If not now, when?
Writing is something I love to do but rarely make time for. I’ve fantasized about a post-retirement writing career. But, too soon, I find myself on an extended medical leave with a racing brain and nimble fingers.
If not for me, who?
I could just keep saving what I write on my computer where no one reads it. Will I ever be comfortable enough in a “too much information” world to put my words out there for anyone to read and not feel like I am violating my own privacy ethos? Why do I, a 53 year-old woman, still care about critics and opinions? Today myself says to myself, sarcastically of course, “Here’s a concept, Einstein: maybe someone will enjoy what you write.” Could I be done with “myself forever reproaching myself”?
If not just cancer, what?
I have to admit that everything that I’ve written over the past few months has been cancer-related. I expect that will get old at some point. I hope to use this blog to post updates on my status as a patient and musings on my cancer “situation,” but also random creative pieces that may or may not be part of something bigger. I hope writing will be a balm for a suddenly out-of-control life.
I’ll write because I love to and because I can. I’ll write because for the foreseeable future I’m alive and part of this theater. And because the powerful play goes on and I may contribute a verse.
O Me! O Life! by Walt Whitman
“Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”