It’s weird to me. I mean…well…yeah, I know. Not much isn’t weird to me at one time or another. But more specifically this thing of being a writer. That’s weird to me. As far back as I can remember, my image of adulthood culminated with being a writer.
What do you want to be when you grow up? was the popular question (And still is, I suppose).
Taller. was always my answer (true story).
It never made sense to me to say a writer. That was just a given. I have written most of my life. Journals, stories, songs, poems, screenplays. It didn’t matter what I was writing, simply that I was writing. It’s something as natural to me as breathing. It’s going to really suck if I find out I’m no good at it (writing, that is, not breathing–pretty sure I’ve got that down by now).
So…here’s the thing. I’ve always known I was a writer. I’m not making a living doing that, though. How do people reconcile that? Writing is one of those things that I suppose (for me) it’s easy to do and not be all distrought that it’s not my breadwinner. I have this blog. And the 10 or 15 regular readers that come over here and smile in amusement at my random thoughts are enough.
Or are they?
Some might see it as a failure that writing is not my actual job. But I’m not so sure it’s supposed to be, to be perfectly honest. I write what I want and for the most part when I want. How it that not success? By your yardstick because I cannot honestly put ‘writer’ on my 1040, then maybe I’ve failed. But you’re reading this. This thing that I’ve written. And you can hit the back arrow and read over 600 other things I’ve written. And that’s just on this blog alone. I’ve got dozens of other stories and screen plays on a jump drive…on harddrives…on floppy disk. Things I’ve written. Because I’m a writer.
Do I need a publshing deal? Would that make you want to read me even more? Would that make what I’ve written more beneficial to you? Or are you able to glean nuggets of wisdom for your daily life as they stand right now? Buried in the clumps of blogdom. It’s a fair question I suppose.
I picture the day when I wake up. Have breakfast. Take the dog for a walk in the hills that my family has walked for 200 years. Then coming back having a morning snack and sitting down at the Remington to pound out a few chapters before lunch. After lunch grabbing the camera and taking some pix before my afternoon snack. Followed by some music making.
These things will happen for me in this lifetime. I will posit that they have already happened or are currently happening for me in parallel timelines. Daydreaming is just peeking in to another plane of existence (and dreaming ‘when you sleep’ is not only peeking in on one of those other planes, but stopping to play around a while there).
Does the author imagine new worlds, or do we visit them and simply report back what we’ve seen? Fiction and non-fiction become arbitrary designations at that point. Truth and lies become different chapters in the same book.
I guess I’m very fortunate. I know what I am. I know my purpose.
I am a story teller.
My purpose is to explore all avenues of my creativity and through that creativity I am to inspire others to realize that they themselves, are creative beings and to foster creativity whereever I can.
Seems lofty, I suppose. But I know without a shadow of doubt that is my purpose for this iteration of this lifetime.
Yeah. This lifetime. My soul has lived many lifetimes, will live many lifetimes, and is currently living many lifetimes (as is yours), but I must save that story for another time.
For now, I will finish my lunch and get back to my job. The one that pays the bills. Secure in the knowledge that someone is reading this and getting the inspiration they need for this moment in their life. And that’s the job that pays my soul.