 |
| The Suburban Soliloquist dancing with her little sprite and muse. Cape Cod, MA. Circa 2003. |
Now that the Suburban Soliloquist has settled in here (how long did that take?) and vaguely figured out the About Me page she so loathed to write, she's ready to reveal some things about herself. In the event you've been wondering:
The Suburban Soliloquist is a displaced urbanite living in a Providence suburb with her husband and two children. Often, she wants to run away to the city. Or the country. In the fall she is most productive—she hikes and gathers nuts and berries for the colder months. It is her favorite time of year. In the winter she happily pulls out her woolens and boots, she skis, makes stews and soups and bakes cupcakes. Come springtime, she is readying her pots with herbs and flowers, and hitting the streets again with four-mile morning walks. In the summer she lollygags.
She began her blog as an exercise in accountability—not to her career (which is in flux), nor to her children (superflux), nor to her mothering skills (transflux), nor to her diet (fluxatrocious), nor to the damn suburb (nonflux), but to her dream, to the little girl in the striped shirt and bell-bottomed flower-power pants who declared many, many, so ungodly many years ago, that she would be a writer.
As a child, the Suburban Soliloquist wrote short stories and corresponded with the Literary Guild. She always received sweet, gentle feedback from the Guild. She entered many writing contests. She doesn't remember what became of them. At night, tucked under her bed covers, she read Ray Bradbury with a flashlight. Her teachers (the best of them) encouraged her to take notes, to observe the world, to be honest and also critical. She kept a diary. Her friends encouraged her to write letters. In high school, she wrote for the school's newspaper. She kept many pen-pals. And many of their letters (as well as those from friends and lovers). Even the sort that were folded into the shape of a small football and tossed to her from across the classroom. (They now collect dust and mold in her dank basement.) She especially liked the ones from Jon in ninth grade. He was very funny. He was not a lover. When she can find the time, she may dedicate a blog page to some of these letters. (Not just Jon's.) Are you worried?
When she graduated from college (where she majored, she thought, in Human Development, Counseling and Family Studies, and minored in English) and was handed her diploma, she was horrified to discover that she had spent four and one-half years working toward a B. S. in Home Economics. (Oh! That was the College of Human Development, Counseling and Family Studies--she still doesn't understand this.) She admits this discovery, here, for the very first time. On paper, she says she has a B.S. in Human Services—which may very well be the same thing as H.E., or not. What the heck is Home Economics, anyway? Really, she's so old now it doesn't matter what the hell she majored in.
In New York City, she completed graduate work in legal studies and waited tables at a swanky, South Street Seaport restaurant. She was its worst waitress ever. (Her prior wait experience had consisted of serving roast beef sandwiches at a local lunch barn, and flipping hash browns at a greasy-spoon breakfast joint. She may have embellished her table waiting background.) She stopped writing altogether. Except for legal jargon.
During her years in Boston, she worked for two large law firms, a growing retailer, an expanding restaurant business, and a commercial real estate owner/developer/manager.
Despite the fact that she got sidetracked by other business, the desire to play with words never left her. For the past several years she has taken many writing classes (fiction, non-fiction, creative, humor, memoir, etc.) with the Continuing Studies program at Brown University. She has completed two classes in the M.A. English/Creative Writing program at Rhode Island College as a conspicuously old, non-matriculated graduate student.
In a writing class she was once asked to compose a six word memoir. She wrote several:
No never. Not me. Married. Kids.
I don’t want to hear it.
Followed a rabbit into a hole.
How does that equation work again?
How does that equation work again?
My heart is in the city.
My heart is in the mountains.
My heart is in the ocean.
Her heart is a bleeding mess.
Middle aged woman sorely needs compass.
Her heart is a bleeding mess.
Middle aged woman sorely needs compass.
Kids digging in late bloomer’s garden.
When the economy spiraled southward, and the word tuition became bleaker than the bleak word it is, she started this blog. She knew she'd need some help with discipline.
It has become her portfolio. It's also been her best teacher—a demanding but forgiving tutor. She hopes someday someone in the business will take a good look at it (but please, nothing from the early days!) and offer her a job. Dammit. (OK, that's a little fantasy—she's really [a teensy bit] more proactive, she
Someday, she may work up the nerve to submit a story/article/essay to, among other things, a bona fide literary publication that bankrolls a live editor.
She will likely edit this page several times.
She is grateful you poked in here and took the time read her bio. She also enjoys hearing from you, whether via comment thread or email. Feel free to write to her anytime at: suburbansoliloquist at gmail dot com.
