This night, I was reminded why I write. I had a dream about my grandfather, – or rather that he was dead, and I was going to his funeral. As I was preparing for the funeral, I looked through a book he had written. The book contained a letter to me, with some beautiful words to use for poetry.
The most important thing I want to write is “notes for my son”. I have this epic task on my backlog, to distill my experience and possibly grains of wisdom, into something I can pass on to him. So far I just practice writing, to gain the skills, to be able to do it. It is also urgent write it. We never know how long we are here. Writing down my experiences to him, is also a kind of insurance: to be able to tell those things that I want to be told, even if I am no longer here, if/when he is ready to listen. And if it makes sense what I write, others might also benefit from it.