Some 20 years ago, then 84-year-old Kurt Vonnegut wrote a letter to a group of high school students who had invited him — as part of a writing assignment — to speak to their class. Unable to accept the invitation, he nevertheless offered them this advice:

“Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.”

– Kurt Vonnegut, 2006

I have been writing this blog for nearly four years now, and in that time I have racked up a loyal following of maybe a couple of dozen readers — hardly what one would call going viral. I also have a 300-page draft of a non-fiction book in search of a publisher . . . and no earthly idea of whether it’s even worth the effort to submit it. Sometimes I feel frustrated at what I view as my lack of success, and I ask myself why I keep doing it.

But reading Vonnegut’s words to those students today, I believe I have found the answer to my own question: It’s the sense of satisfaction I invariably feel when I proofread an article for the final time before hitting “Post” and “Share.”

Because, no matter what anyone else may think, I have confirmed to myself for yet another day that, even at my age, I am still sufficiently compos mentis to string words and sentences together in some comprehensible form, and to reach a handful of people as far away as Europe, New Zealand, China, and occasionally — when their internet works — even in Russia.

And when I look back at some of my earlier writings, I am reminded of the things that matter to me, that are meaningful enough to have spent time writing about them. And, as Vonnegut predicted, I do find out something about what’s inside me.

Yes, it would be nice to be able to earn a living as a writer. But there are other forms of compensation besides money . . . and in those, it seems, I am rich indeed.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/8/26