Why do we do it?

To what end do we scribble out tales, infuse words with emotion and passion?

What is our end game?

Is saying “ta-dah” I’ve written a book enough?

Is such an achievement (and it is an achievement) all that is required?

Is that the only laurel that we need? 

Or is writing that tale not the summit, but a false peak nestling at the bottom of yet more cloud covered mountains?

Do we roll our shoulders, adjust the weight of our pack and plod relentlessly onwards?

Again, what when we eventually reach the final snow-capped summit, what then?

The little cross-legged sage, what wisdom, what lessons for a fulfilling and well spent life will he cast upon us?

Will he commend us for our focus, our determination and drive, or will he lament that we missed so much of the ‘other’ that life has to offer us?

Will the singular goal of being traditionally published ever be worth it?

The pain of disappointment cuts deep, each cut is if it were the very first.

Maybe it is the wrong target.

It’s never too late to admit an error of focus/judgement, and maybe I’m only just realising what for so many others is blindingly obvious. 

Overthinker, pantster and I can be a slow learner… however even I get there in the end.

Hug those you love, hold them tight.

Stay safe and try to remain sane!