by Tina Portelli
I have always imagined that I would someday become a famous writer. In my ultimate fantasy, I see myself sitting in front of my computer facing a picture window. I am retired. I am respected. I am in my pajamas, in my wonderful spacious home, which sits on a stilted house on the beach, with my beautiful chimes and soft cat for company. I sit and ponder my next line. My published works line the shelves of my office. My award adorn my wall.
Life is good.
Steaming coffee to my left, and a notepad on my right, next to the mouse. The note is a reminder that I have to write something every day. It doesn't matter what it is, or who reads it, as long as I can get words on the page. They do not have to make sense, for now. It is practice, it is as important as any physical exercise.
It is more difficult to come up with new story lines. I have to rely on memory more than current experience. I am sequestered at the ocean, not getting around as much as I used to. My stories were a tapestry of my life back then, amusing, adventurous, but now just sea and sand fill my world. It is no longer easy doing what I love.
In the reality, as I write these words today, I am still a working woman, riding the subway every day, making a living, trying to look good and be a stand-up kind of gal. My computer sits facing a not so clean average size window dressed with a cheap curtain and a lone tree surrounded by blue stone. On the top floor in a small side room I do not struggle for words, they come easily. That is because I am living, experiencing, I am not a shut in. I am participating. I never know what's on tomorrow's menu. My ears are always perked as my coffee and I am receptive to new ideas and no pajamas.
In the fantasy I have become the ultimate writer, except for lack of material. In the reality, I am uncomfortable in my small writing space, but the place in my head is full. While the future is what I wish for, I know it will be the past I will long for.
Life is great.