in to child rearing someday). I heard another squeak, and frightened whimper.

I couldn't believe it. He had gas. Lots and lots of it.

For all his ferocious barking--for all his yanking on the leash to chase after any dog, or person, within eyesight--he's afraid of his own gas.

I Caved.

BLOGGING. (Biting fingernails...) Here I go. Kicking and screaming (thanks Ben) into the world of online journaling. For so long I've resisted. What do you write about? Does anyone really care? The answer to that: who knows.

So I'm finding out for myself. Going to see what 'blogging' is all about. Keep a record of life as it happens to me. And life as it doesn't happen.

Now if I can just figure out how to work this thing...