This was written in response to Writing 101, Day 4: A story in a single image.
Through the Attic Window
Looking through the attic window reminds me of what I’ve always known but never sought out. I was never supposed to live a 9 to 5 work a day away type of life.
Looking through the attic window, I recall describing my perfect life for some career exploratory seminar I attended in college. The ideal life I described did not consist of a typical 9 to 5 workday. There were three components to my ideal work life. There was political/community service work, there was some sort of business endeavor I couldn’t define then but know now that it was probably commercial real estate (CRE) related, and then there was WRITING.
I was meant to write.
I was meant to sit at the desk which lies just out of your view in the picture of the attic window. It is right at the outer edge of the photo. If you squint you can see it; well at least I can.
It is there at that desk in front of the attic window where I am supposed to sit and write. I am surrounded by the tools of my craft – laptop, printer, thesaurus, dictionary, pens in a variety of colors, notebooks, ream of paper, scissors and tape (still used for the original cut and paste method I was taught in journalism school) and reference books (Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg; Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott; On Writing Well by William Zinsser; and even an old edition of The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White) to help fight writer’s block.
In my attic office, I divide my days and weeks between my three pursuits – politics/community service, writing and CRE. The combination keeps boredom at bay while simultaneously satisfying my need to contribute to society, be creative and earn a living.
Looking through the attic window, I am reminded that this office doesn’t exist except in my mind’s eye. I wonder why I have allowed life to stop me from pursuing a way of life that I knew in my twenties was how I was supposed to live my life.
Looking through the attic window, I ask myself if during all the years since college and now whether I had been waiting to receive someone’s permission to live the life I was meant to lead.