On writing

Someone once told me that Charles Bukowski had to work at getting his writing published.

So here I am, working.

This is my attempting to use the tools I have learned, and write.

Committed to writing every day.

I force myself to put words, thoughts, expressions, letters, symbols on paper, because the only way to get batter is through practice.

Practice is dedication, a repeated endeavor, over a long period of time.

“Practice makes perfect,” I learned as a child.

I don’t know about perfect, but it certainly makes me stronger, more disciplined.

The good, the bad and the ugly–

I’ll write whatever it takes just to keep writing.

Over, and over, and over.

Seated now, at my kitchen table, knowing that this could be the last time my legs rest on the soft, cool, wood of the chair.

Knowing that this could be last time I rest my forehead on the dimpled, yellow surface.

Remembering now, all the lasts–and I didn’t know they would be the last time.

Life keeps going, with or without you.

And I’ll keep writing, with or without you.