Musings by the Firepit, Part 2

The writing has not gone well.  Short stories are being rejected (though I only sent out a couple to a few places) and novels are not being written.  I am very confident that I'll write more--and more consistently--once I'm in my own office in the new house.  I always wrote more there--but not always better--and of course that was a much different time.  And I was a much different person.  But I do feel strongly that I'll get more done, and focus better.

But that's just Resistance, as Steven Pressfield would say, and he's right.  I could write more RIGHT NOW.  I could stop "researching" so much and use what I've got RIGHT NOW.  Anything else is some kind of excuse.  I know this.  I know this.  I know this.

The fire is smoldering; the light is dimmer (though nothing can compare to the inferno I've sustained for the past few hours!); and the flickering flames, still strong, are clearly petering out.  I'm finishing my drink.  I don't want to put the last of the short, thick logs on because they take forever to burn.  And somewhere off in the neighborhood, some guy has emptied his bottles and cans into the huge recycling bin we all have--surely a loud sign that the July 4th weekend is over!

And yet I will write to the last, to the last flicker, to the last remnant of smoldering wood, to the last drop of my drink.  Because we don't ever want the fire to go out, do we?  We don't ever want to be done.  We will fight to the last--we will rage to the dying of the light.  My better half is in bed, sleeping, and this fire keeps crumbling...I know I'll have tomorrow, but how many more tomorrows will any of us have?  How much fire is left?

I dedicate this to my father and Mary, both who died too young.  May their flames burn on.