Priorities (1)

So I know nothing. I know that now. I've known it before at various times, but I know it now, too. I need to tell a story, so please oblige me. It won't take long. This story is a confession. It's been told many times in many ways, and the only time a story is told more than once is because it's true in some way. I've never told this story before. I've never told anything true. But I want to. I want to do one true thing. This story is a true thing.

I'm a 26 year-old who hasn't done anything with his life yet. Other 26 year-olds have. I'm kind of slow when it comes to achievement, perhaps. What was I thinking? Did I really think that I could make a name for myself without some kind of training? Was I thinking that I could get away with not having a bachelor's degree? I know what I was thinking. I was thinking, Steinbeck dropped out of college.....

Jesus, who's Steinbeck? He wrote some good novels and died. I'm not Steinbeck. I'm someone else. Dropping out of college worked for him. It didn't work for me.

So it's taken me a while to get out of the mindset that I am another Steinbeck, or Hemingway, or Kerouac, or anyone else among the writers I love. I'm a Wade. Goddamnit, I'm a Wade. No Wade, as far as I know, has ever been a writer. But ever since I was a little kid I wanted to be one. Seriously, in First Grade I was writing books about Native Americans. I'm not even kidding. I loved them, but more importantly, I loved writing about them.

Maybe I'm alone among Wade's. My mother's mother, a Wellman, loves books--mysteries, romances, historical romances, etc. She's read thousands of them in her time. But there's something wrong with her, something that makes me so sad. She's never written anything except grocery lists and letters. A person who's read that much, and lived that long, must have something wrong with them not to write. I mean, there must not be a connection being made. Or maybe I'm the weird one that I do have a connection. Like eating and crapping, reading and writing go together for me. Maybe they don't go together for her.

I once asked her why she doesn't write anything. She said, "What would I write about?" Er.. Umm. A mystery, perhaps? A romance, perhaps? I know she'd be good at it. But she doesn't think she can, and that just kills me.

My mom--my mom used to write stories, when she was younger than me. I asked her one time what kinds of stories she wrote, and she told me she couldn't remember. All she remembered was that she enjoyed writing them. And then I asked her why she stopped, and she said she doesn't know enough, and she's not in the habit, and she doesn't have enough time. Excuses. Excuses all. But there's nothing I can do about it. That falls on her.

I can't do anything about anything. The only thing I can do is (try to) take care of myself.

If I'm going to ever be a success in life, I can't wait for some ship to come in. I have to get better at my chosen field. I have to take the opportunities I'm given. I have to fight and never give up and keep fighting, and if I fail, then I will fail miserably. But at least I will know I failed, and won't have to live the rest of my life without ever having done anything, wondering what would have happened if I had tried.

I'm not saying I will be a success in life, but I hope to be. More on this later.