Eight thousand, seven hundred and eighty-four hours. One full leap year, all of 2008, simply to write! Part of me wants to say that it’s unimaginable—would I be able to fill so many hours? The rest of me says poppycock: I’ve been striving for the writing life since I first discovered the possibility as a child. Spinning stories like Rumpelstiltskin spinning straw into gold, I would be happier than any fairy-tale princess and twice as blessed. Not a grisette, no longer a student: I would live in my own El Dorado, full of words instead of gold, but no less valuable to me. No timeclocks, no homework, nothing but me and a pencil and a stack of paper a mile high. I know how I would spend my days—how I will spend my days. Waking early, when the house is still cold and the sun is barely rising, I’ll start by giving glory to God. Then, after I put the dog out, I’ll make a tall thermos of Earl Grey and warm a thick slice of homemade bread before slathering it with apple butter: breakfast, to be taken with me to the studio, my haven. Tiny and unheated, a primitive but gemütlich metal shed hidden in the trees at the back of the yard, it’ll be where I can find peace, privacy, and an orchestra of songbirds to cajole the muse. And then, the words would flow. Or, some days, perhaps not. But that would be just fine, because I would keep my writing books in the studio, like Meltzer’s The Thinker’s Thesaurus, the OED, and perhaps some of Annie Dillard’s work—books that inspire me, that help me find my errant muse and set her back to work. But not too many, because mornings are for creating. Research can be done at other times, like in the afternoon. Mornings are sacred. I would have only a few hours before my idyllic time would be interrupted by life. Bosses can be bought off, grants can pay the bills, and even school can be put on hold for a year. But life will not wait. There will always be bread to bake, floors to vacuum, laundry to fold. And that’s a blessing, too, in its way. Passion, even for my beloved scribbling, can only last so long before it gives out to hunger, responsibilities, and a need to shower. But soon, after the dog is walked and the last of the dishes has been washed and put away, I will take the ideas that have been turning cartwheels in my head and set them to paper. Afternoons are perfect for research, for exploration, for sitting in the sunshine and pondering. While in the mornings I take what the muse gives me, in the afternoons I chase her til she leads where I aim to go. Then, a break for more chores, perhaps grocery shopping, a quick visit to the neighbors or a trip to the horse. Then dinner, and then the evenings. Of all the times in the day, I love mornings best. So clear, so cold, so beautiful: my Pierian spring. But evenings…evenings love me best. A warm fire or a seat among the fireflies, a cozy book, a cup of cocoa, letters and calls to those I love. Yes, evenings love me best.
And the days would pass, three hundred sixty-six in a row, while I indulged my fingers’ itch to write, and—perhaps—finished my current masterpiece, or at least one draft of it. Happiness will take on a new meaning: Aristotle’s “eudemonia,” the felicity of following my dream, of pursuing my full potential. Whether I finish my masterpiece or not, I will have spent a year carefully spinning a plot like a spider and her silken web, following the threads of the story and carefully selecting the ideas and words of the best quality. And hopefully, in the end, my spiderweb will have grown into a fully-developed silk tapestry, with my story being worthy of the time dedicated to it. A worthy story written, a worthy story lived; both, God willing, to be told one day to a grandchild on my knee.
