I take my seat on the worn, red chair with the sliver of sunlight shining on it, and
pull my MacBook from my purse. I’ve positioned myself in the fiction section
between shelves sixteen and seventeen, somewhere amongst Davis-Downs and
Doyle-Evaristo. I can see the covers of Evanovich and Griffin, Grisham and
Eugenides; the latter being one of my favorite recent reads.
My
love of writing is succeeded only by my love of reading, so it’s no real
surprise that I like to settle in here at the library to write down the words
swimming in my head. The only thing that would make this better is if I had a
coffee in hand, but I drove right past three Starbucks on the way here without
it crossing my mind.
I’ll have to do without.
Yesterday my husband told me that he is in awe of the writing that I have done this year. He “doesn’t know how I do it.” Sometimes I’m tempted to agree with him, and find myself wonder how I do it day after day, but then I remember that I simply can’t not.
I’m a bit of a fritter-er. I jump from one thing to the next without much thought, without finishing one project. I used to think that it meant something was wrong with me, but something I read lately – of course, I read it – reminded me that it only means my interests are vast. I want to dip my toes in everything to see if it’s something I could like. A lot of the time it isn’t, and that’s okay; it’s oddly comforting to know that I at least tried.
But sometimes that little dip of my toes isn’t enough, and I want to jump in. For years – most of my childhood and adult life, really – I was simply dipping my toes in when it came to writing. Until this year.
Two thousand and fifteen. I jumped right in, feet first, became fully submerged. And I don’t think I can ever look back.
Writers are always asked why they want to write. Do they want to be famous? Are they in it for the money? Maybe they want to write that book that they wish existed. Maybe they’re inspired by all the reading they do.
I’m not sure where I fit in just yet. Right now, I’m just doing it for the love of the game. Maybe one day, years from now, I’ll settle in here at the library again; maybe I’ll look for the same spot, between shelves sixteen and seventeen, running my fingers along the cool, black shelving until finding what I came for: Del, Rachel.
Wouldn’t that be a lovely sight?
Wouldn’t that be a lovely feeling?
Wouldn’t that just make all the hard work worth it? The late nights, the cramped hands, the long ago out of control coffee consumption, the missed outings with friends; wouldn’t it all be justified?
I like to think so.
And that’s why I keep writing, coffee or no coffee.
I’ll have to do without.
Yesterday my husband told me that he is in awe of the writing that I have done this year. He “doesn’t know how I do it.” Sometimes I’m tempted to agree with him, and find myself wonder how I do it day after day, but then I remember that I simply can’t not.
I’m a bit of a fritter-er. I jump from one thing to the next without much thought, without finishing one project. I used to think that it meant something was wrong with me, but something I read lately – of course, I read it – reminded me that it only means my interests are vast. I want to dip my toes in everything to see if it’s something I could like. A lot of the time it isn’t, and that’s okay; it’s oddly comforting to know that I at least tried.
But sometimes that little dip of my toes isn’t enough, and I want to jump in. For years – most of my childhood and adult life, really – I was simply dipping my toes in when it came to writing. Until this year.
Two thousand and fifteen. I jumped right in, feet first, became fully submerged. And I don’t think I can ever look back.
Writers are always asked why they want to write. Do they want to be famous? Are they in it for the money? Maybe they want to write that book that they wish existed. Maybe they’re inspired by all the reading they do.
I’m not sure where I fit in just yet. Right now, I’m just doing it for the love of the game. Maybe one day, years from now, I’ll settle in here at the library again; maybe I’ll look for the same spot, between shelves sixteen and seventeen, running my fingers along the cool, black shelving until finding what I came for: Del, Rachel.
Wouldn’t that be a lovely sight?
Wouldn’t that be a lovely feeling?
Wouldn’t that just make all the hard work worth it? The late nights, the cramped hands, the long ago out of control coffee consumption, the missed outings with friends; wouldn’t it all be justified?
I like to think so.
And that’s why I keep writing, coffee or no coffee.
