Wednesday, December 28, 2005
I had a date last week. It was actually a nice date. There was laughter, conversation and good food, three things that always make a nice time a great time. I was relaxed and enjoying myself until I felt stumped by a question.
“So, tell me about your dreams?” he asked.
I have no idea what my expression disclosed but on the inside I was confused. Was he asking about what images filled my head during my most recent REM sleep? If so, I was in trouble. It was a clouded and confused encounter with a coworker who is sometimes so dumb I question how it is exactly that he has survived life this long without getting electrocuted. Nice but not the sharpest pencil in the drawer. I asked Date how he defined “dream” in the construct of his sentence and told me to just run with it.
“I want to be a successful writer. Not successful in the sense that I derive gratification from my words making sense but successful in the sense that you can find my work not only on the shelf at Barnes & Noble but maybe even on one of those display tables that clutter the main artery.”
I listened to my answer as I spoke the words and liked what I was saying. It was one hundred percent true. Since Todd bought me a laptop, I’ve been spending more and more time pondering how to segue my life from an insurance gal to a literary gal. I started a Blog just to dust off the writing cobwebs. Otherwise, my path to publishing has been slow.
Date asked what I was doing besides writing my Blog to get to my end point. It’s a logical question. A football team doesn’t step onto the field without a running pattern spelled out. Otherwise, you end up resembling my eighth grade basketball team with every player simply running for the ball.
I fumbled out an answer but honestly hadn’t gotten to the point of moving forward. Until starting my Blog, I’ve never written with the intention of others reading it. My inner critic had me convinced that people were just being polite when they complimented my writing the same way I am with girls who just got a really bad haircut or are sporting a new sweater in a putrid and unflattering color. “You look great,” I’d say with an ear to ear smile. Sometimes I’d even toss in a “seriously” to emphasize false sincerity.
In the days since my night out with Date, I’ve been really busy. But I’ve somehow managed to make time to contemplate my future. The “Writing” folder in my Favorites has grown from two links to twenty. I printed out the Bennington Non-Resident MFA in Creative Writing application. I noted the online class schedule for both the Gotham Writer’s Workshop and The Writer’s Room, two reputable if not prestigious New York programs. I also reviewed the Temple University Masters program in creative writing. It might not have the recognition of Bennington but it is half the cost, more accessible and still has some very impressive professors.
I haven’t heard from Date. I think I will. I hope I will. If someone can somehow inspire me to get off my ass and start finding a way to make my dream a reality, well, that is pretty darn good person to have in your arsenal. And who knows, he may even be a good kisser.