When I get there, it'd better be good.
That's what I'm thinking.
Because it's not often that I feel like I see myself out there in the world. What I mean is: I rarely come across people living a life that resembles mine. Or, at least, the one I want to live.
As a kid, I looked. It's probably safe to say that, in fact, I searched. Some friends of mine found versions of that in our teachers or coaches. Maybe a grandparent. I know folks who'd find that later in a boss or colleague. I didn't. Or, well... haven't. Not yet, anyway. But truth be told, I've stopped looking. It's been quite some time since I called off the search. Instead, I've found bits and pieces of people out there in the world where I find parts of myself reflected back toward me.
So this morning, at the cafe around the corner, I'm sitting at a table by the window with a coffee in one hand and Stephen King's On Writing in the other, and I figure I must look bewildered. I'm imagining the vibe I must be giving off; hunched over a book with wide eyes and my head cocked to the side, and eyebrows that can't sit still.
I must admit, I've not read a whole lot of Stephen King. Horror's not really my thing, but his books were commonly found in our house growing up because my mom would read them. I did ok watching The Shining, but I don't think I've interacted with Stephen King's work since watching IT.
Ugh.
I still shiver thinking about that fucking movie.
It's just that, after reading about his experience writing Carrie and how closely he'd paid attention to his ostracized classmates in high school who helped inspire characters in that book, I started to see a glimmer of myself in there. And then there's the stack of editor rejection letters he started pinning to the wall as a high schooler!
I... I don't know.
I went into this book hoping to learn from Stephen King, the writer, and I guess I just didn't expect to find myself relating to Stephen King, the person. I'm actually feeling a little sentimental reading about his wife's reaction to finding out a publisher bought Carrie—his first full-length novel—for almost seven times what either of them only half-thought might even be possible.
I take a deep breath and a sip of coffee.
Then he reveals how he got sober and my eyebrows start jumping again.
It's not often that I see myself out there in the world. But as I'm sitting here in my local coffee spot, where I come to read and write, I feel a little validated. For each swing I've taken so far on this journey, I feel a little less like I'm playing darts in the dark and a little more like I'm a card-carrying member of some hard knocks writers' gym.
And, at first I'm thinking that when I get there, it'd better be good.
But it quickly becomes whenever I get there, it'll be good.
Until finally I settle on whenever is good.
What's your rush?
onward.
For more on this daily column and The MAP Year Project, read the backstory here. And if you know someone who'd appreciate this, pass it along.