My autumn fantasies have never strayed far from the pencil aisle. As soon as I knew how to put graphite and imagination together, I was writing books… even if they were only a frothy whip of princess lore and Southern Baptist morals (“Thou shalt not smoke”) scribbled on handfuls of printer paper. At the start of each semester throughout high school and college, I read syllabi like campaign promises. (A portfolio of deadline-inspired masterpieces by spring! New skills learned! World peace!) Since graduating, I’ve consistently imagined fall mornings spent at my desk with orange leaves filtering sunlight onto the pages of my half-written memoir.
And now, another November is here—NaBloNoPoWriWhateverMo—and it feels like every other linguistically-gifted person on the planet is publishing daily blog entries and composing chapbooks and penning novels. After getting home at 10:30 last night from piano practice, I washed the days’ worth of dishes and pictured entire chains of American coffee shops swirling with warm cinnamon and the happy clacking of laptop keys. The thought landed in my sternum like a well-aimed punch.
I want to be there too, at the little table in the corner with headphones of my own artsy music drowning out the artsy music on the stereo, a tall gingerbread mocha within reach, my muse at the next table leaning over to whisper brilliant sentences every time I get stuck. I would even be delighted with a few uninterrupted hours each day at my own desk, inspiration venturing out of its hole to see what all the quiet’s about. I cannot quell this longing to write—maybe not for a living, but for a life, yes. However, this autumn seems to have conspired with its last five predecessors to keep me away from blank pages and novelty espresso beverages, and I’m questioning once again if “author” will ever come after my name. The [grossly pessimistic] idea that this dream may never have a fighting chance is a pillow of porcupine quills when I lay down at night.
The glitch in all my moping is this: I’ve been too busy to write because I’m actually starting to have some semblance of a life. A checking the calendar, leaving the house, having actual social interactions kind of life that takes an embarrassing amount out of me by the end of the day. I am forever making mistakes in Italian and having to talk myself off mental ledges mid-sentence (my inner perfectionist can be pretty dramatic), and it takes real effort to stop comparing my clothes and figure to those of my supermodel friends. Plus, simply being around people zaps my energy rather than recharging it. I’ve been ready for bed at 9:30 for weeks now. See? Embarrassing.
But as embarrassing and challenging and draining as this Having A Life is, it feels good. Or if not good, exactly, then a step in goodness’s direction… a few more inches up the muddy, rewarding path to relationships. So this won’t be the November I write my Great American Novel, but I am stocking up on real-life inspiration for future stories. And while my pillow may be lined with porcupine quills, I’ve been sleeping beautifully.
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Why yes, I did begin every sentence of that last paragraph with a conjunction. Watch free will triumph over the English degree!
“I cannot quell this longing to write—maybe not for a living, but for a life, yes.” Yes. I am not a “writer” not in the least, yet I have the pull toward the page as well. Your posts are ones I look for every day, they are honest and human and so beautifully written. I am happy that you are out there and building those relationships. You so deserve to be happy, and you sound happy 🙂 This life you are building, and the lives that you have already lived, I have no doubt whatsoever, will be the seeds of a wonderful book. When the time is right and it whispers in your ear, then you will be sipping your gingerbread mocha in some lucky coffee shop while your words are painted on the page. I will be waiting in the wings for the opportunity to read your beautiful words.
Bethany, the thing is: YOU ARE A WRITER. Whether or not you write any Great American Novel (which are highly over-rated in way too many instances), you write and are read (by many) and you write some more. I don’t actually understand the appeal of NaBlowMe (haaaa! I crack myself up) Month, but you are right that a lot of people seem to still be jumping on the bandwagon. But give yourself a break. Getting the kids through a day fed and alive, and ALSO managing to get yourself out of the house, when you have two little ones? YOU’RE A SUPERSTAR. Writing time will come. It will, I swear. 🙂
I hope lizardek is right!!! I too find it a difficult choice. I had a dream one time where I was taking a test and I could only choose 2 items from the following list: quality time with my family, writing, reading, laundry, dishes, general cleaning, house maintenance, social interactions, etc. I chose time with my family, and writing, and ended up drowning under all of the laundry, dishes, etc. Needless to say, it was a bad dream. That being said, I really do think it is impossible unless you have enormous amounts of money and can pay someone to do all of the cleaning and dishes and laundry. So the sooner you publish your book….. 😉