So what can I say after all that as a final post? This is my life as a writer, and actually the lives of many writers I know. Writing is not easy. It is a mind that never stops, it is typing until your fingers hurt and cramp up and then type some more, it’s back pains, leg craps, hemorrhoids and dizzy spells because you forgot to drink and stomach cramps because you just decided it was easier to munch down on bad food than to cook. It is a shelf dedicated and filled of notepads with idea’s and just a small pile of published books, it’s exulting highs of plot in which you believe that if you jumped off a roof you could just drift down and dread lows in which you wish you were dead as what you write is pure crap, and never knowing if you are good enough. And all that for a pay that is worse than if you went to work behind a cash register at any supermarket chain.
But I believe being a writer is not something you set out to do. Being a writer is what you are when you find it is something you can not not do. It is a vocation, just like a singer will always find a place to sing, even if it is under the shower, and a poet will always write verse, even if it is on a napkin.
This is writing and through it all I know I have to write. It is my deepest hate, it is my most passionate love and my biggest fear. So I would like to end by saying that it is never the end, but always a continuation of a new beginning.
I can only close this with some music, my second passion, and yes, that puts my wife Wendy on the third position, and she knows that and is fine with it as I am not her first passion either. This is what life is. It’s ups and downs and unexpected sidesteps. But the best thing you can be is someone who can stand up, give a shrug and an honest smile and say: This is my life.