I went to this school in the corner of Vermont to watch fireflies and to listen. I came away with a new pile of debt and a few acquaintances that occasionally feel like friends. I don't feel nostalgic for the place. The irritating combination of boredom and fear that pervaded my days there will keep me from ever longing for them back. But there is something that nags. Surrounded by those flashes of talent and the steady flow of ambition, it was easy to believe I was a writer. Now, over a year later, I struggle to maintain that belief. While I generally succeed, the effort often leaves me ragged.
Pardon the whining. Just suffering a bit of that writer's isolation I've heard so much about. Good stuff.
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Tracy, my dear...I just filled myself in on a juicy helping of your last six or so posts. I laughed my ass off (the catalog child-of the corn boy who will poison you in your sleep; the future of jerked meat) and I nodded in ascent--red umbrellas, what a great idea! And I cried a little in sympathy for the feeling of missing being a writer surrounded by writers...and I know, and anyone who reads this will know, without a shadow of a doubt that you are one, whether or not you can feel it each and every day.
ReplyDeleteThanks, babe.
ReplyDeleteYour writing makes me warm and toasty--and I happen to know that the fear and boredom were punctuated by hysteria and bad coffee! So there. You are such a writer. And I say that as an acquaintance who sometimes feels like a friend (though I happen to think I'm a friend who sometimes acts like an acquaintance).
ReplyDeleteThank you for writing and for sharing it, T. (And yes! Red umbrellas!)
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