A projected biography, from now to the end.
|When I am asked about my goals & aspirations as a writer, I have a simple answer. One that all writers have in common when imagining their future.
I would like for people to read and enjoy my work, that it may bring interesting thoughts and experiences to their minds.
Eventually, my writings may become better known. They may even sell enough for me to spend more time on my craft.
My skill would improve. I would begin working on the projects that are most important to me.
The income from my writing would increase, allowing me to devote nearly all of my professional attention to creating.
Now feeling comfortable and free, I would begin traveling with my family whilst pursuing inspiration through different lands and cultures. We would hike beautiful scapes, experience the wonders of the world, settle for months or sometimes years at a time in our favored places.
Perhaps a movie adaptation or two would emerge from my most successful stories, which would secure my name as a popular, modern author.
After some years, my writing would slow and I would grow weary of the pressures of writing & publishing. Maybe some of my last efforts would have been fruitless and more heavily criticized.
A new passion would arise, that of being an artisan of a traditional craft. I would thus begin exploring creation in a different form. I would meet a master of the craft, who would take me as a pupil and teach me his ways. Years would pass as I perfect the methods. My family would now have settled happily in the beautiful setting of the local culture.
An event or some inspiration would strike me. I would need to write again. My critics would be surprised and my fans delighted at my return. Though my style would have changed, my works would reach a broader base of readers. Interest would rise once again. Things would be different, for I would now begin to be known as one of the important and influential authors of our time, along with names such as Hemmingway, Pratchett, Clark, and Atwood.
This would be a period of comfort and ease. The world would be relatively stable and peaceful. My children would now be older and have families and lives of their own. My spouse and I would have lived together for long enough to know that happiness lies in mutual respect and freedom to explore our own desires and needs.
Now older and feeling nearly accomplished, I would realize that something is missing: detachment from worldly things, inner calm, true peace.
I would find a temple. I would become a monk. I would begin the final part of my life.
Quietly and simply, I would be. A clean and frugal diet, as well as a regular and rigorous physical practice, would cleanse my body. Silence and selflessness would lighten my mind. Meditation would empty my spirit.
Time would pass without time, without passing. Things would become as still as they always have been and as they always will.
I would still see my family and some friends, though my love for them would no longer be the exclusive and restricted love of having and keeping. Instead, it would have become the open and accepting love of unity and of non-duality.
A person would come, seeking something. They would want to learn a craft, something that I can help them attain. They would become my pupil, and I — though I would refrain from using this word — their master.
It is now late in my life. Things have happened as though in a dream. I do not remember everything, and some current things are blurred to my eyes. I have moments of sharp clarity and others of humorous confusion. I have become forgotten, for existence is itself questionable.
In my last moments, I write once again. Something that, for the first and only time in my life, becomes written without reflection, editing or doubt. It is uncertain whether or not the Me that was is still there, for the words that appear seem to come from somewhere else than from my mind or from my hand.
This final writing may or may not carry my name. Perhaps people will read the words or perhaps they will not. I may be forgotten, or remembered for a short time. My family may all be alive, or none remaining when I end. These things would not be important, but they would also be the most important things. For, as my last words would carry without saying as much: if anything is important, everything is.
I would end. If I had ever begun.
These are my humble and probably very common and typical goals and aspirations as a writer. Of course, for any of this to come true, I would first have to begin writing.