When I close my eyes

Matthew has an office, oak shelves lining the walls, stacked so deep with books that extra books lay horizontally on the vertical. We have that in common, the collecting of books. He has hard wood floors but he’s put down a rug, a rug that I made him get, but since it’s his, it is a subtle geometric pattern of mostly hunter green. One wall of the office is a row of big, academic-looking windows that is partially covered by some of the shelves. His office building is old, and the paned windows are wavy like hundred-year-old glass. The windows let in too much cold, though, and he has a space heater near his feet. He feels cozy with the light and the smell of books and his warm rug.

The desk in his office is old and broad and made of wood—not a cheap metal imitation of real office furniture. But on his old and patinated desk, a white iBook smiles at him, silently electric and efficient. He writes about the history of video games and the development of video game culture as multi-player games create spaces for gamer community.

Matthew is happy in his office.

Where am I?

I am in my dream library. Books are not dusty, materials are never mis-filed and lost forever in the stacks, patrons are friendly and understand that not every question is easily answered.

No, that’s not where I am.

When I close my eyes, I am in a living room. The walls are painted antique patina green, and there are violet and salmon curtains in layers on the wide windows. The windows face west, but it is a hazy day and the sun flows in through a gray filter. I recline on a deep sofa – what color? -- violet, and my Gateway laptop rests under my fingers. My floppy basset hound is asleep, lying on my legs, and my high-strung cat is asleep at my head on the back of the couch.

I am writing. I am writing all the short stories I start but can’t bear to finish because they hurt me so and make me cry. I am working on character sketches for all the novels I’ve researched and I’m writing scene and location descriptions. I am writing children’s books about a little girl who spends her time with her cat and dog.

I am teaching night-class at Matthew’s college, introduction to composition. I hated taking that class as a student because it never went far enough, didn’t teach the real meat of making literature. I hated it because I never believed I could write, because I never believed I would be as confident and competent as the young writers in my college who swaggered and talked about their “work.” I don’t hate teaching composition; I love teaching that language is a door you can walk through to another side. When I read, I sneak into the world the author has created. When I write, I dream into the world that I have created.

And when I close my eyes…