My mother and I attended a poetry reading tonight at Notre Dame. The person introducing her left much to be desired - too much enthusiasm and too little tweezing in the eye brow department. The poet though, was exactly what I imagined she would be. Unkempt, frizzy gray hair, gold rimmed coke-bottle glasses, native american turquoise jewelry and you could easily imagine her living somewhere in an adobe or a loft above a busy Parisian cafe. She was funny and very talented in her genre but clearly recognized herself as an artist refusing to talk about or introduce her material.
All of this got me thinking about how much I would like to live the life of a writer. I want to be that obscure woman, wandering around her ranch, debating on whether or not she should allow her main character's love interest to live or die. I would travel and read constantly for inspiration, draft and re-draft. Revise (moderately as I hate revising) but I would just love that life. So here's to the goal of writing tomorrow. At least an hour, dedicated to pure creativity. Good night all.