The Best Damn Writer

So the other night, I'm watching one of my favorite summer shows, So You Think You Can Dance–although, with the changes this season, including the absence of the soul of the show, Mary Murphy, I'm not sure how much longer I'll continue to watch–and I'm seeing how hard many of the dancers work.  How they often started when they were two or three years old and, here they are, now in their early- or mid-twenties, working harder than ever to be the best damn dancers they can be.

Then, in the latest issue of Vanity Fair, the one about Caitlin Jenner, I read about Caitlin when she was Bruce, how he attended the Munich Olympics in 1972, competed, but didn't perform particularly well.  But, in preparation for the Montreal Olympics, four years down the road, Bruce worked eight or more hours a day, every day of the week, to be the best damn athlete he could be, which resulted in his spectacular gold medal win in the decathlon.  Talk about devotion and commitment.  That's not rare for Olympic-caliber athletes.  That's typical, the norm.   

So why should writing be any different?  Why should being the best damn writer I can be take any less time or effort or devotion or commitment–or whatever it takes from deep down in the soul–than someone working toward being the best damn dancer or athlete or anything he or she can be?  It shouldn't.  It shouldn't, at all. 

So I'll keep plugging away, because I still have a lot more hours to put in, I still have a lot more to learn, and I still have a lot more work to do.  And I may never appear on a TV show or win an award –hell, I may not even get published–but it won't be for a lack of trying.

All I can do is try.  No, all I can do is work like freakin' hell, for as long as it takes, until I reach my goals.  

It's up to me.