I went to my writer’s group tonight. Emptyhanded. As others read their latest masterpieces (R.R. wrote an amazing short w/dialect), my lack of new material gave me the sensation of some long term goals slipping, slipping into the hazy quagmire of the distant future.
Don’t get me wrong. Life is good. Too good–that’s the problem. Somewhere among preparing to welcome a child into the world, pouring myself into a job I absolutely love, switching operating systems and all other computer-related hobbies, and being actively involved at church…it’s the writing that suffers. Not because it’s less important than any of those things, but because it’s less urgent in nature. Less pressing. It can wait. Still…it’s my dream.
“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” (Robert Browning)