So, I thought of an analogy for what being a writer sometimes feels like to me. It feels like being on another planet that very few other people have ever been to. They have their ideas about it, they have their assumptions, some of them even have these wonderful fantasies as to what it is like to be on that planet, but they don’t know. They aren’t having to deal with changing atmospheric conditions. They aren’t having to watch their instruments and gauges constantly for changes in pressure or climate, and seriously, they don’t have to deal with the fallout if something goes wrong. They don’t have to read the entirety of the landscape and try to get the bigger, long term, picture. Kind of the difference in attention level between being the one driving the car, and being a passenger. That’s likely true of many other jobs and professions, we tend to oversimplify the realities of other people, their lives, their jobs, what have you. Reminding myself here that I chose to do this, and that I can not do this at any time. Oh, I’d still write, always, but I don’t have to be doing all this. In some regard, it’s probably, people’s ideas about being a writer, a lot of the things that I thought about being a writer when I was just writing my poems and stories, and not doing all this. And you know what? That’s fine. All kidding aside, I’ve realized that it really is. It may even be beyond fine, it’s how it’s supposed to be.
To delve further into how I’ve re-arrived at this place of philosophical calm, because believe it or not, this calm was once my normal, and here’s hoping, would require time that I actually don’t have for it right now. (Busiest summer ever.) We go through stages and phases, sometimes working things out for one’s self just takes a while. The world is ever changing. Right now, I’m pretty happy. I love writing fiction. Looking forward to the changing of these seasons.