Picking At the Gray Matter again (no, not my nose)


I often wondered if writing was going to become another one of the many things where I jump in headfirst and learn, learn, learn only to watch it do a slow fade into becoming just something I once tried.

I’ve always been on the lookout for ‘my passion.’ You know—that thing that smacks into us. Something so strong it grabs me and scares me silly. Carries me away until I’m one of those starving artists in a drafty loft on the bank of some river. I figured when we met— my passion would announce itself with a mighty poof  in my face.


I’m still waiting.

Oh sure, writing was exciting—in the beginning, and it’s never stopped being fun, tense, frustrating and a major hissy-fit creator. And, yes, it has the power to swamp me with enough self-doubt to flood an indoor skating rink. But it has never felt like it ‘poofed’ in my face so there’s always been a niggling question, like a tattered old ribbon, running through my gray matter.

Is writing my passion?

Being a well-practiced procrastinator of some magnificence there are oodles of time where I don’t write—but there is never not a time I don’t have a story, or the gleaming of one rotating in my head.

Writing won’t leave me alone so yes, it’s a passion. Just a quiet, maddening adherence to me—kinda’ like a nervous dog clinging to its master in a crowd.

And I’m happy with that because I get it—passion shows up when and how it chooses and it’s up to us to recognise it.

Some just take a little longer to get there. . .

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