Writers Write, Right?

I have always thought that one of Life's Immutable Rules should be that people do what they want to do. To me, this meant that most of the reasons people cite for NOT doing things are usually just excuses.

When I was growing up, my mother never drove a car. She didn't need to. She was a housewife that lived within several blocks of the grocery store, the bakery, the drug store, the church and the bar that my dad hung out in. Anywhere else and my dad always drove. She always claimed that she would "be too nervous to drive." But there came a day when she finally decided it was time to learn. And she did fine.

As a young observer, I came to realize that she could have learned to drive any time she wanted to. She just didn't want to badly enough. When she did -- she made it happen.

On a similar note, I have always wanted to be a writer. And I guess for a while I was. When I was in high school and my early twenties I wrote short stories and poetry constantly. I took journalism and writing courses and pictured myself as a famous author some day.

But a funny thing happened on my way to fame. It didn't happen.

Oh, at the time, I had plenty of excuses disguised as reasons:

• I got married when I was twenty.
• I had to work to support my wife and I.
• I was too tired to write after work.
• After a while we had children to raise.
• I got into management and my workload doubled.
• I moved into sales and I was on the road three or four nights a week.

And writing became The Dream. The What Could Have Been. The Big Regret.

And, sure, every now and then I would brush the dust off an old file and pretend I was a writer again. Sometimes I'd even write something new. I actually got a few things published. And I would talk about writing. I would get story ideas. I'd write holiday jingles or make up jokes. I would read voraciously and critique the writing. I'd always say, "I know I can write. If I could just get a good run at it, but I have too many interuptions. "

So I'd put the files back in the box again, shove it back in the corner again and get busy with life again. And I would beat myself up about it. I had a notecard pinned to the corkboard behind my desk that said, "If a man has a dream and does nothing about it, it's either not much of a dream or he's not much of a man." It served as a constant rebuke to the writer in me.

Since then I have retired (at age 51), we've made a lot of changes in our lifestyle, I took a deep breath -- and began to write. I have the time, now. And a dicipline that I never had before. This is a daily blog and no small effort goes into it. But for the first time in almost thirty years I can look you straight in the eye and say, "I am a writer!"

But it hasn't come without a price. The price is in admitting that I was wrong. Not all reasons are merely excuses in disguise. Yes, people do what they want to do, but that doesn't diminish The Dream if the detour is worthy. I would choose the necessity of loving and raising and providing for my family every time. So, at the time, I guess I didn't want to be a writer badly enough. Yet, I did do what I wanted to do.

As for the worthiness of The Man? I'm willing to let those who follow decide that. I'm done beating myself up. I've got better things to do. Writers write, right?