My thoughts on everything from albacore tuna to zebras
| As usual, today there were a number of thoughts floating around in my somewhat murky brain, any of which would have made good blog topics. I haven’t a clue what they were.
But sitting here, browsing through Wc I am struck by a thought. It is the same thought I have had a number of times since I resumed my writing several years ago. It is a thought accompanied by a certain amount of panic.
Will I have time?
I read the stories, poems and blogs and I see people with the same question on their minds. True, there are a number of people here with ambitions, dreams, pipe or otherwise, of commercial success as a writer. I cannot deny that those thoughts have filtered through this addled head. Would it be nice to become filthy rich doing something you love? You can bet your sweet bippy it would. Will we all achieve that level of success, if, indeed, that is what defines success? No, precious few of us will ever have the experience of being paid for our writing, fewer still will be able to turn it into a career and still fewer will attain the filthy rich category. Still, it is nice to dream.
But, that’s not what I’m talking about. I feel a sense of urgency, a deep inner need to put down on paper, or keyboard as it were, my words, all of my words, every blasted one of them and the question still remains. Will I have time?
True, it is a question with no easy answer. I could walk out in front of a bus tomorrow, or choke on a chicken bone at dinner tonight. To search for the answer is to search for the Holy Grail. Still, I write. Not as often as I would like. Not as well as I should. Not with any deep seated economic purpose in mind. I simply… write.
Deep down, somewhere inside, is a driving force, a burning desire, an unfulfilled need, a sense of urgency, to write. Will it ever be satisfied? I truly hope not. Will there always be this sense of urgency to commit my words to parchment or hard drive. God, I hope so. Am I alone in this? I think not. As a pack of wolves will bay under a full moon, we all gather, at our respective writer’s garrets and pay homage to our Muse. We all lift up our voices, silent no more, and spew forth word upon word; one letter at a time, from a well that at times seems dry but in truth is inexhaustible.
Will I have enough time to do write it all down?
Sadly, no. No true writer ever does.