I am going to do something that I have never done before. I am going to refer to myself as a writer, a term that I have always shied away from and kept in reserve for those with superior talent such as Steinbeck, Dickens, DuBois, Hardy, Corimer, Bronte, Austen, and Fitzgerald. Recently I made an explanatory discovery in the dictionary, “writer- one who commits his or her thoughts to writing.” That is what I do, I may not do it as effectively as some, but I do it nonetheless. As a recently self-discovered author, I would like to “commit my thoughts to writing.”
I am not an old man. I am not of the depression era, or can I take claim to the title of “Baby-Boomer.” I do however have the same outlook on life that someone from a prior age would have. I love to work, and in my mind work is equivalent to manual labor. I find joy in my hands, in the ability to change my situation by hard work. As I type these phonemic symbols, and my fingers uncontrollably “twitch” to the wrong letters, I feel anger for those people who have in their wallet a monthly pass to an air-conditioned building full of exercise equipment, an d who find the need to hire a plumber, landscaper, gardener, trench digger, tree trimmer, house cleaner, dog walker, babysitter, or whatever else they need to eliminate from their busy, 21st century, self-serving schedules. I have the desire to work, help and serve, and the ability and talent of physical labor, so why in God’s infinite wisdom does my body not work the way that a 32 year old man’s body should work?
