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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required My father was a devoted fly fisherman who couldn’t resist the almost masochistic urge to wake in the quiet predawn hours and stumble, blurry eyed with his loaded thermos out of the house. He drove to a nearby icy cold stream or lake. He lowered his boat into the water; cranked the outboard engine into action; and navigated through the occasional murky waters taking note of the invisible currents and the direction of the wind blowing across the water. He eventually anchored his boat near the shoreline, disembarked, and stood at the water’s edge casting his lure into the open water, gazing at it for hours believing he could get a fish to bite on the lure and then pull that fish from the realm of the mysterious water into the world of his reality. I often thought my father was rather fanatical about fishing and often wondered what drove him to be the angler that he was—until I became a writer. Suddenly his fanaticism made sense to me. I, too, possess a similar masochistic urge to wake in the quiet predawn hours and stumble blurry eyed with a loaded cup of coffee out of the kitchen into my office. I lower myself into my chair; crank my laptop into action; and navigate through the scattered papers, journals, scrapbooks, and photographs strewn across my desk taking note of the invisible currents and the direction of the ideas blowing across my mind. I eventually anchor myself to my desk and stand on the precipice of creativity casting my mind onto the blank screen, staring at the glassy screen for hours believing I’ll pull something from the realm of the mysterious into the world of my reality. I ponder: “Why do anglers and writers persist in what seems to be such fanatical pursuits?” I can’t speak for anglers; I can only speak for myself. If I don’t write consistently, I’m unhappy and suffer a type of melancholy defined only by its absence. So, I must have a need to write. Perhaps that need comes from the thrill of getting a nibble, playing with an idea, and reeling it in. When I gaze into that glassy screen, I’m much like an angler scrubbed clean of life’s trivia and distractions. I love the adventure and the intuitive leap of faith onto a higher ground rich with ideas and imagination, never knowing what’s going to happen or what I’m going to reel in. In the end, it’s the not knowing that keeps me writing and fishing for words. in the predawn hours with cup of joe in my hands stumble to office in silent office, sifting through the paper files ideas surface turn on my laptop start fishing for the right words staring into screen
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