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Here it is folks, the HUB to end all hubs! The Salt of the Saltine Crackers! The creative cleaning power of Tide! Beware- all that you have read here, all that is real or false…there is true writing talent here…but look close…it is hard to find.

Tempting are we to maximize profits, a little lost soul here, a little less craft there.

Writing is an art timeless, since its creation. Sumerians, Egyptians, Chinese and many others were its creators. Invented to account for offerings, from the controlled cities of the kingdom, to the mighty Pharaohs and Rulers. When transactions became too complicated and too many to memorize, we invented writing. So, officially, it began with money, and it will end with money. But enough about history.

While it is quite hard to block out those intrusive, feelings of becoming jaded with every calculated post, every trendy recipe, I still will strive to find my voice. I am guilty, are you? I wish to make value from the immense effort of actually creating this art we call writing. I wish it for many reasons; one is so that my wife may stay home and care for our little one’s, and not ever have to work again…most of all are my beautiful, smiling children’s faces. The echo of their futures standing tall and foreboding behind their shoulders. Will I have enough to help them with college? Will I be able to buy them their favorite Christmas present? Will I be able to make next month’s mortgage payment?

I am now making a promise to myself, I will make up my own rules, in regards to what content I write, and why. I will strive, as best as I may, to hold true to real, honest attempts at creating something that should be printed out, placed in a book and documented for future generations. You see, I don’t trust the internet. Where are all the archives going? Have you backed up your writing yet?? If so, where? We are losing all manner of actual, physical proof of our existence as writers in this modern age of virtual storage, and temporary backup media. I suggest we go back to basics. Let’s start printing out paper again (sorry tree-huggers), perhaps get them collected into a book. Make the book so famous and powerful that it get’s submitted to the National Archives! You can do it! I’m going to build a paper and leather kindle, and call it…a Kook…or, no…a Bindle! I will patent it and upload the ink to the page and watch as the pennies come pouring in.

Oh, who am I kidding. I will probably earn my fair share in paper-cuts, unless I seek out and destroy a publisher’s credibility to sell honest, real creative writing. I pity the publisher who let’s me into the foray. It will be a door I won’t let easily close, I assure you! Take no prisoners! I will keep writing until Spielberg calls me weekly, inviting me over for coffee. I will keep writing until Clint Eastwood wants to do another little film, from my story. I will type with furious WPM until my fingers bleed and Maya Angelou herself raises her eyebrows.

I will make friends here that mean something, as I already have, and learn and grow with them. I am their compadre, their comrade in this journey. We writers are precious few, and our talents varied. We walk this unknown road together, but we never see each other along the way. We are savages in a post-apocalyptic world of noise, of chaos, of misguided lust. I will be the arrow and you can be my bow.

When I lie on my deathbed, assuming I will not be hit buy a car or crashed in a plane, I will look back, and smile with a fond, warm happiness. Smile, ever so blissfully, at my grandchildren’s antics, at memories’ of my grown children’s silliness and love. I will smile at my wife, holding my hand so tentatively, to feign courage. She will give all of my unpublished writings to the children, and they will argue about what to do with them. She will cry, and I will try as I might, to write away my pain, my regrets, from my eyelids.

In the end it will not matter if I write, or paint, or leave anything of significance to this world. It will mean nothing to the dirt and rock that lay at my feet. In the end, it will only have mattered to me, that I felt that I said something, that somehow I was important. Ironically, I will have said nothing, that hasn’t been said before. But I will still feel immense sadness, that I haven’t communicated the strange beauties of things only I have seen, the tragedies I’ve witnessed, the loss that I’ve felt, that last story I kept to myself. There are oceans of lost knowledge, in every writer’s soul. I believe only the lucky ones manage to pull meaning from its cold waters. This is the sad truth of our art.

A better man than me said it best, his very last words:

~I have not told half of what I saw.

Marco Polo, Venetian traveler and writer