I didn't know what I was going to do with my life. As a senior in high school already accepted into a local university, I was an undeclared major. My interests in school were limited. I had few friends and spent most of my free time doing homework and sitting on my ass watching movies. Occasionally, I wrote. That didn't seem like an option for a career at the time. I didn't realize until closer to graduation that I could major in creative writing and develop my craft as an aspiring fiction writer. Mom and dad expressed some concern. I just couldn't justify going to school to become a doctor, lawyer, engineer, or businessman. I remember when I was very young how dad told me that I could do whatever I wanted when I grew up, even a truck driver or something, and he would never think less of me as long as I did my best at it. Of course, nobody exactly dreams of becoming a truck driver, but it's better than being a panhandler on the street. I remember things like this and take them into context. It's great to have a secure job that pays a high wage, but that can't be all there is to living and breathing. I had my hesitations, but always came back to the position of wanting to be a writer. The more I worked at it, the more convinced I was that I had found something I could actually be skilled at instead of average or less.
~
When writing new material, I've frequently found it disconcerting when I get the feeling that I'm repeating what I've already written--similar themes, sensibilities, and sometimes passages that seem verbatim, but only suspected from my limited memory. After all, that's what the writing is for and I would've forgotten way more without it. Soon enough, I'm reassured that a writer's work will gradually evolve through time, but he usually repeats aspects of his previous work because it's what he knows and he likes it. I do believe that there are a finite number of stories, but they can be told in many different ways. Some are seemingly more original than others.
~
One day, I woke up and I was 30. I didn't know how to feel. Even at 40, 50, 60, or further beyond as a centennial, human life was never long enough. We all breathed on lease.
