Saturday, January 14, 2006

frightened feces-free

Nothing to it really.

Writing I mean. Real writing for real money. I’ve spent a good three hours (as apposed to a wasted three, or a sick three or a Jackson three . . .) researching markets to slog my incredible (though secretive, cause I don’t want them stolen) ideas for books.

Nothing to it really.

Poring over the Writer’s Market in search of a home for my innermost ideas and humor to find concrete recycled paper to reside on. And, scoop some coin in the process providing a much needed glimpse of the world as I see it to those who need it.

Nothing to it really.

But, now for the exciting up-down side to it. I’m beginning to realize that I can do this thing. I can achieve my goal of a four hour work day with no commute. And it scares the living (insert a four letter word here, like ship or bile) out of me.


That’s a very good question. I wish I knew the whole answer, but I don’t. I have an idea about the cause of this feeling of euphoric dread. Success. When you begin down a path leading to your dreams there is nothing more exciting and nothing more frightening I can think of on this Earth.

Because if you succeed you’ve got it made. You are achieving what your inner self has been telling you your whole life. And if you fail, fall on your face, crash to the Earth in flames, it hurts worse than red hot prongs to your private parts. (Not literally, but psychologically speaking.) But you know, deep down, that is not going to happen.

Nothing to it really.

I do need to return now to my path and continue my work. I just wanted to drop in here quickly and voice my inner enthusiastic turmoil. I feel that the future is not as dark as our politicians and news media make it out to be.

I can do this thing, and I can do it well.

Nothing to it really.

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