Reason for writing

So, off we go on another writing adventure, which seems to imply that I’ve had lots of writing adventures before. But I haven’t.

I imagine myself as some kind of writer, but I don’t think I am really much of one. At least, not yet. I suppose I imagine myself as a writer because I like sentences that are especially well crafted. I like the lyrical, musical lilt that certain sentences posses which is enough to make you smile, even if the simple meaning of the sentence is nowhere near amusing. Yes, I do like these things, but that doesn’t make me a writer. That makes me a fan of writing. But I suspect it takes more than an appreciation of the art to make one an artist.

No, I seem to remember reading somewhere that someone, an authority on the subject, I'm sure, said, “Writers write!” And if this is true, and it strikes me as being true, then I am not much of a writer because I do not write much. Nor do I write much.

But of course, if you read the inaugural post here, you know that a challenge given me by my wife has spurred me on to write many writings in a short span of time. A swift kick to the writer's block, if you will.

I look forward to what will become of this project in a month - it has already evolved from my initial imagining. In fact this very post has already had two conclusions and here I am adding more words, thoughts, conceiving a different post from what I had in mind when I wrote, "So, off we go . . . "

Have you driven your car with no specific errand or destination in mind? You begin driving and decide to take a road you've never been on before and, lo and behold, you discover a little stand that sells ice cream. You get some. You go back to the car and are just about to open the door and you see a sign about a flea market, or a park, or a show. You go and the day turns into something you never saw coming or could never have planned.

I'm in the car.