|A storm by the seaside. Terrifying.|
I've surrounded myself with real-world stuff to get me into writing. It's been working, although I get side-tracked by the Internet (but not like this, blogging is good, somehow) more often than I'd like, but we are human and the brain needs something to chew upon.
I don't believe I'm any better than the thinkers out there and so sometimes I doubt my motives on talking about myself. My life is entirely different from yours. There are things I put up with everyday that may break you.
Or not--and that's the beauty of it.
That's why I write, I guess. I want to give the world the assurance that the circumstances may be different, the characters may be different, the place where you put your coffee may be different, but in the end, while we are all different, we can be the same.
I'm not sure if that's a noble reason for writing. I've gone for nobility before when it was cool, but now, while it's still cool, I find honesty much more difficult to achieve. And therefore quite a more fitting goal.
For me, I can't get more honest than writing fiction. It's totally imaginary and yet it's totally real. It may be the only thing that matters to me now. And I may be slow and the penultimate late bloomer in the eyes of the world, but I'd rather be looked at by fellow late bloomers and be told they never thought it'd be possible to change your destiny this late in life. And then there are octogenarians who have the gumption to finish college.
What I'm really saying is this: I'm happy I can write for you, and one day maybe you can read me, and I hope that this will all be worth it.