Apparently, for me the act of continuing to write is extremely difficult. I have read several books on “how to write”. They all tell the aspiring writer to write a lot. Write on a schedule. Write in the middle of the night when one is inspired. Write. Write. Write. Yeah, right.
Some little part of my brain that has always wanted to write is always getting overruled by the part of my brain that tells me to do laundry or cook dinner or read a novel. The writer part of my brain is not very tenacious; it’s old and flabby from disuse. So here I am again, trying to exercise it. Of course, going to a physical exercise class is one of the best excuses I have for not writing. One simply must stay in shape. Look what happened to those English ladies who lolled around writing and eating bonbons and died from consumption or obesity or something.
I decided that I wanted to write long before I ever turned to exercise. I took a literature and composition class in high school under the direction of Mrs. Della Craighead. I told her I wanted to write and she encouraged me. She encouraged a lot of people to write, to think, and to live a good life. She still does. She is in her nineties now and has a strong Facebook following of former students. She doesn’t actually post on Facebook; friends and family do that for her, but she is still an inspiration to us.
I don’t consider myself a failure in Mrs. Craighead’s eyes because I did do a lot of writing in my various careers. My writer brain has been used; it just hasn’t been used to its potential. Or maybe I just want my fifteen minutes of fame. I know I am not going to get much recognition from my music or dance or math abilities in this pageant we call life, so I better rely on something that I have a tendency toward.
(And, yes, I know I ended that last sentence with a preposition. I do know how to write, you know.)