I am a writer. It’s a pulse in me travelling alongside my heart’s current. Twins entwining along my sinews.
I just watched my second movie in six months about the prolific, and famous writer Charles Dickens. He was a lauded celebrity in his time. Rich, famous, prodigious, effervescent, complicated, tortured. All those attributes that make the great…GREAT.
His intensity and output are what inspire me. He was constantly writing, scribbling, and creating. I envy his time to do so.
Instead, I am stealing time away from checking a mound of papers, my last push at the end of a arduous teaching year, to write.
To write anything, and to envy a literary god of his time and his fortuitousness in living lauded, respected, and bountiful.
Writing, writing, writing…his stories loved, and adored. I wish I had the time. I wish I had the blessing of a career that matches the timber of my heart’s electrical current.
Until then, I carve out niches of time to write. Here and there, between checking papers, between lesson planning, prepping dinner, putting kids to bed, etc, etc, etc.
Dickens inspires, but I wonder if he realized and relished the blessing of his position. Even through his despairing childhood, he surfaced as a literary force, and he embraced it completely.
I hope one day I have a fraction of his fame, and a mountain of his talent and productivity, gathering it here and there in mounds of pebbles.