How much am I willing to suffer for the sake of my writing? How much am I willing to sacrifice? To borrow lyrics from a golden oldie, am I willing to crawl on my lips through broken glass just to get published?
After giving that some thought, I’ve determined that life is too short to lose priceless time with family just to put my thoughts on paper. And it seems the epitome of arrogance to think my meanderings are so important to mankind that all else is expendable.
Perhaps it’s a matter of ambition. It’s possible that my gene that harbors the drive to get published is just too damned recessive. It’s possible. But it primarily seems a matter of priorities.
Recently, I learned that the Nobel Prize laureate Thomas Mann refused to interrupt his daily writing schedule even to attend the funeral of his son who, incidentally, killed himself. I don’t know the whole story, but that seems downright messed up. No doubt, Mr. Mann’s musings have provided grist for our rumination mill. But at the cost of his family?
End analysis: I love to write; I will continue to write; I will write daily, as I am able. But I will remember a basic tenet for living successfully – balance.
And now, I’m off to re-fill my bird feeder. It’s winter, and the little guys are counting on me.