I write because the sewer system can’t handle all of my crap.
Somehow, I stumbled on the idea people might be entertained by some of it. That was because during a few times when I was required to write, it somehow turned out well. In fact, it turned out a whole lot better than my talking, which I dearly loved more. Not that I was a lousy talker, but I tended to let stuff escape my lips without reflection. Engaging my fingers somehow demanded I think about it first. Eventually my talking got better, in part because I now do a lot less of it. Writing seems to be better because I do more of it.
Nowadays I write because I can’t stop. If my computer never connected to anything but itself, I’d write at least as much. I had a couple of books scattered among stacks of papers before I ever got a computer. My first use of it was reducing those notes to a unified electronic document (eventually published under the title Ancient Truth: Old Testament History). I’d have been fine with DOS had I never wanted to read stuff on the Internet. I couldn’t get my DOS computer to connect with what little I understood of things, so I had to get Windows or something.
But it was always with a focused purpose, that overwhelming sense of calling that has haunted my consciousness since around age 8. It took a year for my child’s mind to grasp what was going on inside me. My spirit was alive and fighting all the garbage in my conscious intellect. It nearly drove me nuts; I was often suicidal in my youth. Part of the madness was refusing to tell anyone. I’m still nuts, but I’m not suicidal.
One of the provisions of the peace treaty between my warring parts is that I write. Mostly it’s various expressions and implications of my encounters with that divine Presence, that huge and massive something that has always hung over my soul, looming like a giant planet in the sky while I’m on the moon. What complicates that is how most of the people I encounter don’t see it. That’s what drove me crazy for so long. Never mind whether it’s really there — I have profound doubts anyone actually grasps reality, whatever that is. But I saw that thing and it pulled at me with a gravity well too powerful to ignore, interfering in everything, even walking, and most people denied it was there.
You can’t read my stuff much unless you are willing to humor me. As always, you don’t have to take me seriously. I don’t. But this is the theme of all my thinking and writing, and it bothers you, stay away. But if you can swallow at least the notion that I see it and feel it, you might make some sense of what I write, or at least be entertained.
If you can turn my verbal crap into fertilizer, then we can get along just fine.
