I don’t know what to write. All I know is I should write something. Anything? No, just something. It’s better than nothing, ain’t it?
Why write? Because that’s what I am. Homo sapiens-literatura. It’s not what I do, it’s what I am. Good or bad, we all have something creative within. No need to aspire to be something I’m not, like a Dickens or Hemingway or Stephen King. These words are simply an extension of myself. And I’m no better than you who read this. Or better than, for that matter, the zillions of folks who consider themselves writers.
People choose to read my writing for some unknown reason. Perhaps someone has told them I do this, or they see it on FaceBook, or they’re randomly roaming the web for want of something better to do. It matters naught to me. Whether I ramble on mindlessly (like this), or with some far out purpose in mind, people are reading what my brain tells these fingers to type. The fact that I truly have nothing meaningful to share is irrelevant.
Strangest thing happened in my dreams the other night. My dear mother, who left this plane eight years prior, visited me. Since I currently drive a bus for no other reason than to pay the rent and other essential necessities, Ma was riding with me. Staring straight ahead, looking about the age I am now. She wouldn’t make eye contact, even though I begged her to. See, she was my biggest fan and strongest enthusiast once upon a mesquite switch. In this dream, she said, “Just keep doing it.” Then I woke up. We didn’t have the time for conversation.
Currently consumed with my first attempt at a novel, I took this to mean she was encouraging me to finish it. She knows I began writing it nearly 17 years ago, and that I stopped for no reason. She also knows that I have an annoying habit of profound procrastination. As a spirit who is free from the bonds of this existence, she knows things I cannot as an oxygen-consuming mortal. I’ll take her advice. However, I’m sad she didn’t stand and face me, give me a reassuring hug and pat on the back, and go into more detail. She never did waste words though. So direct and forceful, ol’ Ma.
Sorry Ma, but I’ve had too much to drink tonight. I’ll get around to it. Mañana.