I’m not doing too badly, all things considered. Looking at things objectively, I realize I could be a lot worse off. There’s a roof over my head (complete with air-conditioning), I haven’t missed too many meals, and even if we’re dropping the cable TV, at least we’ve got the ability to follow the television shows we feel that we need to in other ways. So I’ll concede that things are nowhere near as dire as they might be.
I was much happier and felt a lot better about myself when I was working on my writing. I don’t know what it was going to be at the end of the day – a book, a comic, a short story – none of that mattered. What mattered was that I was writing. It was more than that – I was taking the steps towards redefining myself. Then one circumstance after another left the bits and pieces in a jumbled mess.
This cannot be borne.
I’m thirty-five years old now. If I’m lucky, I’m a third of the way through my years, and I’m still fumbling with the basics. I want to try to move beyond this. To that end, I want to state the following.
I want to write. I was happier writing than I think any work has ever made me. And this act was a joint effort between you (the subconscious mind) and me (the waking mind). I’m not certain where things are falling down, because I have to believe that you want to see me write as well – you want to be expressed. For the briefest of moments, you had a voice and an audience in me, before things fell apart. If you can help me to figure out what I want to write, I would like to make another attempt – this time, unsaddled by a full-time job.
I’ll try to make sure that I block off time each day to write – even if I don’t have an inspiration. I’m just hoping that you’ll give me a sign that we can give it another go. We were making a great team.