When I was seventeen, I convinced myself (already I lie, I really don't think I gave it much thought back then) that I should study art, and become an art teacher. It was on many levels an absurdity, since I had the skills to pursue several far more exalted paths--more on my influences in future posts.
For three years, I faked it through art school--producing nothing of merit and little of promise. After I dropped out, I never applied a brush to a canvas, a burin to a plate, or my hands to a lump of clay again.
The point is, that to produce art (and I deliberately use the broader term "produce" rather than the more limited "create"), one must burn from within, a self fueled fire, a fire that cannot restrain itself. An artist would produce art even if there were not another living soul alive, because he cannot not make art.
That is not the case with writing. It's not that writing necessarily gives me pleasure--some writing tasks are painful, and it is never easy.
But words come out of me, out of my pencil, out of my keyboard, to be recorded, perhaps to be shared, spontaneously.
So I offer these writings to you. In return for the gracious gift of your time, I promise--to try, at least--to not be trivial, to be as brief as I can, and to get to the point with dispatch.
To be true to this pledge--I say thank you, and so long.