WRITING: Phases & Stages

While the novels I’ve been reading lately have somehow inspired rather than intimidated writing on my part–and that’s a good thing–it appears that even yesterday’s short story reading has infused me with a so what? attitude.

Meaning, after each of these stories, I didn’t feel that I’d gained so much as a person from the content, or even in entertainment value, that made me feel the time was spent in its best opportunity.   Then I went to work on one of my stories and in the editing a feeling overwhelmed me that said the same thing:  so what?

So what if the guy dies and has made some peace with it? So what if I work on it until it’s the best I can do?  So what if it never gets published?  And the worst: So what if it does?

From that point I followed the trail to all that I’m trying to learn:  IF, Flash, Illustrator, how to get through a graphics story without getting killed; how important is all this anyway?

In seeking opportunities to get back into the paid labor market, my experience and knowledge isn’t even reaching the point where I can reveal it.  My resume, compared to the hundreds I’m up against is dated and uncredentialed.  I’m just not getting the calls that would at least give me a chance to talk myself up, to prove that I’m still a viable and valuable worker.

The thread naturally meanders from there back to home and hearth.  Yeah, I make the best stuffed shrimp and a mean chocolate cake, but…so what?

What I’ve gotten the most out of recently, what comes back to me again and again, is philosophy, and especially Boethius’ Consolation.  Maybe, whether there is an extension of spiritual life or not, this path has the most bang for the buck; preparing me for any possible hereafter but more importantly affecting my own way of life in the present form, and in how I deal with other people within this dimension of time.

But what, beyond any knowledge and understanding I gain to improve myself in the time that I’m given, have I done to leave a good change in the people and places I’ve touched?  A story that becomes a classic is highly unlikely; magazines I’ve started have pretty much gone their own way; I’ve no progeny to sob mother! at graveside; my lily bulbs have been eaten by voles.  What then, to mark my passing that has made the world better for me having taken up space?  Perhaps I should pin my life upon the sour cherry tree, now that after sixteen years it has decided to grow and produce.

Don’t know the answers.   But I’m coming up with the questions at least.