I want to be a writer. BUT, I have absolutely no confidence in my ability to write. And so I don't write. It is merely a dream, a fantasy. My life feels like a complete waste of time. One of these mornings I will wake up and realize that I’ve suddenly become 40 years old and nothing I’ve filled my time with really mattered. Ok, I do write a little. And I write most smoothly, most fluidly, when I’m writing depressing, cynical, rambles like this. In other words, I write best when I’m writing something no one would care to read.

Have I perhaps lost the belief that the written word can change people, effect people? Well, what changes and effects me? Life experience. That was easy. Well then, should my writing be born out of life experience? Sure. But, what must I do to more fully live life so that I can write? . . . Hmmmm. Good question. Whatever it is, I’m worried that I won’t be able to do it. My life simply feels like I’m . . . oh geez, nevermind. I’ve been over and over this. It gets old.

I I remember I had a big imagination when I was younger. Where did that go? Perhaps I just have to exercise it more. Do people who have to rely on writing exercises and workshops really ever become productive and consistent writers? Bestsellers? Literary elite? Or is that the path of the wannabes? Maybe you have it or you don't.

Maybe I don’t have to write, per se. Maybe I just need to create, to accomplish. When I was working at Kinko’s I didn’t have the desperate, blasé feeling that I have right now. That could be because my job consisted of routinely accomplishing new and different tasks in a variety of ways. Every day, I had at least four or more finished products completed, and as many more moved to new stages of completion. Every day had a new batch of jobs (although there were always those that took several days). I filled my off-work time with enjoyable pursuits: fantasy baseball, computer games, movies, music, books. Aside from the fact that I had very little non-work social contact (which did leave me very lonely, I will admit), I was happy.

But now, inside of work and out of it, I feel like I am accomplishing nothing. This may be the root of the problem. All of my days seem horribly short, although that may be due to the unfamiliar sleep schedule. But, even adding things like bowling and slamming back into my life doesn’t seem to be enough to fill the void, the aimlessness. Perhaps, writing really is the answer. It would seem to be the easiest solution. There must be a few stories to tell inside me, somewhere.