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the sixth day - one thing on your bucket list that has to do with writing
It is at this time I must confess: I don't have a bucket list. Such lists are made for items like "go skydiving" and "hike through Europe," and while I would not be outright averse to such things (well, perhaps my stomach would raise some serious objections to the former) I have been instilled by a measure of whimsical practicality from my father's side of things. This says I shall have eternity to experiment with those things (in a new, perfect, resurrected body on a new, perfect Earth) and I might as well enjoy where God has placed me now rather than wishing for the far-off places in a broken world. (I understand and sympathise with the desire to explore and travel; I am merely deferring mine on a larger scale for another time, and indulging it as much as I can in my own backyard for the present.)
That is not to say I do not want to experience specific things while I live. There are many things I want to accomplish and share; they are simply not trivial enough for me to forget them without an organized list, and I do not think most of them would fit onto paper anyway. I know I should say "I want to get published." That is the sort of thing one puts on a bucket list - even a nonexistent one, I should think. The fact of the matter is, I don't write to be published. That is not to say I don't intend to, someday - but for the present, I want to write because writing is good for my soul. It is part of being who God created me to be. The process of getting it onto paper is just as relevant and irrelevant as the process of my fingers typing this post: utterly necessary, and completely not the centre of it all.
Right now, immediately, all I want specifically is to finish Miss Brewster's story, and be able to show it to at least one other person and hear them say "I see! I see it too!" - not with the shock of one who sees something previously foreign for the first time, but with the renewed joy of viewing a familiar thing from a new and more beautiful angle, the worn and weary lines of the ordinary suddenly cast in golden hues. And then I want to edit Miss Brewster's story, at least once, and iron out all the wrinkles that I am trying desperately to file away 'til after the initial writing process is through.And then... I will rub my aching wrists, and pick up and begin it all again. Or maybe I'll take a break and try out some Dickens. That's the charm of the nonexistent bucket list - anything could happen. It was always going to, anyway.
Thus ends my rather dull little spout. I'm afraid I was much more interested in the next subject; it lends a rather pruneish aspect to this one.
My sentiments exactly, my dear. Though, much more eloquently put that I would ever be able to do.
:-)
You put this so perfectly and Moonishly.
I haven't got a bucket list either; if I were to create one, it would probably end up more tongue-in-cheek than anything else. Or it would be quite dull and nondescript, because I've never done that "where do you see yourself in five-ten-fifty years" exercise. It just seems a bit rubbish to me. Useless, when life is so unpredictable.
I must say I agree with you, though, about Miss Brewster's story. I badly want to have the whole thing in my hands so I can devour it in one gulp. (And then I suppose I'll be walking around for a week or so afterward spouting puns right and left, because I can't seem to so much as mention Miss Brewster without unwittingly resorting to that lowest form of humor. Ta-ta and much love. You're welcome.)