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When I was five, I wanted black curly hair, freckles, emerald green eyes and to be able to see fae.

When I was seven, I wanted to be a gypsy -- to live in a brightly painted caravan and travel the world, always looking forward to the next bend in the road.

When I was nine, I was convinced that if i sat silently enough and listened intently enough, I could understand what the trees whispered to the wind.

When I was eleven, I wanted to find a hidden door in a library that led to a world of books, where I could live the rest of my days, reading books only dreamt of by others.

When I was thirteen, I wanted to be a superhero with the ability to levitate and cast illusions and spent hours designing the perfect costume.

When I was fifteen, I wanted to be a photojournalist and travel the world, learning multiple languages and becoming famous for my photos and socio-political commentary.

When I was seventeen, I wanted a dashing, black-haired, laughing-eyed rogue to climb the ladder propped against my bedroom window and ravish me.

When I was nineteen, I wanted true love.

When I was twenty-one, I found true love and needed money to pay the bills and buy enough food.

When I was twenty-three, I wanted a low-stress job working with books and intelligent people.

When I was twenty-five, I wanted to be able to make a living writing, to own matching furniture, and to have time enough to make dinner.

Now, I want a child and a purple bungalow with a vegetable garden and treehouse in the backyard and rocking chairs on the front porch.