I woke this morning to ‘March in Michigan’ which is gray/cloudy and sleet a-falling with some crusty snow on the ground. I must remember to wipe the dogs’ paws when they come in from the yard. Father has the temperature in the house quite high which makes a marked contrast to the gelid weather outdoors. I sit across from him; he is wrapped burrito-style in an electric blanket. The man is always cold. He asks me politely what I am doing and I tell him I am writing a blog entry. He then asks how long I have been doing this (2006). His next question is not so easy to answer: ‘why do you keep doing it?”.

It’s a good question, one that has been often on my mind.

After so many years of doing this I often stare at the white screen before me and ask myself what on earth am I doing? What do I have to say anymore, or say in general, when it has all been said before and by countless proper writers, much better than I? Whenever I feel this, which is often, I face the grim realization not only has it all been said before but in much better ways and style. What good are my words and attempts?

So what do you in reaction to this revelation? If you are like me you get up and do things for awhile and later on realize you have no choice but to return to writing. The Muses or somebody like them seem hellbent-determined I keep at it. I find a way to express something or myself, hoping it is decent and maybe someone else will like it too.

I guess that makes me a ‘writer’. No other type would doggedly do this.

Father has fallen asleep listening to some classical music playing softly on the Echo. I can hardly see him wrapped up as he is. He will sleep while I attend to his laundry and prepare his luncheon. Maybe if I am lucky The Muses et. al. will knock me about the head this afternoon with a topic upon which to write. Or maybe they will not. Either way I will return to the keyboard and type out something. I feel I have no choice. This is not a bad thing though. I would feel bad if it were otherwise.