I was having trouble coming up with something to write about, so I decided to check out a website that purports to have a year’s worth of writing prompts, although they list only 346. (Apparently you’re expected to take a few days off during the year.) Here’s the one I got, “Where do you go when you want to get away from the pressures of life, family, work? Write about that place.”
As it turns out, that’s not a very useful prompt for me because the answer to the question “Where do I go” is sleep. I go to sleep. That’s not where I want to go. I’d prefer to curl up on the sofa with a book and read, but that invariably leads to – sleep.
Other people have hobbies they can lose themselves in. I was raised by a serial hobbyist. I’m still wearing some of the bangles and earrings my mother made during her silversmith phase. Some hobbies came and went quickly; rock polishing, as I recall, did not hold her attention for long. Other hobbies grew until hobby no longer seemed the appropriate appellation. Some spawned sub-hobbies. Her passion for computers has not wavered since her first Commodore 64, and while the PC is now her machine of choice, she has worked with a variety of operating systems, always more drawn to the ones she can get down and dirty with, like Linux, and she’s never happier than when she’s teaching herself a new piece of software.
I envy my mother’s curiosity and drive. When she wants to get away from the pressures of life, family and work, she goes inside her own head and finds countless ways to amuse herself. When I look inside my head I see a woman asleep on a sofa with a book on the floor.