(Sorry for slacking on the blog posts, I’ve had food poisoning for the last 48 hours and counting…)
Some days, I imagine living in Tinyville for a good long while.
Once the house on Fork Mountain sells, if I can afford it, I could move right downtown. I could quit my job at the craft school and work part time for Dot’s (the teensy café downtown) or part time for John and David at the gallery. I could walk to work and walk to the dojo and walk to the post office and walk to the farmer’s market. And I’d be five miles closer to the real grocery store when I needed it. I could keep interviewing artists, work on some local history projects, and keep chipping away at my creative work. I could have high-speed Internet.
Other days, that feels like the most claustrophobic plan on the planet. It makes me want to execute a more drastic plan, which would involve living in the high desert of the Colorado Rockies or mopping floors on a ship for Semester at Sea.
Another plan is this: If I don’t get any of the grants and/or if the house sells and I can’t find appropriate housing, I could box everything up and apply for residencies (which I know I can get) all over the country and hop here and there and keep working on my writing. I could stay at my parent’s house between residencies until something bigger comes along.
That kinda makes me feel itchy, too, though.
I’ve also been fantasizing about road trips: For instance, if I could be anywhere this very second I would be in Lenox, MA where Andrew Bird (my favorite musician of all time and my future husband) and Wilco are playing outdoors at Tanglewood. Beam me up Scotty, seriously, because it’s killing me to know that I’m missing that show at that venue as I type.
Hawaii and Alaska await with college friends and open doors, free places to stay and sights to see. New Mexico? Arizona? Never been there either. Canada? I’ve always wanted to take the train from end to end, take my time, check things out.
Or maybe someone will sweep me off my feet and I’ll just have to move. Sorry friends, but true love is the ultimate trump and I really have to go. Hate to leave it all behind, but I must be one my way. Right? Right.
Dreaming big for my writing life has come with dreaming big in all other ways as well. Sometimes I worry that I’m playing it too safe, calculating things too much, and that I should just say fuck it and walk away. Do what I want. Not care about money or debt or community. But oh, there’d be other sides to that life, too.
Ultimately, I think all the fantasizing about hitting the road or making big changes has to do with the fact that I’ve outgrown my job. It worked so well while I was in school. Now it feels like 32 hours away from my desk that only yields $720 a month (Ok, plus health insurance and meals, which are HUGE). At a certain point, the cost-benefit ratio isn’t going to sit well with me anymore and something will have to give.
But what and when? Oh, Life!