So I'm perusing Writers' Almanac and see that today marks my favorite playwright's birthday.
Cool. Missed an opportunity to bake a cake, but oh well.
And then I read a bit more about Mr. Wilder and come to the conclusion that he had a bit of a wild side to him. I am fascinated with his story.
Imagine: You feel a little bored with your life. You're 65 years old, haven't published anything, really, in twenty years, and you decide to take a drive ... from Connecticut to the Southwest. You run out of gas, or your car breaks down, and you stop in some podunk town to get fuel or a new heat pump, and instead of rolling out of town afterwards, you decide to stay. You rent a room with a sink and a toilet nearby and then you plunk down to a typewriter during the day and some meanderings with the locals in the evening.
And after a year and a half, you are finished writing a book, which is then published and goes on to win the National Book Award.
And here I sit, in my kitchen in Kansas City, all filled with self loathing that I am already 46 and haven't published a novel, and can't just pick up and drive to Albuquerque where I know no one to set up shop with my laptop and a case of Diet Coke. I'm thinkin' my husband would care if I left for 18 months; the children, although they're grown, wouldn't quite understand their mama-abandonment (Mom did WHAT?!); I am having a mole removed on May 3. Besides, my personal courage needs some encouraging; gas is nearly four dollars a gallon; I don't know how to change a flat tire (what if I have a flat tire?!?!?!); I can't see well at dark to drive safely; I could be raped by savage locals who have a "thang" for middle-aged women strolling into town with just a laptop and a case of Diet coke. Et cetera.
Sigh.
Wish I had a slice of cake right about now.
No comments:
Post a Comment