I stand at the end of the dock, warmed by the June sun on my shoulders and squint into the glint off the water. It's a lovely picture, but if the lake is still deceptively frigid, the cold will squeeze my lungs with an iron fist.
Here's the funny thing: I thought I'd been honest all along. Now, poised to jump, I recognize that in the name of not being labeled ungrateful, faithless, a quitter (that one really stings), too circumspect, a party-pooper, or unworthy, perhaps not called at all or even talented, I barely know where to start with this truth business.
Perhaps it's enough to know I'm tempted to take a job at Taco Bell, clear the bookshelves of all writing books, and convert my office into (gasp!) a TV room with a futon. In other words, remove all that reminds me that I didn't live up to my potential.
The boxes of unsold books must go, too.
And yet, I write most days, plugging away at a story I'm convinced is absolute dreck. Still, I can't help but marvel at the accumulation of pages each day, and when I read from the beginning (as I just did), I'm surprised that the story is not quite as awful as I'd feared. But not as good as I'd hoped, either.
If storytelling were a drug, I would be a junkie.
It makes no practical sense for me to continue writing. I'm in debt to myself (actually my husband, but he doesn't keep track of these things like I do) for the release of my last book. Also, I'm an extrovert craving the company of people other than made-up characters. And I fear that my precious time on earth is being squandered dreaming up plot points, distilling a phrase to the most concise word, and researching the sound of waves under a pier.
There are lost people out there. Hungry people. Enslaved people. Angry people. Doesn't God
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