Thursday, March 24, 2005

not spilling

(image from: )

I can't say yet what I'll be doing. In short: I was offered a fellowship and am debating its acceptance. Mainly it means writing without teaching.

I have been thinking about that, what it would mean, what it might be like. Most of these thoughts involve me outfitted like Carrie Bradshaw. Just think: I could wear skirts over jeans again and funky shoes and change my hair! I could stay out late! I could go to the post office in the middle of the day! I could eat my lunch in museums!

But what would I think about on the treadmill, in the metro? What would I dream? Who would give me energy and optimism? Why would I leave the house?

When I was little I believed I would grow up to be an author. Like that was a job exclusive to itself. Like that paid bimonthly and had good dental and could be printed on business cards, neatly, singularly, in black print: author.

In a way I love something that will never love me back, never be mine. Me and writing? We're just friends. He sleeps around. He won't stay over. He doesn't even know my birthday. I asked him what color my eyes were once and he said green.

At 22, about to graduate, with this weird offer on the answering machine from a school I'd never been to about something called a "Teaching Assistantship," I decided to compromise and love this boy teaching, who in his defense, was very nice and returned my phone calls and gave me summers to myself and sometime nights alone.

So to be loved for a few years...even if we can't afford a big place, and have to scrimp on milk and shoes...I might have to waitress to cover his habits. There might be pressure. My mother might talk. But we'd be together, exclusive, me and writing.

It's a lot to think about.