Whenever the course of my life approaches a potentially drastic change, the question of writing’s place in the picture always comes up.
Ever since the first time I remember the question of “what do you want to do with your life” came up in 2nd grade, the written word has played a part of the answer. Whether it was straight up knowing that I wanted to be a writer or providing my current occupation with the caveat that I majored in English and have contemplated a publishing career.
Last year I participated in Nanowrimo and wrote a 50,000 word novel. I have barely thought about revising it to the point of even approaching publishability, but I took advantage of the opportunity to have a proof copy printed.
However rough and unpolished the text, there is something magnificent about holding a bound copy of something that you wrote.
Unfortunately, I have yet to write a bestseller (or anything that sells) that will render the career question moot. And, to be honest, lately I have found a quote by Thoreau to hinder rather than inspire.
How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.
There is so much I have yet to do (and will never do), but just as writing should not keep me from living, so living should not keep me from writing. There should always be development and growth, but there is no way to define a point in time after which I will have lived enough to be able to say something with authority. So onward and upward and just keep writing.