If It Was Easy I'd Be Famous By Now

I remember back to the days when there were no computer keyboards for untrained hands to hunt and peck at. It was a time when typewriters were for secretaries, a feminine thing – not something a man would ever want to do. Unless that man was a writer as I wanted to be.

But I had no typewriter. And I did not see myself as a typist.

I graduated from high school in 1966. Although I could have learned to type in school, back then I could not separate the “feminine” notion from my fantasy of been a writer. Some guys in my grade took typing, including one of my “straight A” buddies. But that just made him seem more weird to me. I knew he studied ….  and studied a lot – that's nuts! (That's what I thought back then.) I had no idea that one day I'd own a computer and type on it every day. I supposed that the words my teenage mind might think of would always be captured by pen and paper. That's all I had at the time and all I ever thought I'd have.

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I Can't Do This Because I Ain't Done That Yet

My history tells me I am the owner of a previously capable brain of well above average ability. I have studied wide-ranging subjects of interest to me and understood those subjects to my complete satisfaction. That may be a false memory or ego or self-loving exaggeration talking but at least I have felt comfortable believing it was true for most of my life.

I've lost that loving feeling.

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I've stopped writing …. and that's gotta stop!

I'm a writer but I'm not writing. I guess that means I'm not really a writer. But I can't let that be true …. because …. I am a writer! I need it. And I will write. I will make myself write and I will write until I write something worth reading.

It has become too easy to find excuses. And eventually I don't even need to say or think the excuse. All I need to do is know there must be one … out there in the world or in here in my mind. It's there …. somewhere …. so I don't write.

Well, that's crap!

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Filled With Joy And Free From Pain

My mother died in April of 2003. Below I captured a summary of her last hours and my thoughts. It is very short. I wrote it a few days after her death. She lived until the age of eighty-one. Much of that life was in or on the edge of poverty. Her last twenty-five years were lived as a widow. We helped her with money and housing and furniture …. and we spent time with her. Most Sundays, holidays, and birthdays were family gatherings at her home.

Her health was good until cancer took her.

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One More Chance For A Meaningful Life

I have lived much of my life in defiance of logic, in mortal combat with reason, against my own best interests and without my full knowledge or participation. I have chosen not to choose. I have watched life unfold before me and followed the path in front of my nose. I worked hard and with mild success but no joy. An empty frustration eventually seemed normal. Those annoying opportunities that sometimes beckoned to me from uncharted ambiguity failed to breach a perverse protective barrier which shielded me from risk and reward. 

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