For as long as I can remember I have loved to write. I even created a neighborhood “newspaper” when I was a kid. I made copies by hand, carefully printing each story in my best script and drawing the illustrations with an eye to making them all appear to be the same. I sometimes gave out my subscriptions for free but most of the time I asked for anywhere from a penny to a nickel depending on how much effort it took to recreate each edition. I did the same kind of thing when I visited my grandmother on Friday evenings. Since it was family my offerings were gratis and I limited the number of copies to one per family.
I never got much feedback on my efforts which was fine with me. It was just something that I wanted to do. It brought me pleasure to write almost as much as I derived from reading. I suppose that at the back of my mind I fancied myself as a great author whose stories and novels would make me rich and famous. Sadly my life took many unexpected turns and I was usually too busy as an adult just attempting to get by from day to day to follow my dream. Still, the thought of being a bonafide author lived on inside my heart.
When I finally retired in my sixties I wrote an autobiography that lingers in the bowels of my laptop computer because I never seem to get around to formatting it and creating an ebook that that people might purchase. I suppose that my excuses might be mostly related to my fear that my writing would not be of any interest to others. Somehow it’s better to think that I just haven’t had the time to publish my work than to realize that mine is a mediocre vanity project about which nobody would care enough to expend a few dollars to purchase it.
I remember my high school English teacher noting at one time that some of us were born to be admirers of greatness rather than creators. I’ve certainly done my share of enjoying the true talents of some amazing writers whose ways with worlds cause me to question why I would think that my so-called book would be any better than those silly little newspapers that I created as a child. I remain frozen in fear of failing and so I never really try to get my book into the public, which is an easy but embarrassing way out.
I write a blog from Monday through Friday and there was a time when many people took the time to peruse what I had to say with daily devotion. As time went by fewer and fewer souls bothered to see what I had to offer. Perhaps it is because I have become more and more political in my musing for quite some time. Maybe the truth is that my words have become stale and what I have to say is just a constant repetition of meaningless ideas. All I know is that my audience has waned so much that even if I were to finally muster the courage to get my book on the market few would take the time to read its contents or even know that it was finally available.
Along the way a classmate who attended the same high school as I did noticed my blog and became intrigued with the idea that he too had something of worth to share with the world. He took a great deal of time to polish his presentations into a very professional format. More importantly what he had to say was quite simply amazing. I found myself in awe of his ability to string words together in a way that is so interesting that I wait with bated breath to see the next installment. His talent for both prose and poetry is stunning. His work is worth a read and I urge everyone who sees my blogs to visit his site at https://www.houston-iforgotsomething.com/my-stories. You will not be disappointed.
All of this has made me wonder if indeed my greatest gift is to be an appreciator of talent just like my English teacher described. Perhaps what I was always destined to do is discover the gifts of others. I was exceptionally good at doing that as an educator. So many of my students surpassed me in their knowledge and achievements. I celebrate their successes and feel a level of pride in knowing that I was part of their journey. Now that I have witnessed the writing skills of my former classmate I find myself rejoicing once again that somehow I inspired him to present his work to a wider audience . His is a true gift that demands to be shared and it brings me joy to know that he found the courage to share his stories and poems from reading my own offerings.
I still have that book in the cloud of my computer. I am considering making it a series on my blog site rather than worrying ever creating a cover and wondering how much to charge anyone who wants to read what I have to say. I never wrote it for the money, but for the love. It might be fun to get it out there to see if anyone finds merit in my very personal story.
In the meantime follow the link above to discover a promising writer named J. Michael Boland. You will not regret taking the time to do so. In fact, I suspect that you will await his new offerings with anticipation. Frankly I think he will be discovered and we will all be able to say that we read his works before fame came his way.
I’ll let you know when I revert to publishing bits and pieces of my book. I think it is something I should do before my thoughts turn to dust. Stayed tuned for a story called A Little Bit of Living coming soon.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 