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A life’s work

I know for a fact that writing will help me get over some of my problems; because I already feel better, when I write something meaningful.

I am forty now. I’ve enjoyed writing all my life. I feel that I have spent about twenty years getting good at it, with a sharp leap over the last seven years, largely thanks to blogging, and being forced to write under pressure on a couple of occasions. I am not a published writer of books, but I am going in a direction that still feels okay.

The people who I admire now are the ones who can work whole-heartedly and indefatigably, people like twelfth-century philosopher Moses Maimonides, who after working all-day as a court physician, would come home, and work into the night, giving help and advice to the local people who would come and visit him. He didn’t sit around and wait to be entertained; he just got up (or sat down in this case) and did what he had to do.

I am not saying that I am like that at all, but I do feel that I have a few days here and there where I get a taste of this kind of productive life, and for a moment, I feel that I am on some sort of track – and it is going in the right direction.

I think that it takes a long time to get into a position where you understand yourself enough to know what you can handle, and what you should be committing to — we are not all built to handle exactly the same things in life, the same workloads. But once you do start to understand yourself in this respect, about what your productive and creative ebb and flow might be, then you are way ahead.

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