I spend a lot of time thinking about why I’m here and what my purpose in life is. It’s sort of my koan, I never seem to find an answer, just more questions. But I realized tonight that it is to write.
My writing is pretty personal, and I certainly don’t put it all out on my blog. And I’ve thought about writing a book, somewhat semifictional a la Anais Nin (though probably with less sex, let’s be truthful) but I am afraid to go there. Vain as I am, I find myself funny and I have strange conversations with myself–perhaps they’re not that funny outside of my head. And there are so many stories of the great unique people I’ve met–but perhaps those stories aren’t mine to tell. And perhaps my writing just wouldn’t be that good.
But when I think of my death, whenever it may be, I try to think–what would I regret most if I did not do? And usually the answer is that I would regret not writing more. I think it’s the whole legacy aspect. I really don’t want to be forgotten completely. I suppose I have my kids–but honestly, it’s just genomes. My particular genome–whether it gets passed on or not, I don’t really feel it’s that important. My girls are important to me because I love their souls and watching them grow and explore this world–we didn’t need to be related by blood for me to love them or want to be part of their life.
So if I feel I should be writing more, I guess I should be getting more efficient in my daily life. Practice would probably be a good thing too. 🙂