Every once in a while, I'll have an idea.
However, it is half-formed, not well thought out, and in the end, uninteresting to me. But I know that I have ideas. They are there; somewhere in the recesses of my brain.
I have a story to tell. Perhaps more than one. I'm just not sure how to do it.
And then, over the last couple of weeks, two people have suggested that I just shut up and give it try. Try writing fiction. Something that's substantial. Something that is substantive.
One friend wants me to take a class. And I will probably do it, but I am nervous. I am worried that the words won't come, the story won't come. Nothing will come.
Another one, tired of my whining about what I want to do with the rest of my life asked, "Why don't you try writing a book?" (Don't worry, it will certainly not be a compilation of this blog. Good lord. In that case it would have to be called something like Six-month old Chicken Soup for Persistently Hopeless ).
I've expressed frustration with my job. I've whined about not being challenged, and yet, I haven't made a move to change anything. I'm all talk.
I don't want to be that anymore.
Life is too fucking short.
There are too many people cut down while they are doing what they love, being who they love and being with whom they love.
I want to approach life with the verve of a little boy who was a trick-or treater of a guy I used to know:
So this little boy shows up to his door dressed in a khaki pants and a dress shirt with a corduroy blazer with patches on the elbows. He's wearing a hat--I'm guessing a fedora. And he says, "Trick or Treat."
The guy asked "And what are you?"
The little boy said in an exasperated voice, "I am a WRITER."
I'm sure I've told this story million times, and the reason I do? I love it when people just know what they want and what they are--even if it is a costume.