TUESDAY, DECEMBER 9, 2008
I have a problem. You see, when I started out this career as a writer, I was excited. Overjoyed, really. My brain overflowed with words and phrases that couldn’t wait to leap from mere thought to actuality. I took any and every job I could get. I was exhilarated at the thought of “what’s next.” But then something funny happened. Writing just any old words wouldn’t do.
I’d reached the point where I was no longer satisfied cranking out mediocrity. Oh sure, it seemed fine and well. All of my “i’s” were dotted and “t’s” were crossed. But I knew I could do better.
Because there are sometimes when I just want to write. I just want to watch the words from my pen thunder and crash in cursive waves. I want to relish in the experience of committing thoughts to the page with no fear of repercussion. I want that liberation of knowing these words are mine and the thoughts they sprang from are mine and nothing can ever take them from me. Yet, there’s the simultaneous desire to share and spread the words, phrases, sentences and paragraphs across the farthest reaches of space. A stretch? Maybe. But the feeling is whole and real.
This is my long-winded way of saying I will be writing here much more often. In fact, I’m committing to it. This is my place to write for me. And once the work of the day is done, I can sit back and reflect and just offer my honest thoughts and genuine feelings. It’s really not as sappy as it sounds.
Now, I can speak of what concerns me. And the best part is there’s no hourly rate involved.