Spitting my dummy out!

Some days I wish I could get over myself.  Sooo full of self importance, not really, but pretty hacked off at running out of reasons not to write.  You ever been there?

Today's revelation came care of an interesting book by Julia Cameron entitled, "The right to write." ISBN 0 333 78202. I must admit, it's NOT self importance I suffer from, more a struggle with jealousy.  I get jealous of writers who are rich, i.e. writing is a hobby; or writers who have no commitments other than to themselves.

There I was, enjoying her book when, come page 216, paperback version at least, up comes the line, "I live alone and have lived alone most of my adult life."  Well, blow me over with a feather, it must be nice to have the time to organise yourself to write when the moment appears for you!  Aaaaargh!

You see, my problem is that I have a full-time job, a wonderful wife, four kids and a house to help run.  Somewhere, deep in the recesses of all this, I want to squeeze out a book.  Would that I had the time to choose when I would write and when I would pay my dues.

But, does it deter me? No. Should I just throw in the towel then? No.  Should I stop being jealous?  Yes. Emphatically, yes!  I'll tell you how I squared this particularly bothersome circle...it's like this.

Two years ago I went on a climbing trip to Mt Kilimanjaro in Tanzania.  After my efforts, which got me to 18,000 feet, not the top, our group went on a day visit to a city at Kili's base called Arusha.  The city is destitute, as if Katrina had blown across the Serengeti plains before she finally blew out.

When I was there, looking at all the poverty around me,  I wondered how I might come to terms with being a Western tourist in such impoverishment.  One of my hiking buddies said this, or something like it, "You can't help where you're born.  But you can help.  You can be in control of your response."

So, folks, there it is, the answer in literary terms at least.

I probably won't stop being the impoverished one in this situation, the one with no time or place to write, but write I must, or I must shut up moaning.  Had I chosen to write when I was a kid, organised my life around it, done a degree in writing instead of nursing, then I would, possibly, be better set up than I am now.  Well, buckeroo, I didn't do any of that and my bed is made as it is.  I'm genuinely happy for those that have chosen different paths, or have had them opened up for them by a chance marriage, good fortune or cruel fate.

So, however my novel will be written, it'll be my story, written in my way.  Nobody will have my journey, as it's my journey.

But, here's the thing.  If you want to keep watch on me, please take up my invitation and come alongside me.  I enjoy company.  I'm not into the solitary writer locked into a garret somewhere, woe is me-ing, blah, blah, blah.  I'm Bruce.  Your Bruce, if you will.  That guy you ran across who is trying to write a story.  If you want to be part of it, then welcome.  Nice to meet you...