I DIDN’T CHOOSE WRITING. IT CHOSE ME.
The first thing you come to realize is the thing that fulfills you the most. Athletics comes easier to you. Perhaps mathematics and computer science. Those of us with a creative bent understand what we are capable of.
But even within those respective disciplines, there are endless paths to follow, a myriad of opportunities that are rife with possible contentment. I suppose if you are exceedingly tall you are better suited to basketball than hockey. Those with tactile capabilities would rather build electronic equipment than write code. There is certainly a vast difference between hands that throw clay and those that pound a keyboard.
The story I have told many times throughout the years is that the house I grew up in had books in every room, including the bathroom. We also had record albums with a variety of popular and classical music and artwork of all kinds, primarily Oriental in nature. It would seem I was destined for the arts in some fashion.
However, I missed out on a chance to learn a musical instrument and could progress no further than stick figures. While I was by no means a literary prodigy, I turned toward the written word early on. My higher education in college revolved around creative writing and film-making. Though my parents encouraged me to follow my dreams, I had absolutely no idea what they were. Neither did my parents. Sure, write a great screenplay in college and have your professor secure you an agent or hook you up with a producer. Nine, ten months later, you’re walking a red carpet at a premier. All that hard work paid off.
It only happens in the movies.
Needless to say, from my early twenties to my early sixties, an improbable series of adventures, missed opportunities, and fortunate occurrences brought me to a point of having six novels (thus far) published. There was ‘real life’ pervading all those years and creative endeavors woven in-between. I didn’t write the script.
I think the only thing that helped maintain any degree of balance and stability was the desire to write, to learn the craft, to get better, and ultimately, just to tell a good story. All those jobs (meaningless and unimaginative) were solely for paying the bills and building a nest egg. They did not feed my soul nor did they offer anything of ultimate value beyond a minor knowledge of a few scattered industries but a greater comprehension of people. And, after all, that latter partis a writer’s primary trade.
From the beginning when I realized I could create…something, I understood this was not a path of ease nor financial prosperity. It was an extension of who I believe I would become as a person. The tools of the trade took time but the essence was always there from the start.
Too often, we believe we have chosen a life or path but ultimately, we were aware enough that greater forces were guiding us to what we need to do or be. Accolades aside, it is more likely this path made me the person that I am and ultimately what I will be remembered for.
