A Realization of Intent

I had a rather major personal revelation this past week. My wife and I, in our infinite wisdom, decided that not only should we have a baby in our mid-40's, we should also buy a house and sell our current box-on-blocks in the same closing window. Suffice to say, my life has become rather adventurous of late. Please do not mistake this for criticism of my wife. Stuff like this is literally why I married her. When she makes a decision she commits with a vigor and will that are the stuff of legend. I have never wanted anything in my life the way she has wanted to meet our daughter and provide for her future.

Wonderful wives aside, the revelation for why I have been writing wasn't exactly a complicated one, nor is it one that hasn't been endlessly hashed and rehashed to death. To put it bluntly: dying scares me. I am a high-functioning autistic individual and the thought of things ending has always terrified me. It has mellowed with age, but it has always been bright and sharp and clear. I don't finish books or games that I love because then they are over. I have refused to attend the funeral of loved ones because then they are final and complete and I can't maintain whatever internal fiction keeps them alive.

Things end, though. No matter what I do or whatever I try, things always end. And that just makes me angry and scared. I like things. Things are my favorite! I want to just keep existing with my wife and my children and my video games and my friends and my books. I want to chase down every single idea that has rabbited out of my imagination's hat and see where they lead. I would never tire of existence because I find so much of it fascinating and interesting.

And yet. And yet...

So I realized that what I really and truly want out of writing is something akin to that continuation. I want that sense of permanence that doesn't exist in almost any other fashion. There isn't really another form of immortality that humanity has achieved outside of the written word. More than that, I also realized who I want the record of my life to be for. I want to leave my life to my daughter, who will be very young when it's my time to find out what's next.

I don't want her to feel alone, so I am going to begin dedicating the greater portion of my evenings to quietly recording my life for her, so that when the world is cruel and cold, she can wrap herself within the pages of my last, eternal hug. I want her to see all the good and all the bad and all the bedlam and love that has defined my existence. I want her to know that more than anything else, she was loved deeply and sincerely by parents that moved literal mountains (of debt) to see her.

It's given me a measure of peace to see the reason for my labors. I think it will also help me be a little more dedicated to seeing things through to the end. I've always had this nagging suspicion that it was more than just circumstance that kept me from getting to 'the end' on the countless works I have underway. For all my other writing flaws, I have generated at least half a million words of story at this stage of my career.

I know I have all the pieces required to do this and do it well. But for me it has always been a matter of why? Why do I do this? Why do I feel compelled to do this? Why, in a lifetime full of abandoned pursuits, is this incredibly complicated and difficult thing the one thing I will not let myself abandon.

Now? Now I know. AND KNOWING IS HALF THE BATTLE!! GI JOE!! Sorry, couldn't help myself, but seriously. I know now. I have a plan. I have concrete motivations for why I'm doing all of this. I think that will matter more than even I am thinking it will, and I am not thinking of a small amount!

Here's to hoping that proves true.

Joefully,

The Unsheathed Quill