On the morning of my 40th birthday I was summoned to the bedside of a dying friend.
He asked if I was still writing.
“No, not really,” I answered.
He shook his head and changed the subject. We reminisced until he was too tired to talk.
I said goodbye.
He departed soon after but his disappointment persists.
I figure I’ll have plenty of regrets on my deathbed. Not writing shouldn’t be one of them.