A Writer’s Life

Last week, on the first cool morning since spring, I walked to a nearby coffee shop and sat on their patio to write this post.

I live downtown, so the coffee shop’s patio was just beyond the foot traffic and the street. Buildings rose high in front and beside and behind, leaving my view of sky only a sliver. Pedestrians, cars—even bikes and electric scooters—passed by, close enough to hear people’s chatter or the buzz of the scooters or the roar of an engine. While I sipped a honey nut latte and ate scrambled eggs, I drank in the urban scene while classical music streamed from speakers overhead. Suddenly I thought, This is how I always imagined the life of a writer would be.

Truly. I grew up feasting on books and tv shows and movies where young, aspiring writers lived solitary lives in New York or London or Paris, existing in tiny apartments and frequenting nearby cafes as they wrote words which would enthrall readers. (For of course in those stories, no writer ever ultimately failed!)

For almost 20 years I’ve been seriously writing, but this is the first time my life has mimicked those long ago, girlish dreams. Of course back then I imagined myself with notebook and pen, for I had no inkling of portable computers. I didn’t see myself in the city of Austin, because Austin wasn’t the city then that it is now. Nor did imagine the difficulty of living in a tiny space. And I never pictured myself so old in those dreams, either!

But it was those dreams—unrealistic as they were—which fueled me forward in my writing journey. Those dreams encouraged me to take creative writing classes in high school and college and even after college, letting others evaluate my work, even when it felt more like discouragement than encouragement. My dreams reminded me to continued to jot down my thoughts, my ideas, even when life in suburbia was full of diapers and bottles and potty-training. 

They encouraged me to keep a notebook in my purse, to keep journaling. Those dreams kept my fingers at the keyboard of our first computer after the kids went to bed or while they were at school. A different vision, certainly, of the life of a writer, but with just enough of the dream to spur me forward.

And then there were the struggles. I certainly never imagined that! I thought words would just pour forth perfect, into beautiful, bestselling books. Instead, I often wanted to quit, always did major revisions, and sighed over sales numbers.

And yet. . . though the life I’ve lived as a writer has looked nothing like what I imagined it would be, suddenly here I am in that exact moment, sitting on the patio of a coffee shop in the middle of a city, instrumental music overhead, a cool breeze wafting around me, writing.

Even it’s only for this single moment, it is truly a dream come true.

Have you ever found yourself in a moment then realized it matched some girlhood dream you’d given up on?