Purpose

I wish I could do something grand. But everytime I get started, I find an excuse to stop. I wish some artistic fervor would grip me and not let go, forcing me to obsessively splay out my genius for all to see.

I used to think literature was my passion, but now I'm not sure. I think my love for it was childlike; such love, while ideal for gaining admittance into heaven, is a pitiful thing when it comes to writing.

I remember when I fell in love with writing. I was reading a book at South Hills Municipal Library in South Jackson about a boy who was walking by a creek. Well, in the creek he finds the largest rainbow trout he's ever seen. He doesn't have a fishing pole with him so he wades into the river and grabs it with his bare hands. It sounds silly now, but I was so enthralled with that passage that I must have read it eight or nine times on the spot. I could smell the fish and see the creek where it took place. I wanted to be the boy in the story, and as I read the shelves melted away and I was there. I didn't want it to end.

Even now, I'll read something that plucks the strings of the human heart and moves me to hold back tears. These are good moments, for they remind me I am alive. And there's a little nudge to write, but that's it.

Somewhere I've lost the drive. I used to have it, but now she's gone. I don't know how to call her back to me- I don't even know if she'd hear. I can see her, though, wandering through the autumn woods in a blazing white dress, fingers brushing across the branches.

My biggest fear in life is dying without fulfilling my potential. I don't want to have a great talent and keep it bottled up inside. But if I don't have the talent, then I don't want to waste my time.

Somewhere along the way I fell out of love with writing and pushed her away. If I'm serious about the craft, I need to find a way to entice her back into my arms. Hopefully this time the connection will be more powerful.