Butchblog

My greatest concern about writing at this point is keeping the flame alive. I’ve been a practicing writer for more than fifty years and wonder at times whether it is time to quit, to rest. “I’ve said all I have to say,” I tell my lazy-ass. But then I catch myself, and realize that writing is not about duty or accomplishment or recognition; but valuable in the act itself. Writing frees me, takes me away from the troubles of the world and my own insecurities. Writing is a part of who I am, lives in my gut – my major form of self-expression.
As I get even older, there is a quiet pull to let things go, lie back, and watch more tv or do crossword puzzles and eat cookies. But that’s a dangerous inclination, that way lies the end. I still want and need to write and feel that I haven’t yet tapped out, nor will I ever – I hope.
In the coming months and years, I imagine a more peaceful and thoughtful style of writing – a practice not unlike meditation, freer from the angers and anxieties of younger years – though that younger-angry guy does not get to disappear either, but perhaps I can treat him with more compassion; and write more freely, openly, and compassionately about all those who have inhabited my world – especially family. Writing for me is like surfing (another of my obsessions), you have to get out there in the waves and see what happens. Sometimes you wipe out, sometimes you ride the wave, and sometimes you just have to wait till it comes.