How We're Remembered

I've had a difficult week.  I don't know if it's the change of seasons, or just something deep within me, but I feel unsettled.  Anxious.  I want to be somewhere else. Anywhere but where I am.  I'm in a rut.  I'm looking for some meaning in my life, aside from showing up for my day job, collecting my paycheck, paying bills, walking the dogs and loading the dishwasher. There has to be more.

I've found myself lately envying those people with children, or grandchildren.  They have purpose.  If they do nothing else in life, they are Mom or Dad or Grandma or Grandpa.  They are molding young lives and hopefully raising responsible, thoughtful young adults.  They are shaping the future.  What am I doing?

I read a couple of Mommie and Daddy blogs, because friends write them, and I look at my blog and think it's self indulgent schlock. Is that what my life is too?  Even as I write this, it sounds self pitying, and that's not my intent.

For as long as I can remember I have wanted to be a writer.  It took me a lot of years to finally accept that it could be a reality. I thought I had to get a "real" job so I pursued a lot of stuff I didn't really want.  And then I did well with those ventures and it only kept me further and further from my writing.

Now, I make time to write, but I get impatient.  I have been doing it for a while on some level, but I've been working on my novel for about four years now. I am ready to be done.  My writer friends tell me not to rush it.  Don't worry about how long it takes.  Enjoy the process.  My non-writer friends say things like, "Still?"  "When are you going to be done?"  Each time I finish a revision, I think I'm closer to done, only to find out it needs more work.  It's frustrating, but I'm told it's all part of the process. I have to trust that.

I admitted to a friend last night that I'm scared.  All my life I've wanted to be a writer.  What if I can't cut it?  What if it turns out I only have a half decent rough draft in me?  That's not good enough.  I don't want to be a half decent writer, or half decent actor, or half decent photographer.  I want to be good!  I want to be great!  Not for the accolades, but because I want to make a difference.  I want someone to remember I was here.

My family tree ends with me.  A hundred years from now I won't have a great grandchild researching my life.  The best I can hope for is a novel or two sitting in the public library, or as an ebook on some primitive version of Amazon.com.

I'm sure this sounds silly to many of you, but it's where I am today.  I want to do something with meaning.