Writers Angst

Today, I was reading a Men’s Health mag in which a writer says in an article that life is long, all I can say is “really?” I remember as a teen being told that I had my whole life ahead of me, well, ahead seems to have arrived. Not that I am anywhere near my end but the fact that here I sit, closer to my mid-sixties then those long ago teen years does force me to reflect on where I am and where I am going. Retirement is on the horizon but what does that really mean, for me, for my wife and family? Lately I have been thinking a lot about those past generations of Lomas and Roberts, my paternal and maternal sides. In doing a little geneaology I have discovered things I knew nothing about and some old family stories that were not just some kind of urban legend but were in fact true. I guess that aging brings us to a point where we want to know more about ouselves, where we come from, the various ingredients that make us who we are and what this all means. For myself, and I can only speak for myself, I want to discover the hidden parts of who I am and bring it out into the light. Maybe that’s why I want to write, not just my memoirs but also my reflections and maybe try a little more fiction. I’m not the greatest writer, I know that I am, at times, a hack. Throwing words out that don’t make much sense, even to me, but the trying is so much better than the not trying. Going ahead, taking the risk, being vulnerable to the critics, well that’s what any creative endeavor requires. I like today’s tweet from Anne Lamott, “Writing workshop–yes on mess, shitty drafts. Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor. Beckett; “Ever tried, ever fail. Fail better.” I’m not perfect, by any stretch of the imagination. I am no great author preparing to craft the next great American novel. All I can do is continue throwing out words and see where they fall, afterall I can only “fail better” with each piece. 

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