On Writing

When I was young, not school boy young, but young man young, 18 young, I wanted a road map.  Or I thought I did.  I think now, what I wanted, was a free and clear way ahead.  Preferably paved in gold and dotted with happiness and wisdom.

I saw the world as a large sometimes dark, sometimes light, forest, filled with mountains and rivers and fields.  Filled with possibilities, and also looming with regrets.

I knew then, like I know now, that I didn’t want to be sucked through life like I was in a tube.  I didn’t want to be told what to do, but I did want to be able to see where I was going.

That’s when I started writing.  It was kind of like breaking sticks as you walk through the woods, or leaving little markers to flag the trail as you move along.  So even if I didn’t know exactly where I was going, I could see where I was at a little more clearly.  And I thought that if I marked the trail properly, I could travel along it and navigate back through it.