“If the English language made any sense, lackadaisical would have something to do with a shortage of flowers.” -Doug Larson
I admit it: I am a hermit. Disappearing under a rock or into a cave for several days is my kind of thing. Creativity seems to do that to a lot of people, or so I’ve read. However, my recent reclusiveness comes from writing and lots of it. I plunged into an apprenticeship program with the Christian Writers Guild, took to the task of bombarding two local newspapers with opinion-editorial letters, and write articles for a new bimonthly magazine. I am loving nearly every bit of the spectrum, except for the part where I’ve kept pretty much to myself for the last decade (I don’t think doctor’s visits count for much). I complained to my counselor, though, that over the years my vocabulary seemed to self-destruct as the pain increased. The problem is I really want to make a writing career work for me. I feel compelled and called to it, or perhaps by it. I did not stop writing for personal use, but doing so only carries me so far.
So I climb, one tiny step at a time, towards a goal that seems so out of reach I feel like Sisyphus with the eternal boulder. Meanwhile, the English language is moving in fast-forward without me. Too bad I can’t set my DVR and watch what I missed later.
