I blinked and everyone got old.
I lived and breathed and went about my business, and my children were grown.
The ones to whom I was a child become fragile; time become a more bitter enemy with each passing day.
It's something that has been on my mind quite a bit lately.
I think the biggest difference between being a thirty-something and being a forty-something is that the next ones up the line from you-the aunts, uncles, parents, and possibly grandparents-are getting close to check out time. It makes one start to think, for the first time in any sort of real way, that when this group passes the next one up...is us.
Me.
My most immediate loved ones.
Or, put another way, all the truths that were communicated to us when we were younger, and were lost upon us in our youth, become more and more real. Time does fly. Years do slip away. No thing lasts forever. No one lasts forever. To paraphrase Neil Gaiman's Death (which would be my choice of Reaper, if ever I was given one), that is what gives them value.
It's just a shame that sometimes we don't recognize that value until after it is too late to add to it.
If it's been awhile since you told the ones who matter that you loved them, now might be a good time to start.
:/
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
How the hell does it work that I can sit down in front of a blank Word document and write thirty pages on a new story, and yet sit down in front of this menacing blog screen and not be able to think of a single word to say? I believe so far I'm averaging a post a year, which is preposterous. Why this should be a mental block, I don't know...but it's got me thinking.
It's a drug, I think. Or at least my drug. I have precious little time to write for pleasure, and when I do have time, it often ends up being wasted doing something else. But no matter what, given enough time, I come creeping back. It's the heart-clutching opiate; it's the acrid green smell of marijuana, it's the iron headband of caffeine withdrawal. When it's time to write, I don't even try to resist anymore.
What to write? I don't even know. I've never tried a comedy before. I'm not sure I could do it. All the Terry Pratchetts and Douglas Adams and even Neil Gaimans frighten me away; whisper to me that even trying would be a fool's errand.
But maybe that's the point of the writing addiction. It's not a fool's errand. It is an end unto itself. I think that lots of people who should be writing never end up writing because they ask themselves "Why? Why should I do this? What would I gain by it? How would it advance me? What if it's not successful?"
Who gives a fuck if it's successful or not?! I think the best approach is to look at the creative process (whether it's writing or designing or painting or chiseling a damn rock into something beautiful) as an end unto itself. It's the writing that ultimately satisfies; I have to believe that that above all things is what makes successful writers keep writing. It's not that they need the money; the best of them are set for life. Even the mediocre ones can eke out a living. It's the fact that no matter how successful, or NOT successful, the process of writing for these people IS the end. It IS the high. It IS the gratification. No matter how many people praise it, no matter how many books are sold, no matter how many copies you sign-it's the process that matters at the end of the day. It's the process that calls us back, like the dealer in the shadows, to feel that thrill, to hit that high one.more.time.
Every time.
It's a drug, I think. Or at least my drug. I have precious little time to write for pleasure, and when I do have time, it often ends up being wasted doing something else. But no matter what, given enough time, I come creeping back. It's the heart-clutching opiate; it's the acrid green smell of marijuana, it's the iron headband of caffeine withdrawal. When it's time to write, I don't even try to resist anymore.
What to write? I don't even know. I've never tried a comedy before. I'm not sure I could do it. All the Terry Pratchetts and Douglas Adams and even Neil Gaimans frighten me away; whisper to me that even trying would be a fool's errand.
But maybe that's the point of the writing addiction. It's not a fool's errand. It is an end unto itself. I think that lots of people who should be writing never end up writing because they ask themselves "Why? Why should I do this? What would I gain by it? How would it advance me? What if it's not successful?"
Who gives a fuck if it's successful or not?! I think the best approach is to look at the creative process (whether it's writing or designing or painting or chiseling a damn rock into something beautiful) as an end unto itself. It's the writing that ultimately satisfies; I have to believe that that above all things is what makes successful writers keep writing. It's not that they need the money; the best of them are set for life. Even the mediocre ones can eke out a living. It's the fact that no matter how successful, or NOT successful, the process of writing for these people IS the end. It IS the high. It IS the gratification. No matter how many people praise it, no matter how many books are sold, no matter how many copies you sign-it's the process that matters at the end of the day. It's the process that calls us back, like the dealer in the shadows, to feel that thrill, to hit that high one.more.time.
Every time.
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