When I was a little girl, I loved to play make believe. I invented stories about who I was, where I lived and who I was going to grow up to be.
Times were simpler then. Black and white TV, no cell phones, no internet. Lots of time to read books, ride bikes and scribble in journals. There were woods to walk through, ponds to find frogs in, hills to toboggan down, a creek to paddle up, and lawns to stretch out on while staring up at the clouds. Sometimes I was a princess, sometimes a teacher. One day I was a scientist and the next a singer. I developed complex narratives about being an explorer, a photographer, and yes, sometimes even an author. In the winter, the creek that I had paddled up froze into a perfect skating rink, and I spent many an afternoon perfecting my Olympic routine. I’m sure the neighbours up the hill behind our house must have been truly entertained!
As I grew older, the reality of the limits of my natural talents, coupled with societal expectations began to slowly narrow my dreams. I realized all the appropriately aged princes had since married, I hung up my skating dreams, and boxed up thoughts of writing books. I got more practical. My thoughts turned to what education I could pursue that would let me earn a living.
I was lucky. I managed to find a degree that was not what my father saw as a lowly BA. I parlayed a love of writing into a Bachelor of Journalism degree (my Dad had encouraged me NOT to get a BA). I was going to tell the news.
A couple of years into that course of study, I had another realization. Reporting the news wasn’t what I wanted to do. And I got lucky again. With a bit of a soft shoe – or maybe a tap dance – I stepped into the world of corporate communications, where I honed my skills and told stories day after day. I helped senior leaders explain strategy to employees, the media, the public. I helped make sense of shut downs, of expansions and of changes of direction.
I was comfortable in the background. I referred back to one of my favourite quotes all the time. Edith Wharton said, “There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.” The leaders I supported were the candle; I was the mirror. And that suited me.
I watched classmates go on to be reporters in print, TV and radio. I watched others go on to big corporate jobs. I went on to a reasonable communications career before having three amazing kids and starting a small freelance consultancy. Life was good. Eventually, I went back to work, landing a great job through a third stroke of luck. It’s turned into close to 15 years of interesting work, great colleagues, no shortage of challenges and some interesting side gigs using my editing skills to help help others tell stories in academia, research and even in a book or two. Life is good.
I have never been Edith Wharton’s the candle. I have never really told my own stories. To be honest, I’m not sure I thought I had any to tell. This blog is as close as I’ve come to that. But as the years have passed, there has been a spark or two. Occasionally an idea has threatened to catch fire and become a flickering light. Over the coming months, I’m hoping to find a creek to paddle up, a field to lie in or a brand new journal to scribble in. I want to fan that spark and see what happens.
Maybe I have a flaming candle after all.
