When I was a very little girl, I was frustrated by the confusion of the many things I wanted to be–a ship’s captain, Jane Goodall, an actress, a singer, a veterinarian, a jockey, a horse-trainer, a farmer–and then, one day, sitting on the floor of the New Albany-Floyd County Public Library, surrounded by books I’d pulled from the shelf, agonizing over which I would choose to borrow, since my stacks included far more than my permitted quota, I had a revelation similar to what C.S. Lewis said about being a reader. Suddenly I understood that, if I became a writer, I could be all the things I’d ever dreamed of being–as often or as occasionally as I liked, singly or several mixed together, for the rest of my life.
A Thousand Selves
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