A Small Puzzle
I have to confess. Sometimes, this feels so vain. Constantly talking about everything I see and do. Because if you met me at a party and all I talked about was me, you’d run screaming from the room. Listeners are the ones who make the friends. On the other hand, it’s usually only one thing. I make my observation, offer a take on the subject, and I’m done. Plus, you can read it or not. I’m hardly standing in someone’s face blathering away about some fine time I had.
Which brings me back to the initial question. Is it vain? What is it that makes writers write and then offer it to the public? Saying, look what I did. Am I a child seeking affirmation? I remember writing as a child and showing it to my parents and being really happy when they liked it. Or when a teacher liked it. Maybe that’s it. And I surely liked it when I got compliments at work, the first time the managing editor sent me a clip with a compliment in wax pencil.
In the end I suppose it’s simple. I write, publish, someone reads it. Or not. We all do what we do, and I’m doing this. A tiny chronicle of the world, or my piece of it, as I pass through it, polishing the words as best I can to make them sing. I’m fortunate in the modern publishing landscape, I need convince no gatekeeper to let me in. There are a million doors and windows. And I’ve crawled through one, and so the day begins, and off to the west the dark clouds are forming, and it looks like rain.
John W. Wilson is the author The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale