Chasing the writerly life

As I suspected, adding another bit of work to my already overflowing to-do list was going to affect my ability to blog. I committed to writing a short story each week throughout 2019. So far, I’ve managed to write three shorts in January … and I’m going to call that a win, considering my existing workload.

Not that I’ve some great throng of readers woeful over the slowdown here but there’s definitely a unique kind of catharsis that comes with the public diary as opposed to just shoving thoughts into journals as I’ve done since around 2001—plural now that I keep one for my general thoughts and one only for ideas.

Per the usge, (yuzh? yoojz?) I’ve got a newspaper to put together. And that takes up just about all the time from Thursday until 10:59 a.m. Monday morning.

But, I wanted to stop and mention that we just had a near end-of-the-world situation here after the governor declared a state of emergency on the weather and urged residents to conserve natural gas for fear of running out.

We could have had hundreds or thousands of fatalities and, lemme tell you, that was quite a sobering notion.

I’m not a changed man. I won’t be running off on any crusades or missions but it is a stop-and-smell-the-roses kind of moment.

I spend an awful lot of time bitching about what I don’t have—no agent, no book deal, too fat, sick of work, yadda yadda wha-ma-baby. I keep pining for this magical “writer’s life” I seem to think my idols had but the truth is I already have it.

Sure, I haven’t gotten my writing into the literary magazines and publishing houses yet but I do write every day. I read lots of books and drink lots of good coffee.

All my basic needs are met.

I listen to music and scribble in notebooks and discuss literature and artsy ideas with my wife and Brother Will.

I have a few friends who are “real” writers and who are willing to talk and listen about the frustrations and shitty minutia that go along with creating art.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m still gonna bitch about not having my novels on store shelves, and I’m still gonna have a cry every two weeks or so from the sheer weight of the rejection slips.

And, I’m going to spend too much time working because—as much as I love my family—writing is the most important thing in my life.

But, I’m taking a few minutes this morning to look around, as Kurt Vonnegut says to do, and say, “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”