It’s fascinating how complicated the human mind is and how it works. You would think we were created with absolute rationalism coursing through our veins, that whatever was best for us, whatever it was we thought we wanted to do, this is what we did.
Unfortunately, it often doesn’t work that way.
I’ve started and quit this writing thing more times than I can count on a hundred hands. Yet, here I am, climbing back on and giving it yet another go. I have to ask why?
I do this alot. Self-doubt. Disillusionment. Self-pity. Even when I swear it off for the last time, I always end up back. It’s interesting that writing comes out as the perfect vocation for me. The isolation. The creativity. The research. The problem solving. The flexible schedule.
Too bad it’s such a crap shoot, eh? I often think of Melville, and how he toiled for 11 years to write, only to give it up without success. Now look at him. What good does it do him now? He never made a dime off of his writing. But, of course, that story I found out later to be fiction, too.
It really is time, I think. Time to stop playing at this and either put up or shut up. I’ll be fine if I stop writing altogether, and go on with my life. I might even be happier. Then again, I might also be plagued by my characters, as if they were ghosts from my own personal kind of hell.
I’m in a great position. Might as well take advantage of it.
(I wrote 651 and edited 1511 words today)