What....

As you know, I'm a big fan of the writer Richard Bach. In particular, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah. Catchy title, has a good beat, and you can probably even dance to it.

Richard explains in the introduction that people always asked him what he was going to write next, after the huge success of Jonathan Livingston Seagull. He believed he had written everything he had to say, that he had no important words left. I'm not convinced he didn't have a bit of writer's block, and saying he was done was an easy out. After awhile, he realized there's always something more to be written. Maybe he gained a muse: he had met his soulmate Leslie already. In his later book The Bridge Across Forever: A Lovestory, he acknowledges that he didn't see what was in front of him, and possibly that included what he needed to write.

I've been there. I wrote a ton of stuff as a teen: poems and lyrics, mostly. Then I stopped almost completely for a decade. I wrote a few more lyrics in my twenties, and stopped again. Not exactly sure why, but I give myself the excuse that life was busy. When in fact, if I had been writing more, my life might have been less busy. I might have had enough success to be rewarded and work less. I found the internet in the late 90's, and saw how easy writing could be. Under the anonymity of a username, I could discuss subjects that mattered without repercussion. It still wasn't the same, but I enjoyed it. Then there's blogging.

I started a "fun" blog here in 2008, posting smart remarks about politics and linking to articles written by "professionals."  Little did I realize most of them were just living the dream, like me. Only with more talent, and better habits. And of course, I quit again. Took a big break for a few years. I think, in retrospect, I lost my muse. I felt.... ignored. Like I didn't have anything to say that anyone wanted to hear. I'm not entirely sure where "I" went, but I thought I was back in 2014, into 2015. Then... I got lost again.

I think I put too much pressure on myself. I said I believed I was supposed to write to teach people about surviving a life that, in spite of the HUGE amounts of suck, was also full of joy and wonder and happiness. I wrote every. damn. day. for months. Then one day, I.... couldn't think of a thing to say. I hemmed and hawwed for a week, then tapped out. Again.

I've re-read Illusions about five times in the past year. And finally, I found it. I found what I needed to get "me" back. It was there, all the time.

"Our true work is this voyage, this adventure."

I hope you'll come along with the journey. Again.