Personal Trump

Here's what stops me: A question.

Achilles may have had his heel (we're told he did), but I don't stop writing and blogging and advancing very often because of physical ailments. What freezes me in my tracks is having no good answer to "Why bother?"

Every day, continually, I'm faced with things to do, decisions to make, opportunities to better myself or, at least, keep up, and I usually don't even think about it. I go through spells, though, when the "Will it matter?" question is one I can't answer to my satisfaction. Most times, when I'm feeling well and happy, it doesn't even come up, it isn't an issue, I *know* my place in the universe and am content there.

But there are periods where I look with regret, or can't face the question at all. The answer to "Does it matter?" is almost always "no," but it doesn't usually bother me. Sometimes it does, though, and when that happens, when I can't formulate any good reason to go on, I stop.

Stop and curl, as if I'm on fire, but no rolling. Why bother putting it out? I don't care what happens during those times. I have no solid reason to keep on, not even something as compelling as a fear of failure. It seems, when I'm like that, not to matter much one way or the other what I do or don't do. I'm convinced it doesn't matter and thus there's no desire to do anything progressive.

There's no need to do more than float. My efforts, my desires, don't matter in the slightest. With no good answer to "Why?" I don't worry about the result.




I finished my re-write of TRE on schedule, but spent yesterday playing with formatting issues.

I think the greatest surprise for me was when I was "all done" and, for the first time, read the damn thing from cover to cover, straight through. What an experience *that* was! I think I got as close to a bird's-eye view as possible, and was struck by things I've never noticed in years of revising paragraphs and sentences.

This attempt to cram my work into my head all at once exposed some very amateur writing. Everywhere I turned I was confronted with people smiling and patting each other on the back. That may be meaningful once in a novel, but not in every damn chapter. I'm starting to see just what a hack I am.

I may talk a good game from time to time, but I can't, really, write as well as I'd like, or as well as I need to.

I wish I had some sort of ability in something.