I never wanted to leave my home.
When I was little, I told my mother I would go to Merrimack College because it was still in Andover and so I could still live in our house. She smiled and said, “We will see how you feel when you are older.” “No,” I responded, “I will never want to leave.” Well, I now live in Western North Carolina, and I do miss my home. Especially in the fall. There is something special about Massachusetts and the crisp Autumn air. It feels familiar, yet new. Changing. It reminds you to look at yourself since last year when the leaves crunched underfoot. Where have you been since last time the leaves were falling? Since the sweaters started to be worn and boot shopping became a must?
For me, last fall I was still in college, beginning my last year as a student. I was happy to be there yet done with it in many ways. It felt monotonous. I was taking a John Crutchfield class, which is always a plus in my book (and many journal entries whether I liked it or not), but somehow always encouraging and truly believing in his students’ writing. I recently emailed this professor of mine, to connect, find out if he was in Berlin (he is!), and for some advice on my graduated-non-writing-ness. I thought for sure it would be something like, “Well, maybe you aren’t a writer,” for that was my thought to myself. This thought has been haunting me for the last few months as I transitioned from full time writing student to full time project manager for a web company in WNC. What do I have to write about? Who cares about my life (I was writing a memoir last year)?
Instead, his response was typical Crutchfield. Full belief in me as a writer, reminding me that we all go through these lulls, and fortunately, at some point, you will pick up your pen once again. Truthfully, I didn’t totally believe him. Yet, instead of letting the dull thud of my own doubt knock around in my head, I let his words saturate my mind. My fears of my writing not being as great as the Greats still abound. My fear of not being a good writer after college exist. But at least I picked up the pen again.