Why Am I A June Bug When I Want To Be A Firefly?

Dusk, and the porch light snaps on, its electronic eye vigilant against the growing darkness. Soon, they begin the slow circling of the light, their plump bodies thumping on the glass. Restless, always seeking to attain the elusive prize, to become one with the light, they blunder on. When sun touches the concrete steps, I find them there, laid out, lifeless, their energy spent reaching for success.

Meanwhile…in the wildflower garden, the fireflies wing their way to immortality. Fluttering, streaking, wrapped in light they carry within themselves, they cavort above the grasses, their mating goal only a brief spark away. Beauty, grace and effortless flight, these marvels of the night realm win the prize with minimum effort and maximum grace. Oh, to be a firefly!

Sitting at my desk, stretching mind over matter, fingers pressing keys, I push my ideas toward the light of publication. It is hard work, this striving toward the golden ring, but I keep battering away. There are times when a respite from the ambitious yearning would be welcome, but my genetic makeup precludes quitting. Like those plump and driven bugs, I press myself into the battle over and over again.

Why do I write? Because I have to. As with any passion, this one requires dedication, perseverance, a belief that the goal can be reached if only the lover strives long enough.

Tireless, thick-skinned, the June bugs hammer against the odds. Tireless, less armored against rejection, I blunder on, longing to be that firefly that grasps the prize the first time but conscious that my path is longer, my goal less sure. I may not get there, but I will exhaust my effort in the cause. Because, in my soul, I am a firefly, waiting to be transformed…

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