Semantics~

I have been remiss in writing for awhile. Mea Culpa. I believe that most of my thoughts regarding this were simply that I was too busy with life and living to take time out to write. This thought pattern has caused me to think upon what exactly I see the role of writing as playing in my life.

I remember when I was at University, I saw myself as writing to live. Writing was my sanity in times of distress, my companion in lonely hours, and my saving grace when all else failed me. On those days when all seemed to overwhelming to process, I could sit down at my desk--delve into my thoughts, pen my frustrations, and trudge my way through the murky waters of life armed with what I saw as my only appropriate ammo--*bring out the Bic guns...* I realize many would say that this is a frightening position to find oneself in--being so dependent upon writing as a source of solace and stability. I would agree.

Knowing this, I always believed then, that the ultimate goal would be to convert the pattern of “writing to live” into “living to write”. I would have peers who seemed to eat, sleep and breathe writing. They voraciously read books, and intelligence, wit, and candor seemed to ooze out of their every pore. I loathed them (okay, maybe they just really, really irked me…) These peers could be overheard on a daily basis waxing eloquent about their next literary masterpiece, or how many pages they had written in their upcoming manuscript. And, to be sure, when all was finished, and the fruit of their labor was unveiled…it was almost always sheer genius and superbly divine. Yes, those that lived to write…as if it was inextricably tied to their very essence of their being…were indeed talented….yet I was not one of them. I *still* am not one of them…although I have often tried to be. I find that, although I enjoy the creative process of writing (and the literary, evolutional journey of reading as well)—I do not crave these things with an insatiable appetite. Although I, too, am able to pen semi-coherent and (albeit sporadically) thought-provoking workmanship, I have no illusions that Alfred Nobel will be knocking down my door any day soon. No, I do not live to write...

Today, in the wee hours of yet another crisp, Hawaiian morning….I am outside watching the sun rise over the jagged cerulean waves. I am waking--writing this small entry--musing, seeking, hoping, wondering---*being*. I think I am one that will just live AND write. I will not master either most likely, to the point that it embodies all that is within me…neither will probably overtake the other due to its sheer genius or notoriety—or even stellar quality. But, this morning, I am starting to see small glimmers—beginning to believe—awakening to a new awareness, that sometimes having a little of both (in so many areas) is best. “Just” living and writing can be more than enough—and this "place" is where I find myself...and make my home today.