trees falling in the forest…

I’ve been thinking a lot about my writing.

This particular angst fest falls into that “What do you do?” conundrum I’ve spoken about before. I actually know some ‘real’ writers, ‘professional’ writers. These are people who make a living writing books, newspaper articles, magazine articles, web content, song lyrics, poetry, what have you.

Me, I write because I love to write. I love the sound the words make in my head, the cadence, the rhyme, the white space between the lines. I write because I have thoughts in my head that have nowhere else to live. Homeless thoughts which need a change of clothes and a warm bed. I can offer them that, I think, so I write them down, fatten them up and here they are.

The sticking part is figuring out “what to do” with all this. Once these ideas have come into the written world what role do they play in it? Do they need a job, really? I suppose they only need a job if I’m discontent seeing them wander around my house all day eating my food, drinking my beer and leaving their dirty things on the clean couch. Perhaps to some writers this is endearing. Perhaps for some writers that is enough…something to bring out and show when people come around.

For me, though at this point in my life I have to wonder if in addition to writing because I must, because I can, if there could (or should) actually be some extension of that into the working world. I hesitate on it because this could potentially cause some difficulty in the quality of my art. Once I make my work a commodity, put it up for sale, put it out for hire…this changes the heart of it in some way, yes?

I’m just not sure yet. I suppose I’m waiting on the answer to this. For what, I do not yet know but I’ll be sure to alert you when I do.