Someone once asked me, "Jeff, why do you write?"
Answer? "Can't not do it."
Let me explain.
I've got many pots on the burners. And I'm not talkin' your normal, wimpy four burner stove either. My stove's the Mongo, Super Reinforced Range 2000 with 12 back burners to boot. I'm filin' 'em up quicker than I can turn 'em on!
I've got the three kids, classes to teach, startup to get funding for, business plan to write, moving--boxes to pack, messaging of investments, kid's homework, Mikie's diapers to change, a nervous wife to calm, books to read for business and classes, church calling to fulfill, and numerous, day-filling, misc. little piddlin' things to do like call AT&T and Dish Network who can't seem to keep their little fee flickin' fingers out of my pockets. It once took me SIX MONTHS to finally get compensation for games and ring tones our kids filled up on. And after speaking to the TMobile techies for three months, I finally had to go in myself and figure out how to delete what needed deletin'.
But I ain't complainin' here. I'm just writing to tell ya that even with all this going on I'm in the process of writing two books and articles, articles, articles.
Why? You ask.
Well, let's put it this way, if I don't write, the wife goes unattended, the kids get forgotten, Mikie poops endlessly into a single diaper, and my investments go belly up, belly up, belly up. You've heard that song before, haven't you Solomon?
You say, "My, what a mean man."
"How selfish!"
"What a jerk"
"Yeah, certified, self-centered loser. Yuck!"
Nope. And I'll tell you why.
I was built to last with that inner-word blast that can't take no for an answer.
My tummy gets tight and the writtin' gets right because my DNA's got that
bug that's so frightenin'. Yes, sirs and ma'ams, he's got that wordin' bug called writin'.
Nothing I can do. I've tried to ignore it before but it only lead to depression and a lot of wrong, misinformed moves, career, personal and otherwise. Hell, I even pretended that I wanted a normal job for a while, like programmer and such, when time told me "I'm passing by, Skippy, and I'll leave you short if you don't get writing."
I did the right thing and went back to school, got by BA and MA in writing, and after graduating to keep the debters at bay, I taught seven English classes. Funny how at the end of the semester my lack-of-writing body gave me some time to think it over with a six month time-out for recovery from cancer.
I've gone days and days without writing knowing that I had to put together a business plan, correct student's papers, attend to family needs, etc., but try as I may, I could not shirk the the little writer Brownie. Them sprites and such have amazin' power, specially those holding the Muse's card.
Ultimately, I am a writer. Nothing ifs, ands, or buts about it.
So write as I may, write as I must, I write on, writing in trust, that as I do so with no time for it, the Muse slows down minutes, retards the hours, cancels appointments, changes diapers, even kisses n' cuddles those in need, so that from my quill, from my pen, my heart does what it needs and bleeds, bleeds, bleeds, yes, brothers and sisters, it does the BIG, Bleed-Bleed-Bleed to lift those in trouble, the trialed, the uninspired in need, need, need.
