Wednesday, March 9, 2016
I will never be a novelist, as I had so dreamed of in a lifetime so far gone I can hardly remember the core details. I don’t write novels, and even if I did, they wouldn’t be well read. Or aren’t well read. Unless you’re a super sleuth, you’ll never know. And I’ve only encountered one such specimen, whose skills were unsurpassed even by ME: the sleuthiest sleuth that ever did sleuth (formerly). This point is one of contention between my fantasy and real selves. The pretend self — the long haired adult in comfortable, well-fitted frames, clothes that fit and an appetite for healthier foods, the one that keeps a secret writing studio equipped with a mini-fridge full of bottled Mexican Coke and cold straws (one of life’s greatest joys; try it) — and the actual self — unleashed, loose jeans, messy hair frizzy in the damp weather, eater of burritos, always tired. The latter is a hanger-on, if we’re being honest. An editor and finisher of others’ abandoned work, when I can even be bothered to do that. To be a writer, you’ve gotta write. And I do so with such inconsistency that, for the first time in my life, I really can’t get away with using the title.
I am hole-hearted, but not disappointed in what has replaced my previous goal of writing consistently. Almost four years later, parenthood still exceeds.