Wednesday, May 27, 2015

A Bucket of Balls

I haven't written on this Internet outpost that I reserved for my thoughts for nearly a year and a half.
I can say that it's been work and illness and every manner of excuse, but that is what it is: an excuse.

Excuses become like only socks that look for mates and become useless even as they are used more and more often.

I made plans to move all this information to a new website, domains purchased and ready for prime time.  The .com showing myself, and my blessed readers, that I am serious about becoming a brand, a writer, not someone who writes.

But like that bathroom you are going to redo some weekend when you get to it, you realized that planning paralyzes you, and that when you bought that house and pictured that new bathroom, you woke up this morning so many years later and shaved for work over the same sink that was there when you walked through the place during the inspection.  And that when they gather at said home over cold cuts when you pass, they will talk about how nice the service was and that your tombstone will read "I'll Get To It..."

Writing is the most simple of things: it's thinking on paper.  I do it for a living.  Anyone can do it, as long as you can develop a thought.

But next to public speaking, I hear more people worry about reading their writing.  They will somehow be lain bare by using the same 26 letters that everyone is taught, that the method and style in which they combine them will be ridiculed or questioned.

We all use words, so why do we, even those of us who pay our bills by using them, sometimes get caught in this trap of worrying how they will be received?

As I am settling into middle age, I am realizing more and more that living in any kind of fear is dying before your time.  But just as important, it's time to eat off the good china, wear that heirloom watch, and dance.

I love golf (more on the intricacies of what I love about it later).  The first time you break out the sticks for the season and hit a bucket of balls to get back in the swing of things, you usually wake up the next day sore and barely able to tie your shoes (middle age, again).  But you do it and then you know its time to start the first loop of the year.

I feel like this is my bucket of balls on the range.  I doubt anyone is reading this, but just like the driving range, its not for an audience: it for the feel of it.

Thanks for stopping by.