Being a writer is a painful, slow career. The papers, notepads, and composition books sit piled in the corners of the living room. Boxes are filled with un-realized stories and incomplete thoughts. The dust on the rustic ink on the paper is now covered with cat hair and tears from shattered dreams. Paper crumbles in my hand and I think, "Did Shakespeare have to deal with this?"
Not that I'm comparing myself to Shakespeare by any means. Was he really that popular in his time? Did he even really write all of his own material? I don't ask these questions, but other people do. I'm just a writer. Besides, I'm pretty certain Shakespeare didn't have to deal with publishing houses, agents, talent managers, and movie studios.
I have chosen this path. The path did not choose me. Or did it? I suppose it depends on if you look at it from a philosophical or religious point of view. I won't dive into that argument today. I could have left the writing far behind me long ago. I could have went for the "safe" life. The life that society guarantees me a steady job, a wife, a house, and a family. Because that's certainly how life works, right? If I had chosen to follow the career path of lawyer or accountant, which my initial choices in Community College were, would I be in a better place? Let's just stay that society guarantees nothing.
I am not in a bad place. I have chosen this path. (Didn't I just write that sentence? That could explain a lot about my writing). The path I have chosen is slightly off the beaten path. I've had fun, though. I've experienced things many people don't see. And friendships that have endured for years. I want to continue to find new experiences and build on these friendships. The path is a good one and yet you say "A writer?". In this day and age, it's still entirely possible with the right amount of luck, determination, skill, and hard work. I can find the career in which I desire. I'm not asking for fame. I don't want that burden.
The daily tasks continue. The staring at the computer screen. The pen drying from lack of thoughts. The play that can't move past page 32. The play that's been stuck in place since 2001. Editing a fantasy novel that keeps expanding, but never ends. The query letters. The sending of plays to theaters in the Midwest that I've never heard of. It's all part of the process. A process, though harrowing and defeating, will all be worth it in the end. Time to go write.
Or maybe I'll just go watch "Jersey Shore".