What if I finished medical school instead of teaching 2nd year students parasitology? What if I kept souping up go-cars? What if I studied physics and became a bonafide meta-physicist? What if after I graduated from acting school I auditioned for a play instead of teaching kids ad lib or working at a legitimate theatre for its general manager?
And what if I had really put my attention to writing, really writing, not just an article for the newspaper, or a newsletter for the Photo Club or producing an art zine but rather fully formed stories, even a complete but tight 278 page novel.
All these wonders hit me after seeing the headline of Francine Prose's piece on Edith Wharton.
|Conklin Fountain Pen|
When I stayed at Mabel Luhan's in Taos, I asked for the Wharton room. What if...I slept in the same bed dozens of years later would I be inspired to be a novelist?
|Luhan House, Taos NM (Wharton room far right)|
Perhaps some of this wondering started this morning before I saw the Review because I captured the names of six literary journals at P&W and looked at their requirements. Then I decided that a different environment would help, it often does, in editing and possibly finishing some of my scribbles. I will bring my incomplete novel, finished but unedited short stories and dozens of poems which I've already thinned out to a manageable whole to Pittsburgh next week and submit, yes that threatening but valuable word, "submit" the one story I am most proud of writing whilst at the Theological Society Writing Group in Boston more than 10, no nearly 20 years ago.
After all...I only have this life.