I can identify with these California guys, but in my own Midwestern Missouri land bound sort of way. The closest beach is on a river or a lake. And since Missouri is also blessed with seasons, November is hardly the month to don my swimming suit and a surf board. And I suppose I don’t exactly qualify for bum status because I have a part time job. But don’t let that fool you. I am a full fledged land bum. I am the queen of pipe dreams. Every day I have off is my so-called “writing day”--the day that I’m supposed to get up early, head immediately to the keyboard, and begin my life as a serious writer. Soon the publishers will come calling--or should I say begging--to hire me. My work will be seen in bookstores around the country, nay, around the globe. It will be translated into forty-one languages and I will win a Nobel Peace Prize for Literature that very same year. I will be approached by several film companies dying to adapt my work of art for the screen. I will write the adapted screenplay, of course, and my efforts will be rewarded in two years by an Oscar…
And then I wake up. I look at the clock and it’s already 9:30. Time to walk the dog, put on the kettle (for some reason I have this idea that successful authors should always have some brew by their keyboard), and then maybe some breakfast. Oh, but what’s that on the counter? A note from my dad. He says not to forget to take out the trash. Oh, and could you also sweep and mop the kitchen floor? Love, Dad. And then there’s the laundry, that thank you note I’ve been meaning to write for a month now, and I’m behind in my piano practice…
I’ll write tomorrow.
And so the story goes, month in and month out, my dreams of the charmed writing life are just that--dreams. It’s not that I never accomplish what I set out to do. No, I just enjoy the land bum’s life too much. There’s no greater pleasure, I tell myself, than to wile away entire mornings with watching YouTube clips, checking up on my friend’s lives via Face book (and discovering with a deep sense of sadness that they are being much more productive than I am), looking at their photo albums and their friend’s photo albums. I begin stories that never see a middle or an end. I practice playing my first grade piano pieces. Occasionally I’ll pull out my sketching book and draw a person’s face. I am in the middle of reading five books--each very different from the others.
But when a friend asks, “What do you when you’re not working?” I fumble for a suitable response. I would love to say, “Thanks for asking. I’m working on the Great American Novel, composing a symphony, and training to climb K2. How about you?” Instead, I often speak of my hopes for a future time. “When I have more time, I’d love to work on my fashion idea, get published (or even get a response from a publisher), take the GRE and apply for grad school…” I seem to have this unshakeable belief in some future time when I will be able to, AT LAST, accomplish all of my heart’s desires. Yet I know, deep inside, that from here on out, it only gets harder to fulfill one’s dreams. I have enough middle-aged friends to know that I am not the only one with pipe dreams.
In Eugene O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh, the main character, formerly a jovial and entertaining drunk, wises up to the pipe dream lie. He returns to his favorite bar to encourage its hopeless regulars to quit lying to themselves that tomorrow they will sober up and start again. For tomorrow is already today.
Our struggle with time is eternal. The world is riddled with sayings akin to Carpe Diem--seize the day. Their constant recurrence just proves that it doesn’t get easier. We need to constantly remind ourselves that today is all we have. Remind me of that tomorrow, will you?
