"And so you want to be a writer eh...?" says the old man to him.
"Yeah I do..." he replies unconvincingly.
What is it about the people that value the process - you don't get to be egoistic and proud enough to want to follow it through. That's the problem with the little people -they're there to do the work but not to get the name. And which side of the coin is worse? The egoists or the hardworking cowardice? (I'm writing this on computer while being interrupted on the phone - it's true what my creative writing instructor says - that on the keyboard you tend to want to go back and delete what you've written - and methinks the office is not the most convenient place to write anyway) And going back to the young man;
He walks down the street pondering on the old man's question "So you WANT to be a writer eh?"....Gone were the times when he used to bind his own little notebook with the scribblings and doodles which carried the pregnant weight of his thoughts.
"Yes I do want to be a writer -I AM a writer" he thinks.
But he also thinks of the sweat, the tears and the rejections of publishing.
"Oh well, at least I could give it a try"
But he knows in the back of his mind that he will start this pursuit with frenzy which lasts but a few months and from then on it's back to square one. He realizes this but he also holds on to the motto that 'You have only one life to live, so live it!' He also hopes that this time, it would not be just another trivial pursuit.
"Who knows, I'll make it this time - I'll promise myself that I'll keep at it -I'll persevere as I've never persevered before. THAT would make the difference" he mutters to himself.
And so he hurries to the nearest bookshop, full of determination, to get the whitest bound paper weight from Popular bookstore and the smoothest black roller ball pen (and a few other colour pens too since colours stimulate the right brain) and hurries home.
