I’m reading Women in Sunlight, by Frances Mayes (LOVE her!) and this line made me put the book down and start writing:
He encouraged me, he just didn’t meet me in my zone.
Meet me in my zone…what does that mean to me? It resonates, actually, because I have failed to meet a man who got me. Who wanted to.
I pay careful attention to how a man acts when he comes to my home for the first time (trust me: very few ever pass this threshold). I consider my home an expression of my heart and mind. There are books, books, books everywhere. Eclectic art features like upside-down drink umbrellas and a garden room with fake green vines trailing down.
I’m waiting for the man who actually sees what’s there. Who delights in what I have carefully curated to surround myself with.
It’s the same elsewhere. A man who can meet me in my zone (apologies to Ms. Mayes if I am incorrectly interpreting her words) revels in my rediscovering myself through creativity. He reads my writing. Asks questions about my work. Encourages me. Creates with me.
No man, not even my ex-husband, really has read my work. Sure, occasionally one will skim one of my travel blog posts and say, “wow, you’re a great writer.” But none have been fans of mine.
I want a fan. And I want to be a fan.
Until then, I’m my own biggest fan, and I’m surrounded by supportive friends that marvel and delight whenever I do anything creative. For now, it will have to do.