That's simple: I'm going to write.
Oh, silly boy, you say, you're already writing. Pass the crack pipe if we've missed something.
Yes, you are correct. I write all the time here on my blog. If Miscellany is any indication, I've been writing for quite a while and still have copies of my works from previous years. I write e-mails with the same abandon and dedication. What could I possibly mean by wanting to write?
All of that is quite true. Your examples clearly indicate that I already exercise my skills of inscription with obvious regularity. What, you say, am I then referring to? Despite this apparent propensity for written loquaciousness, I'm referring to something on a significantly grander scale.
I'm talking about writing a book. Actually, I'm talking about writing several books. Actually again, I'm talking about at least six different ideas for books.
I have since high school had a myriad of ideas running around in my head. I have pages upon pages of related notes. Even to this day, I continue to develop stories in my head, wistfully thinking that I will someday turn those random thoughts into printed works. They are well beyond the scope of blogging. They are well beyond casual discussion or e-mail conversations.
They are stories, tales of life both fictional and non-fictional, defined by their depth and detail. From anecdotes vis-à-vis The Kids to fabrications of the mind to tales of truth from life's many lessons and experiences, I find within me content best suited to a scale more voluminous than other mediums accommodate.
Well, as the title infers for those who read Latin, tomorrow is an empty promise. What we do not act on today may be lost to us, something forever abandoned to the gulf of wishes and dreams passed ("past" would also work, but that's not what I meant). If my life is to be lived, it must be lived by me. If my dreams are to be fulfilled, they must be fulfilled by me. If I am to love what I do, I must make what I do fit something I love. If I am to experience career fulfillment in its entirety, I must act today.
Therefore, I will write.
I cannot say what I will first transcribe from synapses to paper. While it will likely be the first in a three-part fictional series, it may equally manifest as tales of life lived or views of lives shared. Who knows? Not even me.
While I may enjoy my existing career and find the financial compensation to warrant a comfortable life, it is not what I want to do for a living. It is not what I want to do for the rest of my life. Computers happen to be something I'm quite good with, but they do not represent what I love to do.
Will I be rich next week on proceeds from a novel? Ha! I scoff at thee for such silliness. Based on what I do now, will I be thus employed in five years? I certainly hope not, but possible. In ten years? Absolutely not. For the rest of my life? I shudder to think, but nay, it will not be so. Of course, I may also fail utterly at this experiement, but it would not be for lack of trying.
I intend to take control of my life and delve into that which normally represents the unattainable: my dreams. I would be infinitely more happy were writing my sole career. Why then would I not engage in whatever endeavor may be necessary to make that so? No reason that I can think of.
Therefore, I embark on a journey, an exploration in development of my mind and of my life. I set before me the goal of achieving that of which I have dreamt for so many years. I dedicate myself to the realization of my life's goals — to make a living by doing what makes me happy. I promise to myself that I will be who I want to be.
This enterprise now beheld, this new path set before me, is precisely what I want to do. It is what I must do.