I have a confession. I was the child that drove teachers crazy.
I was the one with the math book open when we’d moved on to reading, the one who couldn’t answer the question because I never heard the teacher ask it, the one who was always staring out the window and lost in my own thoughts. All of my teachers, from kindergarten on, looked at me with frustration and repeatedly told my parents, “I don’t know what to do. She’s a smart girl but she is always daydreaming.”
That was me. The daydreamer.
Who needed math when magical realms were being created in my head? Why should I learn to graph sentences when stringing them together was so much more fun?
My parents did everything they could to get me to pay attention. Eventually they gave up and hoped I’d grow out of it. Sometime in high school I convinced them I had.
But you know what? I didn’t really.
I’m the mom now, the responsible one, the one telling her kids to pay attention, but then they aren’t around, I’m still staring out windows, creating magical realms and stringing sentences together.
I think most writers have some of that kid inside them, the curious child who wonders “what if” then gets lost in finding the answer. I grew up and did the responsible adult thing, but deep inside, I’m still a daydreamer. I wouldn’t have it any other way.