If you read these pages, it should be pretty obvious that I like to write. Why I write is a question I’ve been asking myself a lot lately, and I’m having difficulty coming to a reasonably believable and simultaneously satisfying answer. The truth of it is that there are many answers, but when I consider the implications of those answers the results are highly contradictory and/or unsatisfying.
When I started writing, I pretty much wrote for myself. Writing was a chance to organize my thoughts and either deal with what was on my mind or divert my attention away from … Read the rest
An afternoon unallocated
Retreat to the shop, pick something up
"Dad!" -- A call for my help
It can wait... I whisper to myself
As I answer the call of a child
An evening to write -- maybe a chapter
Open the draft and read what I wrote
Memory refreshed, prepared to compose
A knock at the door draws my attention
A neighbor needs help
The story will be there tomorrow I guess
The oil needs changing -- maintenance deferred
A banging noise calls for investigation
It'll only take an afternoon or so
Maybe I should just pay someone else
… Read the rest
Time is a teacher, but many of her lessons are about herself. One lesson time repeatedly and frequently tries to teach me is how fleeting, rare, and precious she is. It always seems I am putting some project or another on the back burner to wait the day when I’ll finally have enough time to finish what I started. In fact, as a college kid I would joke about what I would do when all I had was a day job and school was over. After graduation, I joked about what I’d do when we had enough money so that … Read the rest
What will you ponder
When providence calls
And you must answer soon --
Passing beyond mortal life
And leaving all else behind
Concern for loved-ones remaining?
Freedom from sorrow and longing?
Fear that there's yet more to come?
Hope for what is yet to come?
Regret for things left undone?
Satisfaction in successes hard won?
Hot anger and spite?
Or calmness and quiet?