Writing has to be great. I mean to say I have spent the last twenty years doing it. I have published, (amazing feeling). Very gratifying. Someone out there likes what I have to say. A small dance is perfomed and then, well, it's back to to normal. Life goes on. Words on paper. That's all writing is. If you happen to say something special, nice, unique, from a different angle, unusual, odd, weird, strange, well all the better. I read an article in the newspaper this weekend. The angle was on the last time a child did something and NOT the first. Cute, I thought. Now why didn't I think of that.
But writing is ultimately very personal, it has to matter, to have an impact. Or if not, it should. Writing is an extension of your being. A personal vision. A kaleidoscope of how you happen to see the world. Nothing more and nothing less. There is no big dark secret involved. No dark coat that shrouds the writer. It is pure and simple as taking the time to write it down. I believe that if I did not have my writing over the years that I might have gone quietly insane. Instead, I had the freedom of my pen to jot down all that bothered me, caused me grief, joy, happiness, reason to live.
My desk is full of journals. Pages of thoughts. My son tells me that someday they will be of value. I laught it off. Who cares. I don't. I don't care who reads what I have to say or agrees with what I have to say or any other way. I care about unleashing the words into the galaxy. Allowing the words to drift like stars, millions of shooting ones, ones that no one catches from their back porches but cause a fair show even though life goes on below regardless of the display. Heavens are full of words nobody has ever read and that is why we go on. Write ourselves out.