Someone once read a blog entry of mine and asked me if I would write that way for the rest of my life.  The answer, of course, was “yes”.

Another person read a blog entry of mine and asked if I had ever thought of being a real writer.  The answer to that question, too, was “yes”.

I found neither question curious when each was asked, but both curious now.  I am a writer, perforce, I write.  I am real, therefore, I am a real writer.

But I do understand that each questioner intended to compliment me, and I took the questions as favorable remarks.

This evening, I attended the last “in-store” performance of the Mysteryscape Chamber Theatre Company at Mysteryscape Bookstore.  Alas, the store is closing after three wonderful years.  I lament  the demise of an independent bookstore, particularly this one.  But as to the theatre company:  After the performance, I spoke with the evening’s director, who had also written the adaptation of one of Agathie Christie’s short stories performed tonight.  He talked about the moment when he realized that he might actually be  a playwright and of course, I thought of my son — my son, the real writer, who has sold a piece and had more than one of his plays staged.

I, too, wanted to be a real writer.  I found myself lacking in courage to pursue my dream.  Now, five decades later, at not-quite-sixty, I regret my choice.  But I’m not complaining.  I did not write from 1980 to 2008, but I shall not again stop.  And every morning that I awaken with a brain still humming and fingers still capable of dancing across a keyboard is a day in which I can write.  So many words, so little time.  Perhaps what drives me is the desire to compensate for all those lost years.  If that is the case, then by rights I should actually live to be 103, as I promised many years ago.  That will be something to write home about!