Recent events have me considering the concept of hunger.
It's something I've mused on in the past, even written about. Here is the start of a novel I never finished about two siblings who are hungry, but deal with it differently:
Gabe is always hungry. Nothing ever seems to fill him up. There is not enough soup, not enough toys and not enough love. Mama says, “Boy, someone could walk right up to you and hand over a hundred dollars and you’d whine for one more.”
Mama can’t say that about me, though. I am happy with whatever I get. Maybe it's because I'm three whole years older than Gabe. Maybe it's because I have learned that there's no more coming and you'd better enjoy what's sitting on your plate. I guess age can do that. Teach you how to be filled up on half a bowl of soup, or half of Mama’s love.
I quit writing this novel because it began to feel too personal, too close.
Not the mother part, mine was very loving.
And not really the soup part, we weren't rich, but weren't poor, either.
But, something about living hungry struck a chord with me.
Longing for more, always wanting.
And, lately, that thing has been the publication of my work. Sure, I've had articles and music published. That was nice. But, like Gabe, it wasn't enough. I want more. I want an actual career as an author.
I'm willing to work, to push, to fight my own insecurities and laziness.
I'm willing to listen, and try and learn.