A confession. A pet peeve. A reluctant admission of how small and petty and pissy I can be. And, in that admission, a challenge. A throw-down. And a warning what NOT to say to me at the cocktail parties I don’t attend….

A thing that drives me nuts. A statement that sends me into an ill-disguised inner frenzy of shrieking, teeth-gnashing, gone-postal ire: one simple, casual, off-hand phrase… “Yeah, I’m thinking of writing one of these days.”

One day. Someday. Sooner or later. Never.

When you do, you will. When you must, you will. When you have no other choice, you will. When you’re ready to give up a huge chunk of your life, you will.

When the created world becomes the most important need of your day, you will.

When the words are the only sound you can hear, you will.

When the words jostle you awake, you will.

When you’d rather write than eat, you will.

When a day without writing is the loneliest day of your life, you will.

When the idea plants itself solidly in front of you and dares you–blinds you–you will.

When it makes you fierce. When it gives you passion. When it’s all that you are and more than you are. You will.

When you might as well try to stop the sun from rising, you will.

Until then, you won’t.  Until then, don’t.

The self-expressing outlet of writing is not an exercise in easy-does-it. Nowhere near. It is–should be–as much a necessity as air is a necessity. Yes, it IS something that each of us should pursue for the heartfelt fulfillment of Self. But as the casual pursuit of the off-hours hobbyist; the “sure, anybody can do it” crowd? Meh.

If it’s all that easy, give yourself to it. Do it utterly. Do it for a week, and see how that works out for ya. If it turns out that the pursuit isn’t atom-deep in your soul, don’t diminish the act with shoulda-woulda-coulda.

Writing demands your life. It deserves it.  Do it. Or don’t.

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