August 3, 2006
She's not tortured enough
Novel writing dream nixed by functional lifestyle.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

I read Emily Watson's column a couple of weeks ago about how she quit her job to write.

(Note that I didn't say to "become a writer," because everyone knows one must actually write to become a writer.)

After reading this, my first thought was "Go Girl, You" and my second thought was one of pure, sore jealousy.

Isn't she terrified? Doesn't she worry about health insurance costs? Surely she doesn't grasp the American way: work all week longing for Friday.

But she has something I only dream about . . . courage.

According to a 2005 American Community Survey by the Census Bureau, Americans spend more than 100 hours commuting to work each year, with an average commute of 24.3 minutes.

That's more time than the average American spends on vacation.

My commute used to be six minutes. Because I fell for a guy living on the Northeastside of town, it's now more than 30 minutes, if a semi doesn't jackknife on I-70 before I pass it.

Weaving through the car maze of people refusing to putter over 40 mph, I ponder life.

Now I have the added frustration of imagining Emily opening her laptop and sipping her first cup of coffee just as I'm slamming on my brakes (for the sixth time) near the Emerson exit.

I enjoy the work I do, and I write for a living, but there's something so romantic about leisurely crafting stories while snug in one's jammies.

I just finished a book called "A Dab of Dickens & A Touch of Twain" by Dr. Elliot Engel, a compendium of short biographical essays on the "greats" of English literature.

From Chaucer to Frost, it chronicles the lives of 17 authors who were disciplined (unlike myself) and passionate (much like myself) about the one and only way they knew to survive: by writing.

Almost all of them had ne'er-do-well fathers or overbearing mothers, and most were severely depressed.

I question why my parents didn't allow me to suffer more so that I may, too, someday, pen an American novel. (One can blame parents for simply anything!)

The only thing novel I'm currently working on is this column.

I love wine, but can't even manage an alcohol addiction -- a crucial element for ever being considered a literary master.

So, like most working Americans, I'm a talker, a dreamer and a dabbler.

I tolerate my commute and complain about it to make sure it still exists.

But if I can just get depressed enough, I'm sure there's a book in me somewhere.