I spent the last hour trying to write a post about being a futurist and came up with less than a paragraph that just sounded self aggrandizing and never actually explained why it’s important for Canada to take refugees that are pouring into the country through a strange loophole in immigration law. But I couldn’t find the words.
I used to have a solution to this and the other day I was reminded of what it was. Digging through old boxes I unearthed two of my old hard-drives, one of them was IDE so God only knows how old that was. The hard drives were chock-a-block full of gold though; hundreds — literally hundreds — of stories I had started littered the MyDocuments folder located directly on C:/ because that’s just how old it was. Filled with heroes with names like “Flamethrower” and “Blades” and villains like “the Man in the Shadows.” Captain Nemo, Mitsaji, Dirk, Isla, Eduardo, Edward, Nick, Laredo, Bearson, Darius Bargaurd, Trenton and Abigail, Luke son of Jacob… Old friends each of them, all waiting for me to stumble upon them again. And of course they’re doing what they do best and they’re flooding every corridor of my mind. I really should be writing a proper Sunday Edition or at the very least working on a script for the team, but Darius’ affliction is getting worse and Eduardo still searches for the truth about the murder of his family, while Luke son of Jacob levels his six shooter at the girl he swore to protect.
But I can’t help them right now, no matter how much they beg me to join them on their journeys once again. It’s something I’m going to have to learn to deal with properly of course. When I was writing for myself it wasn’t a big deal, I just wrote something else for myself. But I’m not writing just for myself anymore, am I? No I’m writing for the both of us now. A strange concept that I’m sure has some depth of it’s own for me to explore I’m sure. I mean, at what point do you think of yourself as a “writer”? When do you stop being a guy who just dribbles on to a screen or keyboard and actually become a guy writing for people? Is it based on the number of readers? Hard to say really. Numbers fluctuate wildly of course, ranging from 400 individual views a month to 40. With the site being as young as it is, it’s hard to really judge what that means, but going back to the original query; when can I officially call myself a writer?
I had begun to think that maybe it had to do with someone other than myself publishing my work, but that’s nonsense too, isn’t it? Jerry Holkins is one of the finest writers I know, and yet to the best of my knowledge has only ever been published by… well, himself. So that’s clearly not it.
Not that the title haunts me.
I mean, it does a bit. I’ve been writing for what feels like forever and only very recently has anyone other than people I directly know read any of it. So now things of this nature occupy my thoughts from time to time. Am I a writer? Or am I still a guy throwing a strange stream of consciousness soup out on the internet now with tones of rage and bitterness at the lack of common sense and righteousness we now occupy? Question for the ages indeed.
I realize, of course, that we’ve been on something of a radio silence the past while. Various issues have created an impromptu — but in retrospect much needed — holiday for us. One of us is getting married, another of us is photographing that wedding, another still is in the aforementioned wedding. Another of us has attended far too many funerals in rapid succession than someone ought to, while another helped old friends celebrate an extraordinary milestone, while our newest compatriot attended an official type capacity a wedding. We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled program soon-ish.
Honestly we’re making this sh*t up as we go along.
– Have a Good’er