Here is a something I wrote for a separate website. I wanted to post it here also - Enjoy
From my perspective…
I am entering my forties as a confused if somewhat lost person. Which direction do I take? This road or that? Red pill or blue? Keep the faith or find new ways? Do I
aggressively pursue something new in my life that excites me or does my family's safety and stability depend on me trudging through a "safe" job. (if those exist anymore)
I have none of the answers. But I have a few thoughts, ramblings really but that's how my mine works, in bits and pieces and various ideas...
Most day I feel as if I know nothing of what true writing is, other than to be honest and make it interesting someone could consider , anything other than that “experimental” and hiding away from the world. Whether this is true - I don’t know - but I know a few things from my perspective.
I have not had the good fortune to find my passion(s) early in life. While this exposed me to a multitude of experiences I may otherwise have otherwise missed out on, it also delayed a deeper appreciation of the writing craft. Still, over the course of the last maybe two years, I would have had to discipline myself in the art of self sabotage not to improve, at least on some level.
So I wrote and improved. Not to say greatness sprung forth from my fingers but enough to keep myself encouraged and churning out prose. But let me for a moment write about the negatives if only to bring them to the light of the day.
I never constantly went through the agonizing yet much needed realization that one's own writing, so true and painstakingly written, so full of personal struggle, has become little more than a thousand different points of failure for other writers and readers to pick apart. - I never sought and accepted the criticism and feedback I needed to grow as a writer.
I’m a father first and a writer second. There’s not much more to say than that. I do not see this as a sacrifice. In a dream world I could do both right now all while working a full-time job. But in reality family comes first and writing a second and if that means a less chance of filling that ambition then so be it. This is not an excuse for not writing, just a flat out the truth that spending time with my son if be far a greater fulfillment than writing can fill.
Still- when I write, there is a dread in realizing how much more punishment my bruised ego will have to take. I find solace in knowing my writing (eventually) will reflect my own sufferings.
And if not, at the least, when my life draws the short straw, I will have perished on my sword, and have been worthy of my own sufferings.
I'll end here for now. While I still know what to say next.