The only undecided factor is whether it will be by decision or by death. It should show you the extent of my enthusiasm in writing that I've began writing about writing. An aside: I won't step past writing about writing about writing, as meta x > 3 either becomes convoluted, trivial or simply schizophrenic. It's my Law of Three.
I began writing regularly only as response to working a bad job, and being unsettled by the notion of submitting to mindless routine, a clockwheel so large it's invisible and so passive one can mistake slow-moving stability for tranquility, before falling through the cogs and being ground to fine red mist.
Another inspiration was a line by Mark Twain: "Write without pay until somebody offers to pay you. If nobody offers within three years, sawing wood is what you were intended for." It's as good of a measure as it is an inspiration (and even further proves the Law of Three). I desire success with it only as far as I desire to survive.
Granted, even to an audience of no one I can't find writing a waste of time. To say screaming at a wall is without purpose is wrong — it makes you better at screaming at a wall. I'm not so much a fan of words, but language is the base, the blueprint, the backbone for the most important thing: expression. You can even delight in the redundancy, the repetition, the reiteration. There's all sort of fun freedoms in the way you can choose what to communicate or what not to.
So I write this to remind myself I've got about eight months to live under Twain's measure. Also because garden upkeep is fun. How can I not take pleasure with something created in my own image? Why, I'd have to be God not to. Future self: heed this warning, pig. Be determined. Retch Durst take control.