An Autobiographical Moment.

I think I’m putting too much pressure on myself with this #write365 thing. I’m trying to form grandiose stories in my head, formulate amazing words, and disappointing myself when I come up with absolute crap. Possibly what I’m doing is trying to run before I can walk, and so, I’m going to scale it down a bit.

In truth, I think I’m somewhat sabotaging myself because I am absolutely terrified of success in any way, shape or form. Compliments seem to do more damage to me than insults, simply because I’m more used to insults than I am compliments. I’ve always sort of lived by the motto “Not everyone gets a happy ending” perfectly accepting of my place in life. I’m not an Alpha Male, I don’t take life by the horns and do whatever I can to avoid responsibility for just about anything.

But this? I’ve never had a fire like this in my life. I’ve never had a constant desire to do anything like I do writing with the possible exception of cooking. Problem is, I have little fires burning all over the place. Little ideas filed away burning slowly, needing a log here, a stoke there, a poke. And I want to attend to each of them at the same time, all the time.

Except, I can’t for obvious reasons, and I shouldn’t.

So, I’m going to write and write and write some more. And when I’m done writing, I’ll write again the next day. Some fires will grow larger, others will have to burn out, and I’ll hope I can refire the embers of what was into a roaring fire.

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