I'm not Catholic, but it's time for confession: I've been keeping a secret. A couple weeks ago, I interviewed for a writing position at an upcoming lifestyle magazine in the greater El Dorado Hills area (including Folsom, Granite Bay, and Roseville). And today, I was offered the position. (Insert ecstatic squeal here). When I was younger, I didn't think much about writing. I just wrote. My first diary was pink and flowery and Barbie was plastered across the front. (Naturally). This was kindergarten and I probably couldn't write much more than my name, but I remember everything about that little book. It had a lock and key, (extremely reassuring to a girl with two older brothers) but truthfully it never left my side. I loved that thing. I wrote the name of my elementary-school crush inside. I practiced my writing by copying sections of chapter books. I even got ambitious and tried my hand at "cursive;" squiggly and loopy lines that made me feel so mature and grown-up. When Barbie was no longer cool, (sniff, that was a hard time) I got a new diary, only I called it a journal, because that was the more mature and grown-up name. I still keep a "journal" to this day. Growing up, I didn't think of writing as anything more than something I had always done. I wrote to process, to express, to create...I wrote when I was happy, sad, and angry. I just wrote and wrote and wrote. In high school I did journalism, but after a few anxious interviews and some unsound insecurities, I said No way, this is not for me. It wasn't until a couple years ago that I started thinking about writing (as a career) again. I had this friend that was, and still does in fact, always asking people about their dreams. He asked me if I could do anything in the world, what would I do? Initially I told him I'd open a restaurant. I verbally dreamt about it (I wanted to have various risotto entrees) and decided I was going to do it. That conversation awakened the idea that maybe, just maybe, I could have a career that involved food and people and the community created by both. A couple months later I went to Seattle, and during that trip my dream became two-fold. Our first walk throughout the city included passing The Seattle Post, and all of a sudden I was thinking about writing again. Only a different kind of writing. It made so much sense that I was shocked I hadn't thought of it sooner: I wanted to be a food writer. Since then I have slowly but surely moved (inched, rather) towards that goal. The following summer,I toured Sacramento Magazine and asked the editorial editor was it was like being that kind of writer. I left feeling so excited, and thought This is the kind of journalism I want to do. This is it. And that's what I started telling people. I'd say, "I want to work for a city/regional magazine. It's a magazine that details the culture of the area of you live in. It highlights people and events and restaurants and small businesses...stories that people are excited to share with you. It's a community." And here I am now. The magazine will be brand new, and appropriately so, because I am too. Brand new to the "real world," (YOGO) brand new to "real writing," and brand new to a "real publication." Oh wow... Excuse me while I continue in my giddiness.