Something about today reminds me of a different time in another place. I got a text from a friend as I was getting into the car that read:
It feels like England outside
And it does feel like England outside, or at least the version of England that lives in my head from so many years ago. A milky gray cast of clouds hangs over Columbus today and it reminds me of strolling a foggy beach and throwing stones into the ocean. It reminds me of hours spent gazing out the windows of Denney Hall while one of my professors lectured on the marriage plot in Jane Austen’s novels; a steady Ohio spring drizzle misting the glass.
I told her the weather felt academic, throwing me backward into the years spent in classrooms and lecture halls learning about writing craft and discussing books. Those early mornings were exhausting and exciting in equal measure, still waking up while the world outside made me want to hole up in the English department and never leave. It’s been six years now since I graduated from college, leaving behind an empty space I can’t seem to fill.
When you’re in the thick of it it’s hard to believe you’ll feel a nostalgia for the days of studying in coffee shop for hours and sitting through lectures where it feels impossible for your brain to take in anymore information. As I walked out of the coffee shop this morning, passing a group of girls with highlighted books spread out in front of them, I missed it all. I could seek out books about anything I wanted to know, comb through the library catalogue, but nothing replaces those moments of heated discussion between classmates. Every now and then I find myself missing writing workshops, actually it’s probably more like once a week.
We become “real adults” and we lose the spaces we used to have for things like creativity and open discussion. Everything in our lives begins to revolve around working and making enough money to keep a roof over your head. I’ve been writing five different books over the past ten years, and by that I mean I’ve started and stopped and started again. I get a few pages in and question everything with no one around to push me through the doubt and second guessing. Adults I find are so rarely encouraged to pursue their creativity in a world built to make us feel guilty for our simple pleasures because “what is the point of it?”
The point is allowing yourself the space to explore whatever it is you find yourself in need of. I’ve found in these years the most important relationship we will ever have is with ourselves and it doesn’t bode well to deny yourself the opportunity to do what you want, even when it feels like the most silly thing. I will write my book. It might take me five months or five years, but there is beauty in the pursuit of it, the pursuit of art.
I haven’t gone on a little ramble in a while, but I hope you liked this one.
The Rummy Writer 