The Death Catch

Neil Gaiman's friend John M. Ford just died. He was a writer, apparently an extremely talented one. A man many respected, and admired, for his work in the field. His death is evidently a tragic event for those who have been touched by his prose (and poetry).

This is strange, but I am a little envious of Mr. Ford. Not because I want to die or anything (I don't. Not yet.) but because of the way those who knew him are going out of their way to honor his life and his works, to recount how his stories affected them. When I die, I like to think people will do the same thing for me, and not just say "Yeah, well. Finally." I want to be remembered after I die as someone who had potential and used it, but who hadn't used it all up. Someone who could have, if he'd lived long enough, written his masterpiece and changed the world. I like that view, because I don't know if I'd ever actually write a masterpiece...so it's nice to think that people would believe I would have after I'm dead. It's a Catch 22, since I want it but I'll never get to enjoy it.

It's time to start doing what I'm going to be remembered for. You might argue that I've been doing it already, and you might be right. Small scale. I've been writing, that's true. But not working at it, not really. I've been writing and hoping for some kind of miracle, a miracle that will make my attempts at novel-writing into something masterful, something publishable. This just isn't possible.

No more shortcuts.

Writing every day. Brainstorming. Plotting. Writing every day.

Finishing things.