When I first began jotting down my thoughts about 12 years ago, I wrote for one person: me. I didn’t give much thought to what I wrote about. On the rare occasion I was proud of a post, I’d tell Kim and she’d read it and encourage me to continue writing.
It wasn’t until 2004 when I wrote about walking away from a job that I realized a few people were following what I wrote. When a woman emailed to say that post had encouraged her to quit her job I wondered what I had done.
That’s when I began to consider why I continued to write. Those same thoughts have crept into my mind on a number of occasions.
Lately I’ve thought about how my writing may affect my children. I often write about the highs and lows of being a father, but I know they may not appreciate making those details public as they get older. I’ve begun to discuss that with them and will respect their decision even if it means I keep some experiences private. I suspect I often write about my children to avoid writing about my struggles in balancing a career with fatherhood.
Years later, I still don’t have a good answer when people ask why I write. I guess it doesn’t really matter.
I don’t want to be the type of father whose children rely on my writings in order to find out what I’m about because I wasn’t around. I want them to know why there’s no sport quite like baseball or why Zelda: Ocarina of Time is better than most games on the market today.
When my parents found notes written by my grandmother after her death, it made me wish that I had gotten to know the part of her that came through in the letters.
I don’t want my children or grandchildren to say the same about me.