Our Writing Life column archive, which features an array of guest contributors.
In the story of my life, libraries have been the setting. The answers I sought have always been found there, whether I was delving into Yeats’ symbolism or a breastfeeding dilemma. However, it was the question, “What shall I do with my life?” that somehow eluded me for so long. The answer was of course, at the library. I didn’t just want to read the books there – I wanted to write one, to make my own contribution to the catalog.
I reject the phrase, “the writing life.” I am also a hypocrite because, on occasion, I use the phrase “the writing life” as a catch-all to describe my life as a writer. It’s a poor excuse for a catch-all, the phrase. It attempts to lump all writers into a monolithic construct–a box, I mean–as though all writers write the same words, or write with the same style, or perceive the world through the same eyes.
The hallway connecting the bedroom I shared with my brother to the bedroom my parents shared. I wrote on the walls in this hallway with crayon, then with pencil, and once with blank ink.
Lake Eola Park, in the center of Orlando – a world away from cartoon Disney – makes me wish that I could draw. Some places demand the bold strokes of acrylic, the definitives of ink, the texturized weight of Bristol paper. Nothing but a painter’s hand, a drafter’s arm will do. The precise skills I am lacking.
