Liz Craven
In grammar school, I was the annoyingly perfect little girl who never did anything wrong. I never talked out of turn. I never passed notes. I never got dirt on my new dress. Admit it. You hated me.
The reason I appeared so nauseatingly demure wasn't because I was Miss Goody-Two Shoes. It was because I wasn't paying a lick of attention to anyone or anything around me. While everyone else worked their word problems, my mind conjured thrilling adventures in magical lands. And no, I still don't know what time that damn train left the station.
I thought I'd eventually outgrow telling myself stories. I didn't.
After law school, an observant doctor recommended I go for testing. Personally, I think testing should be required before attending law school. (Mommas don't let your babies grow up to be lawyers . . . make them be crack whores and dealers and such. . .) So, he sent me to see a neuropsychologist. Yep. No normal shrink for Liz. She gets the super-industrial model.
After nine hours of testing, I returned for the results. The shrink sat my file in her lap, folded her hands on top of it, and asked, "How are you not in prison?" I wish I were exaggerating. Turns out I have ADD. In fact, I'm off the chart. (So my childhood, squeaky-cleanness was really a result of a neuro-biological disorder . . .)
My doctor put me on medication (don't tell Tom Cruise) and suddenly (read: after months of adjusting the dosage) I could hold a thought for longer than two seconds. So, what did I do with this new found ability? Instead of focusing on the practical matters in life, I quit practicing law and went back to school.
Turns out professors are just as dull when you're medicated. During class one day, I put pen to paper (okay, fingertips to keyboard) and rather than taking notes, I jotted down some dialogue running through my head. I haven't stopped writing since. We won't discuss my current GPA.
So, I'm living the student's life again. Sitting on the floor, surrounded by thick books I have no desire to read and illegible notes in handwriting that makes me wonder if I have a future as a serial killer. I'm currently owned by two cats, who graciously let me support them. (One of whom I recently caught grooming his face with my toothbrush.)
Anybody want to write a dissertation proposal for me?
