When I was younger, I really wanted to be a writer. During my working years, I wrote government documents explaining complicated economic and/or statistical issues to other professionals. I also wrote dumbed down versions of reports for upper level managers and the public when I was working in both the private sector and government.
But I wanted something different, so over the decades, I studied literature and took writing classes, but somehow never quite found my niche in the non-statistical world. I tried many venues, some more successful than others. I edited several newsletters, some professional, others not. I created statistical documents loaded with graphics..and had much fun, but none of it was writing.
My neighbor, GG, with whom I have learned to never carry on a political discussion is a travel writer. I thought that would be fun. However, to be a travel writer, you must travel, and that requires money and stamina, both in short supply these days. GG is growing older and not well, and his days of climbing Nunatak or whatever are behind him.
I have decided writing the great novel is not in the cards for me, no matter what David says to inspire me. I too have inspired him to write his memoirs, and he did for a while. For several years, he accompanied me to class (drove me to the university). While I was in class, he sat in the hall writing his story on his lap top. But then he stopped one day. I don’t know why, but I suspect he hit a place that was too painful to explore. Sometimes it’s hard to look back.
I suppose in a way blogging is a kind of writing, although I think of it as journalling or keeping a diary, the way I did in high school. I was more forthcoming in my diary, however. Geeez, I just had a horrible thought. I wonder if my Mom peeked in my diary when she was cleaning my room.
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