Well, maybe I have a little something to say. After all, spring has sprung here in our neck of the woods and although it might not feel like it just yet, I know warmer weather is just around the corner!
These northeast winters didn’t used to bother me as much when I was in my 30s and 40s. But when I hit 50 the cold and snow began a vicious attack on my well being, physically and mentally. I’ve mentioned selling the farm (i.e. six acres) and moving to a warmer clime, but it hasn’t went over very well, yet.
I used to think moving back home to Kentucky would be nice. But Old Man Winter visits that state too, and I’m beginning to think that in order to get out of his reach I’ll have to relocate further south, much further south.
I still call Kentucky home, but I’ve actually lived here in Pennsylvania longer. I guess it must have something to do with the state you were born in rather than the length of time you lived there. Pennsylvania has never felt like home to me because it’s not where I was rooted.
Folks will often combine the two states and it becomes Pennsyltucky. I cringe when I hear it. The only thing the two states have in common is they’re both commonwealths. Maybe one other thing – pretty countryside, in places. I think Kentucky’s hills have more of a pronounced “roll” to them, whereas Pennsylvania’s are higher and steeper.
I haven’t read Thomas Wolfe’s novel You Can’t Go Home Again but I probably won’t let what that title means convince me that it’s true. I’ll return to my past in Kentucky one of these days and we’ll have a long talk about the rest of my future.
I graduated from Slippery Rock University in 2006 with a degree in English Creative Writing Nonfiction (that’s a ten syllable degree). For a while I was writing quite often as the gardening columnist for a local newspaper. And occasionally, provided content for a gardening magazine or two. The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette used a few of my articles, and I actually thought I might end up at my own desk in an air-condtioned office writing for a living. Maybe not for the Post-Gazette but something along those lines.
That was then, this is now: I’m a writer that’s not a writer.
Hell, I don’t even blog anymore! What happened? The old cliché “life happened” might be the answer. I thought writing would be a part of my life, it was for a while but it sure ain’t anymore. Perhaps scheduling a time each day, maybe an hour or two, would get me typing again. I’d have to make it a priority and a commitment. Commitments and priorities? That’s serious stuff.
In the meantime, I’m paying for a degree that I’m not even using. How sad is that? When I do find a rare moment to type a sentence or three I feel a little less wasteful. But then I get overly concerned that nobody’s reading it so why write it? And the vicious cycle (sorry, another cliché) starts over!
Everything has already been written anyway.
The MEANING of life is to find your gift. The PURPOSE of life is to give it away.
I like to think of myself as (somekind) of a writer but I’ve never participated. I owe myself an explanation but I can’t think of one. When November rolls around and I begin seeing NaNoWriMo prompts here and there I usually ask myself this question: who’d read it? The answer I give myself is “probably no one.” I guess that’s an explanation, a crappy one but it is what it is.
I have a degree in English Creative Writing Nonfiction. Shouldn’t I be writing something somewhere for someone? Shouldn’t I at least be doing that NaNoWriMo thing? Nah, nobody would read it!
I may not be a very productive writer but at least I’ve made one photo a day for the past 311 days. Project365 began on January 1 and I elected to participate. Photographs tell a story, don’t they? I think they can, it might not be novel length, but it’s still a story.