I’m often asked what it’s like to be a writer — how I spend my days, how I experience the world. And so I will be sharing occasional essays from the front lines of my writing life. Enjoy!
I don’t miss being younger, experiencing the rough stuff of youth. The fears and tears of pimples and unrequited love, the not knowing what to say or wear, or who I would be when, at some distant time and place, I’d be all grown up.
Grown up. An interesting term. As if we grow in one direction, vertically, when really growth is a horizontal thing. With luck and smarts, we grow out, furthering our reach each day, no matter how crummy it may be, for no day is without possibility, however slim.
Grownup; another interesting term. As if we become a solid, single being, rooted in space and time and emotion, when, really, we are fluid. Without the ups and downs, our lives are terribly flat. At the very least, we need hills.
These days my life is hilly and what I see in the distance is my present. How confusing. It reminds of the time when, as a kid, I asked my mom, “Is today tomorrow?” I couldn’t grasp the concept of time, nor can I now. What day is it? What week, what month, what year? Have they merged and become something wholly different, like mixing red and blue and getting purple?
Purple. Not my favorite color but nice nonetheless. It’s the color of grapes, which I like, and the color of my recently purchased pants, which I love. Other than that, eh. I prefer the blue of clear sharp skies, the waters that ring tropical islands; worn denim.
All of which is neither here nor there, I suppose. Nonetheless, it summarizes my life: I am neither here nor there; I just am. Perhaps this is what it means to grow up, to be a grownup.