Still Me, Somewhere Else
I decided to study in Edinburgh soon after I decided to start taking writing more seriously, whatever that means. Perhaps those two events were entirely unrelated. However, I suspect that my subconscious latched onto my romantic idea of Edinburgh with its castles and cobblestones and subtly inserted an idealized, imagined, writerly version of myself into every one of its many cafés and coffeeshops. Maybe some deep part of my brain projected J.K. Rowling and Robert Louis Stevenson into the table next to mine, in one of these imagined cafés, and thus decided: Edinburgh was the place for me — that’s where I’d really start to write.
As my departure approached, I dreamed about what it most certainly would be like after I’d written an artful series on being an outsider, connecting with history, or knowing a city. Travel writing seemed ever-so-much more exotic than what I normally wrote, just as the temporarily-European me seemed like she would be ever-so-much more exciting and put-together than my boring stateside self.
I had no specific ideas, and I had never successfully maintained an informal or otherwise primarily self-directed writing practice before, but no matter. At this new place, I knew, I’d be a new me, with new writing habits, new inspiration. When I arrived in Scotland, my first purchase was a journal — a now tangible symbol of my newfound commitment to writerly ways. “Edinburgh” was emblazoned on the front cover above an illustration of the city — a visual for my association between writing and living in this foreign place.
My first week, I didn’t write anything. I figured I was busy with orientation; I was jetlagged; it would be rude to write when I had a roommate for orientation. My second week, I blamed my blank pages on the whirlwind of moving in. By my third week in Edinburgh, I’d managed to get settled and figure out my classes, clearing most tasks from my to-do list; I escaped to a café even more charming than those in my imagination, with a full view of the castle. After drinking a full pot of tea, taking time to let it steep and carefully stirring in milk and sugar with every cup, I was force to face the truth that I’d been avoiding for two-and-a-half weeks: simply moving to a foreign city wouldn’t change me, at least not right away. Expatriate me wasn’t any more prolific, perhaps because expatriate me was just….me, somewhere else.
I sat, I sighed, and I stared at the page, struggling to find the words that I’d once thought were only eluding me because they were waiting for me in the foreign country to which I’d just moved. Eventually, I put pen to paper, only to find that the words that came out seemed trite, clichéd; nothing I produced resembled the works I’d once hoped to write. I stopped after only a sentence or two. I left the café ashamed and disappointed, with nothing to show for my trials except for hard lessons learned.
The next day, I tried again. One whole pot of tea — downed slowly and lackadaisically. Pages that remained as empty as the teapot. Though immensely humbled, I was now determined to bridge the gap between my imagination and reality; I just realized it might take a little bit more time than I’d hoped. I discovered that my glamorization of travel writing might have been what was keeping me from writing in the first place.
So, I began, again, to write. While what I’ve written so far might not be Pulitzer-worthy, it’s a start. I figure J.K. Rowling has probably struggled at some points in her writing career, too. And who knows? Perhaps at the end of my time abroad, after persisting through drafts that don’t quite satisfy me, I’ll approach the writing of my ambitions. I might even create something interesting, something unique. Perhaps that means I’ll have changed over the course of the semester, as a person and as a writer; luckily, I think I’ll be able to take that growth with me. After all, when I return home, I’ll just be me, still changed, somewhere else.
