Contentment

I don’t write to be famous. I don’t write to make money. I write because I have to. The words are there inside me, whispering, cajoling, whining, and sometimes screaming to be let out to dance upon the page.

They’re not always pushy, though. I go through periods of time when the words are relatively silent; and there were a couple of occasions I thought they were dead and buried, but like in The Walking Dead, the zombie words rose again. Guess it would take a head shot to quiet them for good.

I have no illusions anymore of having a novel published (though that was never the main reason I wrote/write), for I’m too old and undisciplined to see it through. I write when I feel like it. To be a successful author, one has to treat writing like a job, show up and do it whether one feels like it or not. Life, whether it’s going smooth or bumpy, can’t get in the way. One’s moods can’t get in the way. Absolutely nothing can get in the way—at least not in the long term. I let practically everything get in the way—books, TV, YouTube, Facebook, walking, shopping, cooking, etcetera, etcetera. And that’s why I’m not successful.

But that’s okay. There’s more to life than being successful. I suppose it’s possible that contentment may make for a better life than success.

Did you notice I said contentment, not happiness? Happiness is such a fleeting thing, coming in short, infrequent bursts throughout one’s life, balanced by bouts of heartache and hard times. Years ago when I was a twenty-something and coming to the realization that my parents were people too, I asked my mama if she was happy. She told me that she didn’t know if she would say she was, but that she was content with her life. Once I passed through middle-age into old, that’s what I started shooting for: contentment. I can’t say I’ve always hit the mark, but I keep striving for it.

I’m content not to be a rich, famous writer. I’m content to write when and if I feel like it. The words are accepting of that. As long as I keep channeling them, let them be heard when they need to be, they too are content.

The new year is almost upon us; in a few hours, 2019 will give way to 2020. Lord, how the years have flown by. I have a lot less years ahead of me than behind, and I choose to spend whatever time I have left being content. I hope whatever your age, you do the same.

May 2020 bring you more sunshine than rain, more laughter than tears, and more happiness than sorrow. May you be content.

Happy New Year!

©️2019 KT Workman

Images via Pixabay

Off and On

Let me start by saying I’ve been a writer for many years—off and on—and am just coming out of a lengthy period of “off.” I wish it weren’t so, but I tend to let life in general get in the way of writing. And I procrastinate. To my shame, “Don’t do today what you can postpone until tomorrow,” seems to be my rallying cry.

A few years ago when I was “on,” I had quite a few short stories published, but the forward momentum didn’t last when life hit a difficult stretch. The road has since smoothed out, so now, I’m trying again.

Writing is a lonely endeavor. Not everyone is cut out to sit alone in front of a computer for hours on end, pulling words out of wherever they come from and forming them into something they hope someone will find pleasure in reading. And there are so many distractions: job, kids, spouse, family obligations, friends, TV, lovely books, and of course, the computer (with an internet connection) right in front of you. It takes a lot of willpower to push it all aside and focus on your writing. It’s not easy. And don’t let anyone try to tell you otherwise.

But when everything comes together, when you read back over what you have written, and it’s good, damn good, in fact, it’s all worth it. You got the story/poem/ article out of your head and onto paper. To me, there’s no better feeling in the world.

Except maybe getting paid for doing it.

Money and recognition are fantastic things, but to be honest, most of us don’t write for those reasons; we write because we have to. The words, plots, and people are there in our heads, and they demand to be heard. We give them a voice and in doing so, find our own unique voice.

And isn’t that what it’s all about?

©️2019 KT Workman