This will be me someday. I will be in the basement late one evening, sitting at my desk with bloodshot eyes, trying to decide if I have one more blog post or short story or novel chapter or grocery list left in me, and I will realize, I don’t. And just like that I will turn off the Dell, say one last goodbye to the books and papers and empty tea cups and my rocking chair and the lovely orange filing boxes from Target and a thousand ratty journals, the spiders, my daughter’s poetry can from 4th grade (well, maybe I’ll take that with me for sentimental reasons) and I will close the door, walk up the stairs and never return.
I wish I had what it takes, to just leave it all. To say, well, nice ride, been there-done that, adios amigo. To put it behind me like my obsession with Groucho Marx, my attempts at crochet, my crush on Sammy Davis Jr. (what was that?!), the desire to run a marathon or hitchhike across Europe, the hope of being bilingual or hiking the Appalachian Trail or becoming a broadway star, or learning how to ski or waking up one day with 20-20 vision or walking into a room and everyone’s head turns (in slow motion like a movie). All those things are far behind me. I can shrug them off. They feel like fun or silly or stupid ideas I once had. But the writing thing, it drags around behind me like Marley’s chain. I think life would be a thousand times easier for me if I just cut the writing loose. If I stuck it in a bottle and sent it out to sea (although with my luck Nicholas Sparks would find it and open it and turn it to crap). Would everything suddenly become clear? Would my purpose in life be revealed like a profile of Elvis in a stain on the refrigerator? Would I just know my role: mother, wife, employee, homeowner, moviegoer, book reader, modest decorating flare, kick ass appetizers, trips to Ogunquit, chain email deleter, coupon cutter who doesn’t use coupons, dog walker, purveyor of 3-month old Hollywood gossip, Facebook flunky, great and noble avoider of conflict, finally can make a roux?
It’s no use. I know I have more to say. I may not know how to say it or think anyone else wants to hear it or even want to say it or hear it myself, but I’ll be damned if I don’t need to. I keep coming back here. I keep thinking, maybe. I keep dreaming that dried up old dream. Do you?