I wanted to read.
But I couldn’t
I wanted to write.
But I didn’t.
I am at a time in life that is opaque, where there are no bold lines,
only shadow and shades.
So I have begun to redefine myself.
On the cusp of retirement, a time when I aspire to hone my passions and strengths (without being guided by a paycheck) I take solace in the fact that there is one thing I will always be-
It has only been in my later years, where I have become confident enough to identify as a writer. To claim that I am one.
And as I begin to wind down in my career (after 30 years), I have full intentions to read more, and write more
and grow creatively and profoundly in voice
and in imagination.
I aspire to be the embodiment of a sentient library where those seeking stories can come and confer. Suggestions of titles would trip off my tongue like water over rock.
To write reviews.
To write short stories.
To finish that novel.And then…
A global pandemic.
Oh, I thought, now that my life is limited in both act and engagement, I will have copious amounts of time to read and write and create.
But alas, I have yet to take advantage of the circumstances in which I find myself.
I check updates,
And outbreak patterns,
And my temperature.
My concentration is non-existent. Sadly I can scarcely focus long enough to live in another world if even for a minute.
And all of this has been heartbreakingly disconcerting.
So not only has my identity been challenged, but the one place where I used to be able to claim respite from reality has slammed the door without giving me a key.
I long to wander freely in fiction where I can think of nothing else but plot points and protagonists.