What do you call something that is years in the making, gives you no immediate tangible reward, and  ultimately opens you up to widespread criticism?   Torture?  Or nirvana?  I call it doing what you were meant to do.

I once read about a math wiz, a savant, who didn’t know how he was able to do what he did–it was just a part of him.  To him, it was normal.  To everyone else, it was remarkable.

I can’t sing or write songs or draw or paint, and I’m smart enough to know not to even try.  But I can write.  Don’t get me wrong:  I’m no savant–at anything.  But I’ve always been complimented on my writing.  Whether a short story, a letter or a simple (to me) email, I’ve received unsolicited praise, but I’ve never really understood what the big deal is–it’s just me and it’s just writing.  So, I thought, maybe that’s my calling, and maybe I should do something with it–I’ll write a book.  I just didn’t realize the time and effort and sacrifice that writing a book would entail.

In hindsight, mine was a thoughtless leap of faith.  Just because you can string a couple of sentences together doesn’t mean you can make up a compelling story or write good dialogue.  And maybe I can’t, at least not well.  But I did enjoy the process.  Even though it took me years, without reward, and that now, it may open me up to ridicule.

My words are my brush, my keyboard my canvas.  Time to paint.