Who Else Wants Me To Write Instead of Talk About Dreaming?

Last updated on August 13th, 2012 at 09:11 pm

In case you haven’t caught on.  I am the leader of this group and my dream is to be a famous writer and public speaker.  Sorry if that made your coffee spray out your nose.

Yep.  That’s my dream.

This month I joined Toastmasters.  There.  Are you happy?  I haven’t given a speech yet – much to every-one’s disbelief.  I know you are in shock.  Many thought I would jump at the chance to make strangers sit down and listen to me talk for 10 minutes without rope and duck tape.

Except . . .

Listening to other wonderful speakers has me entranced.  Those truly close to me know how much I love a good speaker.  I can sit for hours quietly hanging on the melodic words of an oral story.  One would think this is strange from a woman who wants to talk – write – have sex again some year – teach – be a story teller.

Toastmasters is like slipping a sweet Barry White CD in my car stereo drive out to the coast by myself and listen to him talk to me elixir.  Tell me a good story and I will curl up in my pajamas and hang on your every word.  Toastmasters meetings require I wear make up and get dressed to hear stories.

Bastards.

I also remembered someone this week.

My father used to tell the best stories about his day at work.  He’d sit his large Paul Bunyan-like self down at the head of our tight family table – a worn wood table adorned with the type of corners underneath able to stuff all the food me and my brother hated, which my mother swore was good for us.  You know – the food your mom cooked after you spent an afternoon driving her insane.  It was probably summer.

My dad would sit there at the head of the table and tell us wonderful stories of the day he spent away from those he loved.  He’d be sprinkled with the dust from the many roads he passed over during the day, his hands cracked and worn, his big wide smile and those lovely big blue exhausted eyes.  It was heaven.

When a trucker passes you – remember – there might be a little redhead girl at home waiting to hear his stories.  Slow down.

Toastmasters would have loved him.  Maybe I inherited some odd family orator gene.  He was a redhead too.  He died when I was 18.  I will miss him my entire life. But I can tell his story.

And help 7 other women tell theirs.

If you are interested in checking out Toastmasters for your dream, you can find a nearby chapter by visiting their website at www.toastmasters.org.

Keep on dreaming –

Catherine