Megan Dipo

Email: iamnightsky@gmail.com

Twenty-four years ago, I plopped into the world, screaming and quite upset at the sudden change of venue, finding myself now in a small hospital on Salt Lake City, Utah's developing west side. After some time and I'm sure a bit of bribery, I was brought home to a shiny new two-story house and convinced to stay a while. Further bribery was required when I was suddenly joined by a creature I was told was my "little brother", though I am still uncertain of the truth of this fact. We spent a few storybook years as a family before my parents' marriage went south, though I'm fortunate enough to be very involved with both of them. The years got tricky after that with new houses, new friends, and plenty of new challenges.

My mother drowned me headfirst into the literary world, and for that I am eternally grateful to her. I began to read at age 2, and writing not long after (as soon as my annoyingly small hands learned how to hold that pencil upright). Throughout my elementary school career, I only grew more proficient at my newly discovered passion; in 1st grade, during reading time, I was sent in the hall with an older child from the 6th grade class to read more challenging material, lest my head explode from boredom. I entered and successfully conquered the competition year after year in our state-sponsored “Reflections” program, which showcased the best young talent in the visual and literary arts. This monopoly of the district’s elite art program continued into junior high; unfortunately at this stage in my young life, I became good friends with the demon known as bipolar disorder, and his cohorts, depression and social anxiety. My writing and artistic endeavors never stopped, however; they were simply relegated to the times I could slow my breathing enough to engage in them.

Thus began my harried years of darkness, which climaxed at the ever-popular mental ward stay and subsequent self-label of ‘damaged goods’. My experiences with society, myself, my family and few friends and the world in general had convinced me that I had surely arrived here from another planet, because there was (is) a substantial percentage of this world that I simply do not understand, nor do I wish to be a part of. This has continued to fuel not only the aforementioned demons who, bless their hearts, still make house calls, but also my passions for both writing and art, if for no other reason than to try to remember the world I must have come here from. The down side to this (and there always seems to be a downside, doesn’t there?) is that the majority of the world is most uninterested in my disinterest in them. They would like me to put on my uniform and name tag, keep my head down and shovel my way through the muck of life like everyone else. Why we have this mutual animosity, I’ve no idea- I really don’t care what the rest of them do, so long as they leave me a little square of room to do what I would like to do. They don’t like the terms of my negotiation, therefore we continue to battle. I don’t agree with spending 40 hours a week at a job I don’t like, with people I talk to only because I must, helping fuel the misconceptions about what’s really important in the world. I suppose this comes from my many years being such close friends with death and darkness; once you come back from something like that, making sure I’m wearing the correct fashions or talking a certain number of random strangers a month into purchasing products that they don’t need seems trivial, to say the least. I can’t convince myself to want to do it, and I don’t believe I should have to. The motivations for these things- money, fame, adoration of people I don’t know- I don’t understand that, either. My father would say, at this point in my story, that I am “S.O.L.”- a writer/artist who doesn’t fit in to the world, the world that has, coincidentally, convinced her to be afraid to let go of it.

Anyway.

I love writing. I love reading. I love discussing the subtle techniques authors employ, the way they build a story, the moment that defined that one favorite character, and the book that changed history forever. I have a very analytical and logical mind, which, I feel, makes me enjoy writing even more, because I'm able to read beyond the story. There's nothing in this world better than a good book.

Currently I’m doing exactly what I hate, which is being a 9-5 robot who tries to fit in what she considers the real meat of life whenever she isn’t A) answering stupid questions or B) drinking her memories of work away. I’m trying to break this shell of fear that I’ve built around me, hence my enrollment in this fine website. I’m looking to make a huge change.

Re-reading this, I sound incredibly cynical and bitter, which really is an unfair assessment considering the amount of time I spend laughing at “that’s what she said” jokes and moments when my dearly beloved passes gas in front of me. I guess I just need the rest of me to catch up with the small child still playing tag ‘round my soul.

Interests: The obligatory reading/writing, art, photography, cinema, tattoos, thunderstorms, Rambo, mysteries, the History Channel, baby animals, zombies and the word 'incidentally'.

Published writer: Yes

Freelance: Yes

Published works:

Fiction