Anne Tyler, that most gifted and loveliest of novelists, once said she didn’t think it was fair that we are given only one life. So she creates other lives to live by writing novels.
I would imagine that most, if not all, writers walk around imagining other lives all the time. It certainly is a habit of mine. When I walk around my town and I go past one of the sparkling new high rises across the street from the el, I imagine young people just starting out who have secured an apartment there as well as a decent job downtown. Every morning, they jump out of bed, slurp down some coffee, and get ready for work. I see a young man standing in front of the mirror, carefully shaving that area along the jawline that so easily gets nicked. I see a young woman leaning close into the mirror to apply eyeliner. I think about them seated on the train, white iPods in place (they are called iPods, right? Those things that people have in their ears?) And I imagine them listening to music or podcasts but also dreaming, spinning out thoughts about this or that that are not quite ready to be articulated.
What I like to imagine more, though, is a single older woman living in one of the vintage condos that are in the heart of my town. The woman I imagine is old by anyone’s standard, but her heart is young and vibrant, and her senses are fully engaged. She favors wearing house dresses with open weave cardigans, and sneakers that you can walk into. Her life seems rich beyond all measure to me because of the routine that she has created, which starts with breakfast out.
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