So, after licking my wounds for a few days (barely, but sort of) I’ve sent another piece of flash fiction off to the editors of the literary journal I dream of having a piece published in. I’m sticking to my plan. If this one gets rejected, I’ll send them another. If this gets accepted, likewise, I’ll send them another. The rejected piece will be off to the next place on the list soon.
I send my Facebook friends a line on their birthdays: Enjoy the Journey. I named my blog The Journey because that’s what all this is: a journey.
I’ve been thinking about my aging relatives. I’ve got an aunt in her late 80s who is now mostly home bound. She used to be busy and active and now still wants to be but she can’t safely drive. So, once a week a neighbor takes her to the store. For the most part, the rest of her time is spent at home sitting, waiting. Likewise, my mom, about to turn 80, spends her time sitting in front of the TV. I visit her once a week, take her to lunch and we do a little shopping. The rest of the time… Many of my relatives are living long. Part of that longevity is a slowing of the journey. And, with that comes a realization for me, a question of what’s the point of any of it?
I don’t have strong answers filled with conviction. Instead, spend time writing the next book, I try to sell another of the books already published, I teach a class here or there, and wonder about the meaning of life. The answer, most days, comes back to the start. It’s a journey, just a journey. The goal is to enjoy that journey, to have experiences, to grow from those experiences, and to decide what you want to try next. Beyond that it’s really starting to look like there isn’t really any meaning at all. Have the experience before it’s time to sit in the chair and wait for the end. And, so, I’ve sent off another submission–after all, there’s nothing to lose and so much to experience.