In my more cynical moments, when considering the artist-creation continuum, I think the thing I’m best at, and that I should stick to, is being a fan. The one who consumes, digests, adores, cheers. Not a creator, not a critic, but simply a fan. Of course when I’m feeling more optimistic I hope I can be all three, that each role informs the other. Every writer I know constantly beats themselves up for not writing enough, for not trying as hard as they should be. We have such high hopes and standards and still, we’re never doing every single thing we could be doing. In fact, I just wrote an email with this closing line: i guess i didn’t write much this weekend :/ Being a fan is sometimes a relief. I know what to do and I’m good at it. I’m a completist, I’m a little obsessive, I like to tell people about the things I like. These are all good qualities in a fan, and I sometimes wonder if I’ll grow out of my fangirlish tendencies, but I’m firmly ensconced in my thirties, and while I maybe don’t go to the same lengths I used to, that same urge is still there.
Many Thanksgiving dinners, none of them involving turkeys, other than some turkey shaped cookies given to us by Emily. Bringing chairs in from the backyard so that everyone has a place to sit. Chocolate pumpkin bread pudding, apple pie, pumpkin pie. Cool, crisp, bright autumn air. A walk by the lake. Summer sausage and cheese from the St. Lawrence Market. A paper bag of cranberries, uncooked. Working on writing in the shed. One gym class. Flowers from my parents’ house. An unruly spider plant from a neighbour. Pumpkin on the front porch. NW by Zadie Smith. New season of Downton Abbey. Extra blankets on the bed.