Live Like You Were Dying

Wow . . . it's 2012 already. In only a matter of months, the world as we know it is gonna turn into a cheesy John Cusack movie.

For those who might not catch sarcasm as quickly as others, no, I don't believe that the world is going to dramatically end on December 21st. However, the concept can be utilized to give a person to thought.

As an example: As a writer, what would I do with my writing if I knew for a fact that the world was on the verge of termination? Would I write something more meaningful, more philosophical, something that might help people enrich their lives before the end came crashing in? Or would I just give up, saying, "What's the point if we're all doomed to perish in a global cataclysm?"

Honestly, I don't know for certain, but it's something I've pondered on and off.

On a more personal note, what if I knew I was going to die soon (not the whole world -- just me)? In that case I know exactly what I'd do. I'd compose letters to my kids, for them to read when they got older. I'd write about things I've learned about life and the world in general, trying to pass on what I know. I wouldn't be there for them as they grew up, so I'd do the next best thing -- leave notes and letters.

If I were making a significant living writing fiction, I'd hurry to finish composing my current pieces in progress, publish them, and market like crazy. I'd probably show my wife how to market them as well. That way I would be leaving a modest income to help them get through.

But then I think about this: We never know when our time is going to come. I could slip on ice and crack my skull tomorrow. Or I could go on to beat the record as the oldest person in modern history. I like the philosophy of "live like you were dying". Live each day like it's your last, leave as much value and love and goodness behind as you possibly can.

I think writers are better equipped for this task than most. Let's use it.

Concerning Dragons

My two-(nearly three)-year-old son, Justin, has a penchant for creating fiction. I'm actually quite proud of him. He'll declare all sorts of amazing and impossible happenings, and of course, my wife and I play along.

His latest fetish has been dragons. He'll come running into the room, an expression of alarm on his face. "A dragon's coming! A dragon's coming!"

We then all cover our eyes, because, as Daddy taught him, the best way to hide is to cover your own eyes -- if you can't see them, they can't see you. (For some reason it works only with dragons. Mama and Daddy can find him right away. It's a parental superpower.) After a while, he'll inform us that the dragons are gone. We uncover our eyes and life returns to normal until the next dragon attack.

I've learned a lot about dragons in the past weeks. Dragons subsist exclusively on fish and pizza. They don't like hot dogs. They come through holes in the wall. They live in the water.

I encourage this safari of the imagination. When his TV consumption is limited to about 30 minutes or so a day, it blossoms. He's learning his letters and their sounds very well, and his vocabulary expands daily. All these factors could culminate in the creation of a great storyteller. Daddy would be proud.

Of course, that's all assuming he restricts his storytelling abilities to telling admitted pieces of fiction. Lately he's discovered another use for his newfound ability.

"Justin . . . do you need to go potty?"

"No."

Thy smell betrays thee, kiddo.