When I grow up

There was this funny game that we played at my bridal shower, lo those many years ago. The hostess, Miranda, called Eric up before hand and asked him a series of questions about us as individuals and as a couple. The point of the game was, I think, to show us that even after living together for eight years we didn’t know each other at all, and therefore we had no business getting married.

Or, maybe it was just for fun.

Anyway, one of the questions she asked was, “ What has Kate always wanted to be?”

The correct answer, and the one I gave, was, “A writer.”

The answer Eric gave? “James Taylor’s wife.”

I was thinking about this recently because Emily has started school (I know, I know, it is just one half day a week, but still) and I was trying to imagine what I would do as a job once the kids were both in school. Eric is pretty nice about the not holding down a job thing now, but I bet once there are no kids at home all day he’ll be expecting me to contribute a little. Between my little and odd experience and the small town, the choices are a bit limited.

And so I started thinking about what I wished I could do. I love writing, but it isn’t exactly the kind of thing I was looking for. First of all, liking something and being able to do that something are two very different things. Second, being a writer didn’t seem like the kind of thing that real people did for a living. It seemed like the kind of thing unreal people, famous writers I would never meet, did. And so it seemed that writing was out, through no fault of my own.

But then, a year or so ago a friend of mine published a book, and I don’t mean that she printed it out at Kinko’s, nor did she even do some self-publishing thing on the Internet. She really published a real book. And there were reviews and reading tours and all sorts of writer-like things.

I would religiously follow her blog and think, “Aw man, now she’s reading in New York City and drinking at artsy bars and all with her baby in tow. Why can’t I be reading and drinking and artsy?” There were all the drawn out details of all it took to be her. She was constantly posting reviews and reading schedules and letters she’d received, and it all seemed like a little much for me.

And so, the problem, I think, is twofold. It’s true that to actually be a writer I would have to be smarter than I am, a far better writer than I am, more interesting than I am and um… actually having something to say might be good too. Oh, and spelling and grammar might help.

But, it is clear from her blog that I would also have to be driven and self-promoting, two of the many things I am not, things, in fact, I could never do. So, maybe the fact that I’ll never be a writer really is beyond my control. But, I am not without options.

Does anyone know if James Taylor is available?