I wake up in the morning, the writing roaring in my head.
I spring to the easel. I make a pot of coffee. I wake up early.
I write for an hour, say, then I fix breakfast for me and Brenda.
She goes to work. I write some more, then go to the post office
and the library. I might eat lunch out. I might eat at home.
In the afternoon, I convert what I have written to an htm file and
upload it to my web site. I check my email. I write in the afternoon.
I fix supper. I wash the dishes from the day before while I cook.
When Brenda gets home, we eat, and watch the news on television.
We talk about politics. I go to my room and read for pleasure.
I might write some more. Most nights, we watch a movie.
Sometimes I write about that. Or books I'm reading.
I go to bed early. On the weekends we watch BookTV.
I am not depressed, I am not paranoid, although I am
beginning to have memory issues. Confusion.
Distractedness. I stare into space. I zone out.
I'm getting old. I can't do what
I used to could. I have to
husband my resources.
I send work out.
I hear back nothing or
a form letter rejection slip.
I used to go to writers conferences,
but they aren't cost-effective. I don't need
to spend myself on them. I don't get enough back.
I think about where to send what I have written. I think about
what I will write next. How will it add to 40-Year Run, my stack.
Where will it fit in the universe of data. Why, at the end, of course.
But looking backward. Making sense of what has come before.
It's a closed system. Self-contained. Impervious and grand.
An Easter Island megalith. Looking out to sea.
Looking within. Not afraid of
what it sees. Not afraid
to look. Curious.
Did I miss it?
Am I
nuts?
If you don't doubt your own sanity
when you're doing something impractical,
especially for decades, you are probably deluded.