The news was released today that my hero had died on Tuesday, after a battle with brain cancer. Neil Peart, arguably the most talented drummer, and lyricist to ever walk the earth in the entirety of human history succumbed to his illness. The news did not break until Jan 10th, which to the millions of his fans came as no surprise. He died in the way he lived, quietly, privately, and without the fanfare we would all like to give him. Despite his rather quiet nature, he did author 6 books that were a glimpse into his life, his process, his pain, and his deeply introspective nature.
A lot of things have happened this past year, and the next year is looking to be just as eventful, and I was feeling kind of nostalgic and wistful, and also resolved, so I thought I would do a little recap, and speak some of my wishes into the world, in hopes they materialize.
Just in case the subtitle didn’t tip you off, this will be a review chock full of spoilers so if you don’t want the movie ruined for you, please stop reading.
I have written a few times here about my writing process, and how destructive it can be. Also about how writing my former favorite subject matter (political satire) was becoming too much of a burden to continue to write. (If you are interested in reading those pieces you can find them here, and here.) But, I have started a new creative venture recently, and now four weeks into it and I feel good enough to finally write here about it.
A lot of people associate recruitment firms with temp agencies, but they aren’t always the same thing. While the company I work for, which shall remain nameless for legal reasons, does have a lot of temp positions, most of them are temp to hire, or permanent placement right from the get go.
I have been writing for as long as I can remember. I have daily journals that I have kept since I was four years old. As long as I was old enough to write anything that even remotely resembled words, I was writing. I was pouring out all the little thoughts that crossed my little mind. I still journal. I write in it daily, everything that matters to me goes in there. No editing, no purpose, other than to process all the things that my brain decides to torture me with at any given minute. But I have written novels and novels and novels. In my twenties I churned out roughly a book a year, and I could have done more.