The urge to write comes for me at two times. One, when I have recently been inspired by something I have heard read to me, or something (even better) that I have experienced, and Two, when I am bored and have absolutely nothing in my head to write about. Ideally, I should take the latter times, those bored times, and instead of trying to write, try to live, try to recruit some experiences for inspiration. That rarely happens.

So lets pose some honest questions here. Why do I bother writing? Well, I think of the scene in Fight Club, when Tyler asks the two members in the back seat of the careening car what, if they die right now, will they wish they had done before they died. They don’t hesitate. One says “paint a self portrait,” the other says “build a house.” I put myself in their position, and what comes out of my mouth is “write a book.”

Now, I expect that my answer would change if I were to actually write a book (oh, and my desktop-published poetry chapbook doesn’t count), but lets deal with the current answer.

Inside of me, down in the place where desire and motivation and the other vital pieces of who I am mix around, what will it take to make me achieve? Because honestly, I do not see myself as an achiever. I am a wisher, a dreamer, a mass of unsorted potential that may never be put to use. This is distressing. I believe that the life I live, the way I interact with people, is of much greater importance than whether or not I write a book. But this is also distressing, because I am so often antisocial, so often unsure if who I am is who I should be, and so often scared of the responsibility of committing to people, even in friendship. As a general behavior, I am so often convinced of my inabilities that I don’t even try. And this, in turn, hamstrings my willingness to live life to the fullest, and, in turn, my ability to write.

So what do I do? I will be 27 in two days. I am obsessed with failure, and it is destroying me.