One of the things I hope to achieve is the writing life. I’m not exactly sure what that completely entails but for me includes organizing much of my life around writing. My habit of journaling plays a part of that; as does my irregular attempts at personal correspondence with friends and family. In an age of Facebook, twitter, and blogs, I much rather use a fountain pen on nice note paper or cards and share with someone. I find a freedom of expression from a fountain pen I don’t have with another instrument (ball point, rollerball, or ink jell). Perhaps a pencil rivals the fountain pen, but that’s a “messy” instrument and smudges too much.
My participation each November in National Novel Writing Month contributes to a writing life as does my participation in a local library writers’ group. We meet twice a month, most months, and this exposes me to other writers as well as critiquing. So my writing grows and develops as I expose myself to what my writer friends write and advise. They also keep challenging me to edit—I like to write but cannot say the same about revising and editing my work.
The writers’ group met last night. During the meeting I notices my wife tried to call me. “She knows I don’t answer when at my meeting.” So I didn’t check my phone. When I got home she said she’d tried to get me three times. My son had been in an automobile accident. A youth on a learners’ permit failed to yield on a green light and turned in front of my son. By the time I learned about this, my son, wife, and two children were safe (and warm) at her mother’s place.
Part of the reason I want to write is to pass on a legacy to my family. That’s the important thing. How quickly all that could have changed had the accident been worse. Fortunately, it was not. Yet in the last eight years this is the third major accident (if you call totaling cars out major) in my family. No one seriously hurt in any of them. I want to be there for my family and I want my family to be there.
Thankfully today we all are here.