Writing, writing, writing

I have been writing a lot lately and while it goes no further than the ethereal medium which is the internet, at least it goes further than a drawer, the repository of the past.

Writing is such a solitary art, profession, pastime, sport, occupation....whatever it is one spends a great deal of time alone which is why it is nice to indulge the fantasy that if it goes up on the net someone might actually read what you write. Ah, ego, always present in a writer or anyone who produces creatively.

I long ago decided I did not care if I were not published. I have no illusions about the ephemeral nature of success, acclaim, acceptance and most writers do not make money and most have their books remaindered within 12 months and even many of those who do have a measure of success and who do make money have disappeared down the wormhole of time within a decade.

But, believing as I do that anything which is created is created for all time then it matters not. Perhaps I should be more careful about what I create. Perhaps not. It is the act of creation which matters. I am not compelled to write and I have never put it before my family; but I am urged to write.

It is a part of who and what I am; it is a skill, to greater or lesser degrees no doubt depending on opinion, which I am called to express.

It is as simple as that.