Do you know the most aggravating thing about living on a tropical island?
Living on a tropical island.
I don’t want to write sometimes.
I don’t want to write a lot of times if I’m honest. I love the idea of writing, but actually sitting down in a chair and focusing on words is another matter. It’s not that I’m stuck and can’t write. I’m just lazy and don’t want to.
I like information, okay?
How do things work? How do people think? What’s the best way to do a thing?
Failing hurts. We try. We give everything we have and it’s not enough. Or we try and get it wrong. The best intentions and efforts don’t guarantee us success.
It’s life. We’re going to fail.
Why do we write? Authors put hours and weeks and months into a project. They pound their head against walls, or sometimes against keyboards to see if any of the gibberish that results has merit.
And for what?
A few dollars, perhaps? A glowing review? Someone somewhere kinda knowing their name?
So I just had a birthday.
To put it in the terms my family uses, we celebrated me surviving another year and coming one year closer to death.
The screen in the corner blinks from 4:00 to 3:59. Glass shatters in the distance. Tense music fills the small room. An ominous voice warns us of the consequences if we don’t succeed in stealing back a painting before the museum opens. We gather up the final clues, solving them as we go. Another minute down. A stuck door.