“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence is not an act, but a habit”
It’s difficult to call myself a writer, when I write so infrequently these days. Sometimes I feel like the last kid on the empty playground shouting “I‘m gonna be an astronaut some day, just you watch!” to the dusty nothingness of cracked asphalt and faded lines as the afternoon sun of my youth slinks quickly behind the ever growing shadows and inevitability of adulthood. Everyone else has gone inside and traded in their dreams for something more practical. And I’m a waiter, who writes. But not even the latter all that much.
It’s an empty word. Writer. A thin blanket so many others have veiled themselves to excuse their aspirations of greatness never blossoming into fruition. Writer. It’s a vague and incomplete title. Tell someone you’re a carpenter and they’ll ask to see your wood-shop, or sit upon a sturdy chair you’ve built. I’m a writer. But I’m still working working on my novel. Any day now…
A chair either is– or it isn’t. It exists in either of those two states. Useless wood, or functional-something-finished.
And I think I’ve gotten it tangled up in my head. This idea of the chair I want to make. With the perfect spine and easy arm rests, and perfect legs, so much so that the very thought of constructing it, has me hiding from the shop. But in truth. I just need to touch wood. To touch wood as often as I can, for as long as I can. And eventually… something will come to fruition.