June 29th, 2012
And then you wanted to be a writer.
First you wanted to lose your virginity, then be a writer. Well, lose your virginity and go to some really good bars, and maybe find your soul mate and then be a writer. Okay, you found your soul mate who turned out to not really be your soul mate and you had a couple kids and now you have an ex and the kids and a drinking habit, but you still plan to be a writer.
First, you want to learn how to use snowshoes. Everyone should be able to snowshoe. And swim. And speak French. Or Spanish. One of those. And you want to be able to decorate your house. Like grownups. And cook. Or get someone to cook for you. You’re tired of canned food and fast food. You deserve better. You learn to cook. And you learn a lot about grass and microbreweries and wine. You like learning about wine. And cheese.
Plus finance. I mean, you do have a job. And who wants to teach for what that pays? You have a real goddam job. And you’re good at it. You want to write. But most of your days are filled with doing the job. You know working for someone else never got anyone ahead unless you’re working for someone like Eli Broad or Ted Turner, otherwise, let’s face it, you’re just another poor sod working for somebody else. Why not run your own company? You know you can do it. So you start a company and you do pretty well with it, and it’s good because you’ll be able to retire even sooner and do what you wanted to do which is that you wanted to write.
Well, you’re working and running the company, paying the child support, raising the kids, you’re doing everything you’re supposed to be doing, goddam it and then, bang in the middle of everything, you have a heart attack. Now that was not supposed to happen. You live and then you think about it. What did you want to do? You wanted to be a writer? Didn’t you? But now you can’t remember who that person was who wanted to write? Where that person resides. Because your house has no creative ideas that don’t lead to money. You’re not really a story teller. You wouldn’t know what to do with a blank page. Making things up scares you, it’s un-scientific. You don’t like beginnings, the middle is always hell and then there’s where you end up, which is never where you intended and isn’t so good anyway.
You wanted to be a writer. Life got in the way. Is there another chance? Until you’re dead, there is always another chance.