Monday, August 18, 2014
Have I been missed? Did you wonder where my weekly words of wisdom have gone? Did you say to yourself, “He must be super busy and that’s why he isn't writing anything”? I certainly hope I have been missed even if my words are far from wisdom. I wish I could tell you I have been so busy conquering the entertainment world that I just couldn't find the time to write. I wish I could even tell you, life got in the way, preventing me from putting my thoughts in cyber form for you to read. I wish I could tell you, my dear reader, a lot of things, but truth be told, I can’t.
Life didn't get in the way nor have I been so busy that I couldn't write. My trouble is I've had a bout of the Lazies. TV shows needed watched. Naps needed taken. Mindless, near comatose, pure laziness was all it was. I apologize to you, reader of my prose. I wish I had a better excuse. I wish I could say it was a hangnail on my typing hand. I wish I could have even hung up a sign reading, “Gone Fishing” but I didn't even do that. I just didn't feel like it. I didn't want to write (and you know how much I love it). Then I wondered if I really had anything of value to say. If there was any real value found in the pictures I try to paint in your mind. But here I sit on an airplane thinking I have robbed you of any value you might find. In reality, though, I have robbed myself these past weeks.
You see, I write because I enjoy it. I hope you do as well, but I do it for me. I do have thoughts in my head and writing helps me fine tune those thoughts into my own masterpiece. I guess most writers or composers feel the same way. They don’t necessarily write for you the reader but rather because it is in them and it has to come out. A great poem, story or even a song is written from the mind, the heart of its author. Emily Dickinson’s poems weren't discovered until after her death and she is listed in literary history as one of the best. She wrote them for herself and we were blessed to discover them. Beethoven was blind yet composed great music because it was in him and needed to come out.
Although I hope you read my words and enjoy them, I write them for me. I write them because it’s in me to write them. My words may not roll of the page like an Ernest Hemingway novel or an Edgar Allen Poe story, they are still my words put up for you to read and hopefully take away something useful. If not I will continue to write for my own therapy and edification. If you can gain anything from this today, take this, do not let laziness keep you from doing what you should be doing. For you not only rob us of your gift but you rob yourself of being who you are.