One Resolution Blown to Hell

Well, my New Year's resolution to write six hours a week hasn't come even close to fruition. In fact, Since the end of January, I doubt I've averaged six minutes a week.

I've never really obsessed over getting older. I really don't feel much different than I did twenty years ago; aging so far has brought more positives than minuses.

But now, halfway through my fifties, I'm struck with how time is getting more precious, whether I have one year or forty left on this earth. I'm struck with how much living I've done inside my head, and not engaged with the world in the here and now.

My job takes me away from home, and when I'm away, I grieve over every lost hug, every laugh, every warm moment with my wife and son lost to those wanderings inside my head.

Writing is part of that world, that world inside my head. Sometimes I think it detracts from the riches of my life instead of adding to it. Before I can truly engage with writing as a life journey, I'll have to make peace with the feeling that it could be a detour away from what really matters.

I'm not a writer. I'm a guy who writes now and then.

Will that change? I don't know. I'll have to get back to you on that one.