I think there comes a point where most of us realize that our lives don’t belong to us anymore. They did for a while, and then one day we wake up with a job and bills and kids. Family becomes priority one and the fantasyland of youth slips away like Peter Pan through Wendy’s window. This is supposed to be a good thing. I learned that having responsibility meant growing up and growing up meant being mature and a healthy and productive member of society.
Somehow being a writer got lost in that conversation. Writers, i’m told, aren’t really healthy and productive members of society. Instead we’re trained to be pattern people; nine to five ants shuffling a bread crumbs and leaf bits back to the hill. Every once in a while I get nostalgic for my life before I became an ant. It is no knock on my family. You can love one thing yet still appreciate the memory of something else. I remember possibility; and when I didn’t know what I wanted to do or be. I remember a time when choice was only limited by my wallet and my imagination. These days choice is measured in a slice of afternoon instead of a month, a year, or even a lifetime of possibilities.
Somehow being a writer got lost in those possibilities too. My mother wanted me to be anything else. She wanted a concrete job with insurance and long term pension and commitment from an entity that wouldn’t collapse. She suggested a great many things, but I only ever remember Garbage Man and Fireman. Once I tested to be the latter. I scored well enough, but it wasn’t something I ever wanted to do. I’d rather write the sequel to Backdraft than be the sequel itself. Somehow I found a way to get those things she desired, easing the strain of daily complaints and worry. I did it without having to be a garbage collector or dash into burning buildings.
I found a way to write, and maybe even live a life that allows for writing. Still I cherish the memory of times where writing was all there was.
Some Thoughts:
- It is entirely possible that rain depresses me. See above post for evidence.