When I look around me and see the miracle of life, take the time to be grateful for the miracle of my own life, my family, I feel joy. The night sky filled with stars and unknown planets, probably teeming with life, the beauty of the ocean waves lapping the shoreline. Birds soaring up above. Marine life swimming around in their underwater world of reefs, plants, passers-by of synchronized schools of tiny fish and colorful hordes. Deer, lizards, bees. The human diversity. All bring joy to this writer’s eye. All spur the imagination of this writer’s mind. The muse, the mysterious process of writing. I sit down and words come. I take a walk and words come. All this is easy on the soul and joyful.
What isn’t easy is finding an audience. Making my voice heard. All the marketers out there selling the myth of the best seller that comes with giving them cash. What makes a book a bestseller? Or even a seller? Damned if I know. Best sellers can be poorly written, poorly edited, all no-nos for making sales. And yet they capture the imagination of people who don’t seem to care about grammar or style. It’s all about plot, I guess. Plot. My stories are more about character than plot. More about emotions than plot. But I find joy when I write just as with everything else.
And joy is good. Joy is the greatest gift. What else is there in this precious life?
