A Lottery of Sorts

Typewriter

The recent Powerball craze did not provide me with any winnings. I think we bought two tickets, so I guess we contributed to the pot in a minuscule way. What it did give me was confirmation.

Along with millions of other people, I had fun thinking about all the ways that I could spend the jackpot. I envisioned trips to every corner of the globe. Living in absolute comfort with the best of everything for my family. I thought about the experiences we could have; the once-in-a-lifetime concerts, events, and performances, meeting people from all over the world, and basking in the most beautiful spots on the planet.

Then I thought,  but what would I do? Would I be content with soaking up everything under the sun and not giving anything back. Would I be fulfilled with all the consumption if there were no creation. Of course, we would be financially generous, something we feel called to do and consider a privilege. Another way to phrase the question is, Can I be content without a balance of receiving and offering back in some form.? When I pondered a life with, essentially, no limits, wherein I could relish as much of this world and its people as I possible could,  I realized I would not be content if I was also not bringing something into existence and sharing that in some way. And if I could do anything in the world, one thing I would surely do would be to write.

For those of us who dream of creating art of some kind, winning the lottery would enable whatever art we had within us to be brought to the surface without external obstacles. For me, that would mean I could write anytime an idea struck because I would have live-in help. I could fly away to the most gorgeous writing cabin in the world if I wanted. I buy a publishing company and marketing company and so on. I could have the most brilliant editors and teachers that money could buy.

Thus, it became clear that if my “dream job” is to write, then I better get to it. It’s as if I have always had a little pocket flashlight pointing on this little vision in my heart, but this realization has shone a giant spotlight onto that vision allowing me to see that it is bigger than I thought. Writing, indeed, takes up more space after all.

So here I am posting this for all of twenty unique and very appreciated visitors to see. I may be without a fortune in the bank or a private jet to find inspiration, but I am rich nonetheless. I understand a big dream of mine. I know the work it will take; or, rather I have an inkling of the work that it will take. That is not the scariest part. I am fine with the work and that realistic amount of time that takes. The failure is more scary. The scariest part, though, is the dismissal of it. Everyone wants to be a writer. And if everyone wants to be a writer, then what makes it so important. Of course, that is a nonsense lie. It is one of the most important things in all of human history and as many people that can do it should. I believe that. With that, here I go.

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