Epiphany

I can't vouch for the quality, because I've never published anything beyond this blog, but this morning I accepted the conclusion that I am a writer. Admittedly my entries here are not great literature, many of them dashed off with little more than a quick proof, but in the past few days I've really been focused on reworking an old short story and a brand new sonnet. Although neither is a great work, the process has been an immense relief from the stress of worrying about my job and the people I work with.

Then, as I read the second assigned Capote piece, "A Day's Work," I realized that all of this is a process, a journey, to get me to where I want to go. My day job, whatever else it might have been, has always been a distraction -- an excuse -- for not fulfilling my own perception of my potential -- an excuse for not really going for it. The dramas that seem to come with just about any day job are like a drug to me, and I'm addicted to focusing on them instead of what is really important. My day job pays my bills. That is all. The quality of my writing is the reflection of my personal quality.

Whatever that means.