I had a long list of potential professions as a child: astronaut, teacher, news anchor, meteorologist, Power Ranger ... the list goes on. When I was in the 5th grade, a new job made it's way to the top of the list — spy. Thanks to Nickelodeon's ability to market anything and everything to the children of my generation, I fell in love with the movie and books featuring Harriet the Spy. In case you don't know, Harriet, an aspiring writer, is a young girl living in New York who daily wanders the city and writes down everything she sees and thinks at the encouragement of her nanny, Golly.
I wanted to do everything she did, so I assembled my spy kit. Since I didn't have a cool spy belt like Harriet, I had to settle for another thing that had been well-marketed to my extremely limited tween taste — the mini backpack. My little black backpack was packed with all of the "spy essentials" that Harriet also carried. Inside I had a pair of pop-open opera glasses from my grandmother, a yo-yo so that I could act like I was innocently yo-yoing when I was, in fact, spying (it also doubled as a weapon in case my spying mission was compromised), a flashlight, and, of course, the one thing that no spy should ever be without, a notebook.
I didn't have a cool spy route like Harriet, either. I had my family, though, but if you go back and read my spy notebook, you'd realize what little material I had to work with.
2:34 p.m.: Mom is ironing.
2:37 p.m.: Mom is still ironing.
2:41 p.m.: Mom told me to stop watching her iron.
I mean, really. You'd think that if my family knew I was trying to be a spy, they'd at least do something spy worthy.
My writing expanding from just my observations to how I felt about things. I even played a game in my notebook called "Town" (which I think I also picked up from Harriet) where I'd make up and describe different characters — what they looked like, what they liked to do, etc. — and then write little stories around them. Slowly notebook morphed from spy writing to my writing. While my spying ambitions went the way of my astronaut dreams, the writing stuck around, and years after I had first started trying to be Harriet, I was still writing.
So, I guess I have Harriet to blame for this desire to constantly be tapping the keyboard or scratching something down on paper, for all of the journals I've filled up with adolescent imaginings, teenage angst, and heartfelt prayers, and for the job I now have where I get to write every day.
It's definitely better than eating that freeze-dried space food.
