Four Hours to Mason

It was late on the blackened stretch of road that led to his Ohio suburb, and my threshold had clearly been crossed, when he asked me, "But don't you love writing?"

I do. I love it. But let's face it -- my chances at success are...slim. Which is a euphemism. (And whatever chance I had I probably just imploded with that euphemism; real writers don't use euphemisms. So excuse me if I sound a little bleak in the upcoming grafs, because I really don't feel like that on most days. Most days I'm just happy to have a paycheck and a place with a roof to sit in with a magazine and a bowl of cereal.)

"So, what. You would stop writing?"

No. I'd never stop. I wouldn't know how to do anything else, at least not without it, and even if I did something else, it's my way of logic (or whatever twisted semblance of it). Life would make even less sense and I would become an eggplant; tough on the outside, mush on the inside, wholly useless and unappealing. It's a good thing you like eggplants, because at least I'd still have you. And I'd also be a really nice shade of purple.

"Then that's what you should be doing."

How can I keep putting all of my energy into that when there's no chance of success?

"Does that matter?"

I dont know, would you keep doing what you want to do if no one listened? Let's say you were a teacher, but no one showed up to class, ever. Are you teaching? It's the proverbial tree.

This is the truth -- and I'd hope the other writers out there would be honest enough to admit this to some extent -- it's really, really hard to continue to motivate yourself without getting published. Writing is as much about the sharing and the conversation as it is about creation.

"So, what are you going to do?"

I dont know. I'm just hoping my tree falls.


(photo via pinterest)