Noticed from the stats that it's slowed down here some. That's fair. It's all fair. But every time it does, I become compelled to stretch and walk around a little.
I'm always talking about writing. I tweeted recently the only time I get to talk about it is with the folks on there, but I'm always having a discussion with myself about writing, storytelling, literature. I've been doing it every day since I was ten years old. That's thirty-four years this April. Now, walking around in here in this emptier space, I wonder why for the first time. The very first time, if you can believe that.
The thing is, I'd always thought it was general hubris to a certain extent. It was something I could do pretty well and I wanted people to see that I could do it well. But all these years later I've accomplished more than I would have thought I would. I'm not famous or rich due to my writing, but I have published numerous books I believe were as good as a could write at the time they appeared. Before 2009, not one word I'd written had been published anywhere. So to go from that low status to seeing seven books, nearly 200 short stories, a host of poems and essays published is more than I ever figured would happen.
So hubris ain't it. I've got nothing else to prove to myself. Or anybody else, as far as that goes.
So why am I still having conversations with myself about this thing called literature? Still working for hours each day in hope of creating it at some level worth someone reading?
At this writing, I still don't know. Lately I've come to the basic realization that I'm driven forward by it. I still remember the first time I sat down to write a story, a real story. I found a spiral bound notebook and a pencil and cleared off the coffee table in my grandparent's living room. It was winter and dark. The house was quiet, exactly the way it is here now. I don't remember thinking before I started writing. All I know is that I started that December night and have not stopped since.
Saying it that way, though, I feel I should explain that there's nothing magical about it. I long ago stopped romanticizing the act of making literature. So now, without hubris and without romantic notions, I just keep going. In an empty room, forever alone, I would write and keep writing and keep writing because I simply enjoy it. Why do you?
