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!
