Fast away the old year passes,
Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la!
Hail the new, ye lads and lasses:
Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la!
—Thomas Oliphant
Fast way, indeed, the year has passed. This is my last post for 2023. Next week is 2024. And I decided to write this post while smoking Sutliff Ready Rubbed (a simulacrum of the old Edgeworth Ready Rubbed) in my BBB Own Make Pot.
Fifty years ago I took up pipe smoking and have been a pipe smoker ever since. A pipe is a boon companion, a faithful friend. The pipe and tobacco are there for “when I feller needs a friend.” And who doesn’t need a friend every day in these troublesome times?
Earlier this year I once again took up my pipe after a lengthy hiatus. And I’m glad I did. It is indeed a boon companion with which to enjoy peaceful contemplation.
I also gave up my adherence to Stoicism; largely adapting Epicureanism in its place.
And further, I decided marketing gurus can go to perdition.
I’m sick and tired of them trying to sell me the latest marketing gee-gaw. Very little of their crap works. The tried and true marketing techniques are freely available on the internet.
The problem is that the tried and true techniques require work. And because of that, the gurus promise the suckers magic wands which require no work. And many are they who quickly part with their money to get a magic wand.
Well, I’m done with that. I be a sucker no more.
Oh, I’m still writing. I have just stopped giving a fig about how much or how little I sell.
At 71, with about 14 years left to my life (given the averages), I’ve come to the conclusion that there are more important things than selling books. Writing them, for one. Contentment, for another.
Hail the new year, all you lads and lasses. Time is precious. Fifty years ago I didn’t think of death. Today, death is constantly on my mind. I don’t fear it. Death, after all, is part of living. It’s just that the old fellow is a lot closer to me than he was 50 years ago.
Isaac Asimov, when asked what he’d do if he knew he had only one more day to live, said, “I’d write a little faster.” I’m with Isaac.
So in the new year, I’m going to do my best to write a little faster. Ill health has slowed my production down quite a bit. But things are looking brighter. I hope that brightness allows my pen to move faster.
Books and stories are the legacy we writers leave behind us when we pass on. Even so, most of us, the vast majority of us, will be quickly forgotten. Nevertheless, it is my hope that my heirs and maybe their heirs will keep my memory alive and make a few coins for themselves in the process.
So my friends, do whatever it is that makes you truly happy. Don’t waste time at Vanity Fair buying the gee-gaws and trivial ephemera. Because those things don’t bring true happiness, they just provide a fleeting high.
And if you don’t know what makes you truly happy and content, then do your darndest to find out. Because death awaits, and you don’t want to find yourself old and not ever having truly lived.
Comments are always welcome! And until next time, happy reading!
CW Hawes is a playwright; award-winning poet; and a fictioneer, with a bestselling novel. He’s also an armchair philosopher, political theorist, social commentator, and traveler. He loves a good cup of tea and agrees that everything’s better with pizza.
If you enjoyed this post, please consider buying me a cup of tea. Thanks! PayPal.me/CWHawes
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CAUTION! DANGER! WARNING! I have met Death. Looked her in the eye. Discussed current events. In January of 2014 I spent three weeks as her guest in a viral-based coma where she visited daily and haunted my fever dreams. One thing she assured me of is that nothing, but nothing is more attractive to her than the smell of tobacco smoke. You’ve been warned…
As to the writing, couldn’t agree more! You are, of course, familiar with the tale of how I started writing in grade school. I’ve continued more or less consistently ever since. But somewhere along the line I got the idea that I could be some “great” author. That was the day it stopped being fun. I self-published my first book in 2013. Four books and two anthologies later, I haven’t really tracked my earnings, but I’m quite certain that I’ve made more than $500 and less than $1000. Not much to show for ten years’ work. I used to joke that one month my earnings paid my internet bill, but that’s actually happened twice now. The day I quit worrying about it was the day it became fun again. Now I have an account on Writing.com, a place where you don’t get paid, but you will most certainly get read! The conversations are just the little cherry on top.
So yes, my friend, look away from the checkbook. Find your version of Writing.com and proceed to do some of your best and most enjoyable work! I’ll be waiting to read it.
Once I realized that the amount of work and capital investment required to make at writing, at least as an indie author, the writing did become more of a burden than a chore. When I wrote poetry, money was not an issue. Poets don’t make money writing poetry. Few there be that even read it. Therefore success was defined in terms other than money. Now I’m fully embracing that concept again. With pleasure. Thanks for stopping by, Jack!