Writing Again
For those that don’t know, I used to be a writer. I say ‘used to’ because a man who routinely goes MONTHS without even picking up a pen may not keep that title.
Anyhow, I’m finally dedicating myself to sitting in front of the computer for at least an hour a night and churning something out. I decided to do this for a number of reasons:
1. I enjoy writing, it is a catharsis for me. Seriously, I’ve slept pretty well these last couple of days since I began writing again.
2. I have a number of people (that number being 2) who enjoy reading my writing.
3. I looked at my life, at where it was going, and asked myself if I was satisfied. For the most part, the answer was yes. I have a job I like, a wonderful girl, and enough money to get by. I could likely settle for this in my lot in life. But what about the dreams I once had?
I used to think I would publish my grand novel, which would instantly become a best-seller, and I would become a world-renowned author, taking my place in history alongside people like Stephen King, J.R.R. Tolkein, and Charles Dickens.
In my wiser years, I know the unlikelihood of this chain of events, but I don’t think I could forgive myself if I never tried. Even if I only get so far as holding a copy of my own book in my hands, and not a single copy sold, that would be enough for me.
Zel-kun out.