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.
