By Darvell Hunt
I have something that Michael Crichton, Edgar Allen Poe, Emily Dickinson, John Steinbeck, Jane Austen, or even Mark Twain or William Shakespeare, do not have.
I have life.
My work has not yet been completed. I can still write more than what I have—and better than what I have. If one of my stories is not yet complete, I can finish it. If there is an idea that’s been banging around inside my head for years, I can still put it on paper.
Life is precious, but very limited. Unlike land, which they say goes up in value because it has a finite supply, we get a steady stream of time—24 new hours each and every day. It comes and goes whether we use it or not, and everybody gets the same amount per day.
I have recently made a commitment to use more of my daily allotment of time to produce more writing—word combinations unique to me that no other person on earth can create, nor compare exactly to what dead writers have already created. My words are my own and unique to me.
In addition to the few names I listed above, there are many other great dead writers out there, but nobody knows who they are. They didn’t write. Or they didn’t submit. Or they didn’t persevere.
Popular fantasy writer Tracy Hickman says that if your words are not read, you are not a writer. If we waste our moments of time doing something else besides our God-given talents, which may include writing, then we waste our lives, as time is the essence of life.
I am a writer. I have more life left—more time to write. My book is not closed. My work is not done. I must continue to write as well as I can until life closes my front cover and puts me on a shelf, where I hope people will recognize my name and further give me life by reading my words.