Writing is a form of ambition. The ambition to put my thoughts down. To solidify or make real my imaginations. To work out my inner issues and sometimes my outer ones as well. Like right now, I did not really feel like writing, but I hoped that once I got started, it might start to flow.
I have always enjoyed writing, but I find that I don’t have much stamina for it. I am more of a sprinter when it comes to writing. In fact, I feel like I am quite fast/good. Maybe because no one reads it except my wife (whose opinion I value). This is why I had started this blog, in hopes of unbiased someone’s reading something and possibly commenting. Perhaps a word of encouragement, or maybe a well placed harangue.
So with the fact that I admit to a lack of endurance, I must evaluate my expectations of becoming a writer. Perhaps not novels, or even short stories, but back to poems, perhaps songs, or a well placed harangue. In any event, I do feel a strong desire to start producing something other than my rantings steeped in depression.
However, like with any athlete, there needs to be that regimented routine of exercising those muscle groups that are needed most for their events. Aside from the naturally gifted, without that consistency, one could never hope for excellence. So with that fact, I must not be so eager to squelch the ambition of becoming any kind of writer without first accepting the training schedule that most fits the proposed event.
I hope to make this post sort of the baseline for my deliberation of pursuing the desire to paint words and sculpt sentences. To build either bulky elaborate monuments or slight intricate lattices upon paper. While I choose the event of writing from the gamut of artistic outlets, like a sprinter selecting the 100m from the track and field arena, I also accept the possibility that my true calling may still lie elsewhere.
I intend to see where this desire leads.
no question. you were a natural born writer.