Academia Gothic

The morning air is crisp, free from the humidity of summer. Crows have congregated in the yard regularly for the past few weeks. I cannot help but watch them eat the treats I leave out for them each morning. While I have had a few passersby, five have made the backyard cafe their regular hang out spot. Naturally they have all been christened; George, Orwell, Bertrand, Russell, and the odd one, Waldo. Primarily because I cannot always find him. I have begun preparations to configure a crow box, therefore officially becoming the community cryptic crow collector.

These mornings have been therapeutic for my long term journey through mental health. I’ve found myself in a transitional state where I’m no longer who I used to be, but I am becoming someone I want to be. This period of change can be difficult, especially when it is a battle one must charge into alone. I’ve spent the better part of this year trying new things, taking leaps, and facing road blocks. But finally I feel like I have a sense of what the next thirty years of my life needs to look like.

I have the itch to write regardless whether it is fiction, history, or just blogs. I’ve regained the urge to draw with a new direction of subject. Lastly, I am regaining the satisfaction of waking every morning with an agenda. This is not to say that there are very difficult days where I want to retreat. It happens more than I would like to admit. But these moments are where I focus on George, Orwell, Bertrand, and Russell. Waldo when he actually shows up.

Orwell and Bertrand seem to focus more on shiny things while George and Russell constantly attempt to steal from my blueberry bushes. Little pirates.

As strange as the segue was, it was inevitable that my thoughts retreated back to my research of pirates. I began to miss the thrill of the progress I had made although I had no end game. I realized I had kept the most thrilling time of my life, researching on Ocracoke Island, away from the public eye. I had placed this barrier of being a fiction writer or a historian while not even considering being both. Is it such a strange combination?

Within the next month I will begin to share the adventure I had the honor to experience as well as my tentative thoughts on becoming a pirate historian.

Much like my little yard pirates, I cannot begin to subject myself to one niche. I have carried myself as multifaceted for too long to simply become a cabochon.

Now I must take a moment to sketch George, Orwell, Bertrand, and Russell, and Waldo as little pirates.

I would like to hear from you, readers. Have you have struggled balancing two or more passions? Would a fiction writer and historian be too much of a stretch?

Until next time,

A.P.

Quick sketch of my little yard pirates: Orwell with his peg leg, George looting blueberries, Bertrand with his fancy pirate attire, and Russell peeping over the treasure chest in which he has trapped Waldo.