Writers lack of recognition.

Some writers feel like they are not in a "career", because their last name is not King, or Steinbeck. That is like saying there are no other scientists because the names Einstein and Hawking are taken.

Writers are responsible for everything, because without us, there would be nothing to write about.

We are the front line in every career path. We make and break politicians. We enable schools to exist. We capture history. We spread the knowledge. We capture the news.

Every occupation requires writing. Every occupation was preceded by writing, and every occupation is furthered through our chosen medium.

We educate, entertain, enlighten, and enrich our world. In short, if not for writers, our world would be a very dull and ignorant place.

Writers recorded our first glimpse at history. They gave us portals into long ago by carving words into stone. They taught us math, science, and even how to laugh and to cry. They worked for kings. They worked for religions. They worked for us.

Are all writers going to become famous? Probably not, but it is my belief that our chosen profession has a much greater risk of that infliction than many others. Who is more in today's conscious, Shakespeare, or one of the actors who portrayed his work?

Without writers how would anyone know of Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, or Moses? How would we know what their lives were like, what they ate, or who they loved?

Next time you feel like you don't make a difference: pick up a book, read an article, or look at the packaging on any product, and bask in the shadow of the author's mighty pen... you may even be that author.

Spring

I caught her peeking in my window earlier today, executing a perfect pose. She was beautiful beyond any mere placement of words. Long forgotten primal urges stirred, and the need for breath stilled. She was perfect. Spring had arrived in all her glory.

Spring in Florida can be nearly impossible to detect. It is always green here, and the birds don't forsake us. I miss her when she slips past.

Spring in Colorado is not something one can miss. It arrives like the blaring of trumpets. Willows grow buds, robins return, and the iron grip of winter's cold is broken... she is magnificent. She is an apology for winter. One long overdue. An event one looks forward to with longing.

She still makes my mind wander at her arrival, filling it with awe at the splendor. She is not a fake. What you see is what you get.

I welcome her with open arms, and fervently pray she isn't leaving any time soon.

Depression

Depression: A hole into which one's soul falls while they are not paying attention.

A bottomless pit that has only one path of escape. The door is always open. One has only to walk through to know they have been there. It isn't hard to pass the treshold, but that walkway to it is a real bitch.

I remember telling myself that "this" would never happen to me... Guess what? Someday and never have an address, and if a person isn't careful you can get there in a hurry.

The cure? Find the door and walk on through. It isn't the trip that is difficult, but the temptation to turn around and go back is. Find your interests and dive in head-first.

I have to take small steps, yet each foothold away from that portal is another foothold away from it.

I have come to the conclusion that I am not immortal. My body will wear out. There is an expiration date on this child. I am in no hurry to find out what's next while I still don't know all there is to know about "here".

I have made a deal with myself. I refuse to give up. I refuse to give in. There are still people out there that I can torment with my feeble wit... aren't you lucky?

I have a novel in me. Part is written, and part is still firmly residing between my ears. I have other projects to work on as well.

I might even surprise myself and get it all done.

Life is an open book. whether you are reading it, or writing it turn the pages.