Not the usual meaning of time though, in that how much it takes on a daily basis and how to juggle the writing gracefully along with the less glamorous but more necessary doings of life. I’m thinking of the time within a lifetime rather than the immediate balance.
Had I the confidence and ambition to pursue writing earlier–like decades–I’d be more willing to keep at it. But with such intensity over the past six or so years that I’ve put into it, and with only self-satisfaction to show, I’m concerned about naming it as such a priority. I’ve gotten a couple poems published, but no short stories and haven’t reworked the novel I started with nor started another. On the short stories, I’m beginning to wonder how important they are to tell at all, yet I spend weeks on them, living them without quite getting it. Though the writing has evidently improved, no resume letter has gotten me an interview, no legal correspondence has gotten resolution, no e-mail has invited closer communication.
There’s a point in life when we stop, look within, and come to the conclusion that we need to give time to something that may be selfish, may be a mind-blowing change in pattern, but cannot ignore forever. That was the writing. But there’s also a time to look within and seek the truth. My timing has always been off; after forty years I went to college. After graduating, I note that the course programs have drastically changed and that they are much more in tune with what I would have sought. Shall I go back and take another dozen courses?
Time to regroup, rethink, and change direction.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology