Illusion Interrupted

Yesterday was not the best morning.

I became frustrated by the fact that my computer - in fact both of our computers - were acting up.  They were acting slow and even when I got here to write the morning entry, they laughed at me with blank web pages and slowly spinning icons.  My mood quickly came to match that of the computers:  running from room to room I started snarling at everything and everyone. 

Why?  Because I could not get my morning post written and posted.

Imagine!  I, the great blogger of the blogosphere, could not get my thoughts out to my adoring and waiting fans.  I was trapped between the hammer of old technology and the anvil of having to run to my "job", the thing I hate to do but have to (when I really should be writing, after all). 

The whole thing ate at me:  all the way driving in and dropping off Na Clann at school, all the way to the office.  My writing, my career, my wisdom - half done and empty.

I hope at this point you grasp the foolishness I only came to see later.

The simple reality - the reality I like to ignore - is that I am not really a writer.  I write, yes.  I even have some books I have published (self-published, to be fair).  I certainly enjoy writing.  But none of this should distract from the actual reality that is.

I am a very small fish in a very big sea.  I have a core of loyal readership (thank you all very much!) but in no wise do I have some vast horde clamoring for me to express myself.  My need to write is simply that:  my need.  It is not a requirement or a geas laid on me by someone else.  Occasionally I touch the life of someone else for which I am grateful - but it is not a sure thing.  And it is certainly not anything (based on actual results) that I can argue is some kind of calling from God, something I should be doing to the exclusion of all else.

And an successful author?  The bright part (I suppose) is that I have sold enough to cover the cost of my hobby - but it is certainly nothing that is moving me in the direction of this high demand second writing career that I constantly see myself in.

Is it possible for me to improve?  Always.  Is it guaranteed that such improvement will make me a desirable author or suddenly make my blog one of the top 1,000,000?  And (let us be fair) is it something that I have any proof of is a legitimate calling from God?  Beyond the raw desire and occasional flashes of insight, no.

Perhaps the point of this whole incident is to remind me - gently the first time around, anyway - that my primary goal in life is not the writings I do or not do or the unseen people I touch or do not touch.  Perhaps it is simply to remind me that the mood I am in - the mood of the family that sees me and the coworkers I work with - is more important to their long term memory of myself and what it says about my God than any well crafted text could ever be.