Disappearing Act
I like to disappear. I call these disappearances “Breaks from Reality.” The itch usually comes mid- to late-week, depending on my workload and social demands. Someone says something that sets my teeth on edge, and suddenly I want to poof—go up in smoke.
Of course I haven’t learned that magic trick. Besides, I’m important to a lot of people. Both my parents still reach out weekly, if not daily. I have two brothers I’m close to, and a loving husband I’ll gladly put down my book for. I’m a library director, which means I answer everything from “What is the ALA Bill of Rights?” to “Someone shat on the toilet seat—should we do something about that?”
Used to be, when the urge to vanish hit, I’d sit with that rock-heavy feeling and then talk myself out of it: too late, too early, wrong pen, thirsty, no laptop, have to be home by six. I wanted to go. I needed to go. I couldn’t.
My white-knuckle grip on duty suffocates my creativity. I feel pulled between two instincts: contribute, do the right thing—or run away to Alaska, convert a van, and write the mornings away with my husband and our two cats. Cozy cabin mornings versus responsible adulthood—that tug-of-war is real.
So I compromise. I let myself disappear on Friday afternoons.
The morning before, I pack my Go Bag: the book I’m reading, iPad and keyboard, a notebook, pens, a sweatshirt, water, protein bars, and a blanket. I burn comp time and leave work an hour and a half early. That small rebellion feels delicious—waving goodbye while everyone else clocks out at their desks.
Not a minute from the library is a meadow with braided paths. They converge and diverge, dip and swallow, lead nowhere and everywhere. The place is mostly empty—just the occasional walker. We come for the same thing: peace.
One path leads to a stump, sanded smooth by seasons and people. The curve fits my back like it was made for me. I spread my blanket, take my shoes off, pop in my headphones, and do nothing but whatever I want for two hours: write, read, listen, sun myself like a lizard as summer collapses into fall.
I usually emerge from the meadow a little dream-drunk and a little bitten by ants, but recharged. Grocery shopping doesn’t feel like punishment. I can return to answering phone calls and dealing with patrons with more patience. My writing benefits too—I can return to drafts with fresh eyes and untangle plot knots I’d been staring at for weeks. More importantly, I feel present with the people who matter because I gave that presence to myself first.
This post isn’t really about writing. It’s about caring for the person who writes. We’re dreamy creatures, many of us stuck behind desks. Find the little escapes that let you refill. Take your Go Bag. Sit on a stump. Let the world go quiet for a while.
Nurture yourself. The words will come.
Warmly,
Gabrielle Esposito
Writer, Instructor, Editor
