I always feel a bit silly, using that word. Like, if someone were to ask me: what are your passions in life?, I might ask her to rephrase the question so I could answer it with a straight face.
For some reason I feel you have to possess the right accent in order to pull off invoking a word like passion. And it can't be the kind of accent you might overhear from some tourist demanding more ice cubes in French. No, it has to be along the lines of a South American expat who came here via Prague, who knows how to make eye contact and wear scarves, rolling a third language like honey off her tongue.
But whether or not I mature enough to use all my grown up words, there are still pursuits which resonate in my soul. There are still things which bring happiness, separate from any role or identity in my life other than just being me.
One is running. Another is writing.
I will probably never run a race, dear reader. I have no desire to train, keeping track of time and distance, showing up at the blocks to stare down the competition. Rather, I'd prefer to skip through the wilderness, pushing myself at times, stopping to fool around when it catches my fancy.
So I feel silly talking about running, especially with a group of people who are truly passionate about it. I have very little to add to a conversation about split times, salt licks, and finish line etiquette.
But I know I love to run.
Same goes with writing. I don't think I'd do very well sitting down with a group of writers to talk about the craft. Half the time when I'm helping Caroline complete her homework on simple predicates, I want to punch the worksheet in the face.
But words can soothe and pull me away from the world like almost nothing else.
All this to let you know, dear reader, I'm finally nearing the end of that story I've been writing.
No one's disbelief, upon hearing this news, can be greater than my own.
I've been wanting to thank you for your interest in the project, for the way you often nonchalantly say: I can't wait to read your book. Your lack of doubt is sometimes unnerving, but ultimately of great support. Thank you for reading Tollipop, for leaving comments which make me smile, for your emails which always feel like moments of genuine friendship.
I am anxious, being so close, to finish up. Beyond that, I'm not exactly sure how to proceed. I've been looking, a little, into finding an agent. Are the odds against such a quest topped only by the unlikelihood of getting published itself?
I have no idea, but I'm not too terribly worried. Because either way, in this one small corner of my life, I feel passion for a story which ribbons through my thoughts and dreams, a miniature world that's mine for the telling, if only I can pull it off.