Half out of habit, and loyalty to
the ritual. Coming here keeps me connected, even tentatively, to stories, to
writing, to the dream. Even if I only write once a month, even if only a few
pages, I’m still writing, keeping the fragile chain intact, continuing
something that’s been a part of me for so long. So I remain loyal to this
oldest of personal traditions, clinging to my little rock, writing. Sometimes I
refer to writing as my religion; not only as a faith, but a routine that is
communion and cleansing, a pilgrimage to my holy land. Safaris are for tourists
to see the world, pilgrimages purify the soul.
And the other half is stubbornness,
refusal to let it die on my watch. Someone else created this idea, this group,
and for five years she helped it thrive. When she retired many stopped coming,
but a group of one is still a group, still tending the fire, keeping the light
on.
The last piece of the puzzle is the
spark of hope, the dream that maybe, someday, my stories would sell like
hotcakes, that I need never worry about money, and that I might justify the
time I spent, writing. Of course either way I will continue. I’m hooked, and
there is no medicine that can compare with the simple contentment of my craft…but
it would be nice.
