Classify this under melancholia, or Thrasher's late night ramblings.
Life has been busy as of late. But it was busy a year ago. And three years ago. And ten years ago. It just keeps getting busier it seems. And I keep wondering when I'll get to the place I'm running toward so fast. I wonder when I'll get to that destination when I can finally get off the crazy train.
Then again, it's my crazy train, and I'm the conductor.
I talk about the dream I had to be a writer in third grade so much that it seems mythical. Today I sat in my newly leased office--a room with four walls and two windows and my mammoth desk I've written all my books on in the middle--and I was very busy. I never took in the moment. I didn't open the bottle of champagne and toast to myself (no, I only drink gin when I write). I haven't celebrated this new office because I've been so busy.
I am thankful for the busyness. I truly am.
I just feel like there's so far to go. And I fear that this journey I'm on doesn't have a destination. Oh, I'm not talking about eternity or anything like that. I know where I'm going. Sometimes I can't wait for Heaven. Worries won't follow us there.
I've spent a lot of time lately reflecting on my life for a variety of reasons. Because of a writing project, because of sorting through my office and finding highlights through the years, because of lots of reasons. And I came to a conclusion that this restlessness is something I've always had. It just seems to grow more wild the older I get.
I tell writers aspiring to be published that the number one thing it takes is persistence. The definition of persistence is "firm or obstinate continuance in a course of action in spite of difficulty or opposition." Well, one thing I've perfected is obstinance toward opposition. I keep going and going and going with this writing thing.
I keep hoping and dreaming that one day I will do it. That the words will be profound and poetic, the message will be subtle but impactful, the story entertaining and enthralling. That I'll write The One.
But here's this fear. I don't think I'll ever believe it, even if a million people tell me I've done it. Because I'm obstinate. And because I'm the conductor. And because I might possibly be afraid to arrive at that destination.
The journey is everything.
Sometimes I wish that I could learn to stop and breathe and take in my surroundings. To appreciate them more--the people and the places and the passions that have come across my path. I neglected to when I was sixteen or twenty-six or thirty-six. I'm able to make peace with them in bits and pieces through my writing, but I still wish I could appreciate the moment more instead of driving like a wild man to some unknown destination.
Maybe this helps fuel the fire. Maybe I just need a vacation. Or maybe this is part of the process to get there. Wherever there is.
Labels: journey, melancholia, on writing, Perseverance