Danny DeVito not included...When I was a youngster coming into humanhood in the pixelated aura of silver screen heroes I wanted to grow up to be Joan Wilder. An unassuming sexy writer who finds herself entrenched in adventure and a love affair in a far off land. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be her? I had this fantasy that if I wrote stories and epic adventures my very own Jack Colton would find me. He’d be unable to resist my shy witty charm. We would run through a jungle dodging danger at every turn. Then I grew up. I forgot that I wanted to be Joan Wilder. I forgot about writing stories for years. It’s funny, it was when I went back to school to become a nurse that I remembered that I wanted to write. I never really stopped writing. I just forgot that I wanted to make it more than a stress reliever. More than a hobby. I have been writing words on paper since I was 5 years old. The words I wrote made other people happy. Teachers were impressed with my words. Local papers published my poems. Then I grew up. Life became a constant struggle to pay bills. Writing was an occasional past time. Eventually it was just a long ago dream. The girl who wanted to write stories never became Joan Wilder. She became me, the girl who write stories once in a while. The only difference is that now I don’t want to be a fictional character from a 80’s film. I want to be Amy the writer who finds her own adventures and writes about them. I have so many stories fighting for release from my head that my problem becomes a matter of focus. I start writing a piece of each story rarely finding an ending before the next story finds it's way out. These days I rarely go for more than a few hours without writing words on paper. This is where the wild elephant comes charging into my brain's little word village. (I have a few villages inside my head. One specifically for Elvis Impersonators. But that's not important now.) When I was studying with Buddhist monks they told me a story about meditation and how the mind during meditation is a wild elephant raging through, untamed, damaging all in it’s wake. This is how all of the stories in my mind feel. They are wild elephants trampling there way out. In order to be what I want to be when I grow up I need to become an elephant trainer. I have to tame the elephants or I will never be the Amy version of Joan Wilder. Yes, I still write for myself. To make me happy and somewhat stress free. But now I feel compelled to make my stories available for others to read. The concept is intimidating to say the least. I do not like the whole publishing world and it's elitism. Nevertheless, it’s a calling. I’m finally old enough to make a go of it without fear of rejection. Well, mostly without fear of rejection. Let's say it's fear of rejection with a side of holy shit people will know shit about me and be all judgy about it. All of these thoughts have been coming to me lately in the wake of death. The deaths of a few friends that made a huge impact on my life. It brought to the forefront of my mind the importance of being true to myself. My wants, my needs, my desires are viable entities worthy of coming to fruition. Life is way too unpredictable to sit around wanting things that I’m too scared to pursue. It’s time to actually finish what I start. Maybe enter a writing contest or dip my toes into the publishing world. Intimidating or not, I want to try. I have managed to finish four short stories so far. So maybe I can collect one fragmented thought at a time. Taming each elephant with a resolution to become the hero of my own adventure story. I have no desire to be the next great American novelist. That’s not my style. I just want to entertain others with the stories that entertain me, the stories that keep me sane with their whimsical insanity. Maybe I will become Joan Wilder after all. 
Next up in Lizzard world... how I plan to become a time traveller ala Marty McFly style and possibly a vampire hunter Frog Brother's style. Or I could find a pirate's treasure like a mutha fuckin' Goonie.
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