A Shed of One's Own
I left work a few hours early yesterday so I could take my toddler to the farm show.
We spent most of our time at the tractor exhibit. It's been his favorite part for three years running. After he tired of the tractors, we walked across the expo center to see the animals. We couldn't find the chickens or the rabbits; only rows and rows of dairy cows.
Back at home that evening, he announced that he was too angry to sleep. He'd wanted to see cows with horns.
"You got to ride the tractors," my husband said. "Don't focus on what you didn't see. Just think about all the fun you had."
"Okay. I'll think about all the fun I had. But I'm going to be bored all night."
I shudder to think of the things he'll say as a teenager.
I made good progress on chapter one of my memoir today. I changed the verb tense from past to present, finessed the transitions and beefed up a few scenes. It left me on a high. I'd started out feeling guilty for not giving the book more attention, and I ended with new insights into how the story should flow. I know the high will only last until the next rough writing patch, but might as well enjoy it while it lasts.
I dream of reading and writing all weekend. I want to maintain my momentum on the memoir. I've had The Writer's Journey sitting on my bookshelf for months, and I'm dying to finally crack it open. I doubt I'll get much time to do either. The forecast calls for freezing rain, and I'll likely be cooped up inside with two bored little boys.
At the farm show yesterday I kept seeing these lavish sheds: Fully customizable! As low as $3,999! I've always dreamed of having a little backyard studio, close enough to walk to, yet far enough away to feel private. It could have a little desk for writing, a table for art projects, and bookshelves built into the walls. Perhaps I could squeeze in a loft bed, where I could read under the covers or nap whenever the mood strikes.
I lost myself in fantasy while the toddler played on the tractors. I have $3,999 in savings, I thought. I could hand over my debit card and buy a writing studio right now.
I didn't, of course. But I can see myself there now, hunched over my journal, steam rising from a nearby mug of peppermint tea. I can see the snow falling outside the window; hear the crystalline silence.