I married Charlie almost seven years ago. When we first met he told me that he was intrigued that I was a writer. As with anyone that calls me a writer, I humbly tell him that I, in fact, am not a writer. I am a storyteller, and to me there is a difference.
I can’t write fiction. It’s just not in me. I’m just not that good.
But if I have a story to tell, well, I can do that. And pretty decently.
Anyone that has followed this blog through the years (thank you) have witnessed the evolution of a woman trying to sort through some really difficult life challenges. You have witnessed me wading in and out of troubled waters, sometimes to the brink of drowning, other times clinging to a piece of metaphoric driftwood floating by (no, not like Rose in Titanic, nothing that artistically dramatic).
But now that the waters are calm again, now that the trauma is behind me, sometimes, actually most of the time, I feel like I don’t have anything to write about. Was the writing just for a season? Was it just because it was cathartic for me to write?
I will be retiring soon. And with that information, I have been asked numerous times by my coworkers, “What are you going to do with yourself after you retire?”
Good question. A fair question. And honestly, I don’t know.
But, I was paid a compliment from an individual I highly respect. He suggested that perhaps, in my new spare time, I should write a book. I have actually been encouraged by others to do just that. It’s quite flattering (and humbling) to hear someone say that, but on the inside I just don’t feel like I have anything to offer in fiction.
But, I’m going to try. Not a book. Just a piece that’s been on my mind for a bit. The idea actually came from a writing prompt. So, here goes.
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If I were a writer, I would live in London, in a small flat above a used bookstore. It would smell of old, worn paper and patchouli. I would have only one window in my flat, but it would go almost from the floor to the ceiling. The paint would be peeling on the ledge. More layers of paint peeling underneath, an array of colors, telling it’s own story of time.
If I were a writer, my flat would be an eclectic mix of styles. My bed would be littered with tossled blankets and pillows, in a kaleidoscope of colors. In contrast, my writing desk would be stark white, staight legs, with nothing on top but my laptop and a single cup and saucer. My desk drawers would be stacked with notes I have taken for future stories.
If I were a writer, my kitchen would be equipped with the bare necessites, with the exception of the shiny stainless steel espresso machine sitting on my counter, almost boasting at it’s own beauty. My kitchen sink would be white ceramic, with tea and coffee stains permantley on the bottom.
If I were a writer, I would live alone. I would become protective of my solitude. I would have a few close friends, but on my own terms. There would be days that my phone would not ring, and I would be fine with that. Sometimes on cold, rainy days I would sit at my window feeling nostalgic, conjuring up memories of past lovers and wondering what might have been.
If I were a writer, living in a London flat above a used bookstore, I would have a cat named Ransome. He would lounge with me on Sunday mornings as I lazily started my day with my coffee and my favorite scone from the bakery around the corner. On days that I write, I would sit at my desk for hours on end. Ransome would brush against my legs, back and forth, in and out, over and over. I would talk to Ransome, but not in that crazy cat lady way. I would talk of plots and subplots.
If I were a writer, I would have a penchant for notebooks. Scattered here and there. Notebooks of all kinds. I would have a notebook with a blue corduroy cover that goes with me to the places I like to write. I would have one special notebook though. She would be old and worn, but with beautifully embossed leather with a bronze clasp that holds secrets not meant to be told.
If I were a writer, I would write of love. And loss. But not always predictable. The endings would sometimes be sad, leaving you with a lump in your throat. But most times, the ending would be a good one – but maybe not what you expected. The picture of me on the back jacket of my books would be a black and white photo, one where I was not looking into the lens. My expression would be one of contemplation, of far away thoughts, not knowing that the camera had captured the image.
If I were a writer, I would live simply, all the while having a hefty savings earmarked for adventures. I would take life more slowly and live life more intentionally. I would take time to peel an orange with my thumb and inhale the spray of citrus. If I were a writer, some days I would eat my dinner of avocado and stone ground crackers on the floor, picnic style. I would sip on cheap red wine. Ransome would not be interested.
If only.
If only I were a writer living in London in a small flat above a used book store.
