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When I was sixteen I wanted to get the heck out of Dullsville, dye my hair red, walk with a strut, drive a car. I fantasized about piling my worldly goods into a wheelbarrow, taking the hard road to another town. I'd get a waitress job, rent a furnished room and keep a journal: as soon as my tip jar was full, I'd pack my wheelbarrow and hike to the next interesting place, find out what was cool or notso.
or, I'd join the Navy. Mom nixed that idea. So I got a job with the phone company in Seattle working in the mail room, then the secretarial pool. Then I made a big mistake, married a soldier I'd known for six weeks, moved 2,000 miles from home and escaped the brute by the skin of my teeth after 5 years.
Hubby No. 2, the good one, slumped into a mid-life crisis around age 35, and I did everything I could think of before giving up. Not even duct tape could have held it together. He married the other girl, and I worked full time, took college classes, raised kids. I was 50 when I got my English degree and a promotion to research associate. At 58, with the kids all flown from the nest, took early retirement, moved back to Seattle, worked another ten years. I sipped a little coffee, volunteered at Richard Hugo House center for writers and finished my two novels.
At 70 I finally have the precious time to write, read, research, and piddle with art projects. I rough-drafted Novel 3 -- 50,000 words in 30 days NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and I'm finally ready to send out queries.