So let’s see: in the several months since I scribbled here, I lost my son to my ex in a bitter custody battle, resolved to give the ex’s aunt the dressing-down she so richly deserves next time I come across her, moved into a tiny apartment to save money, gave up two adored pets because of this, and met JVM.

One of those is not like the others, and I hope it marks an upswing.

He’s #3 to insist on a draft of a novel sliding across his desk, whether or not he or the others were sincere about it (it’s not their job, after all, to prod my ambition). Writing… I might have to actually, seriously look at doing this. I’ve been talking about it for long enough. I’ve been dabbling (and drabbling…) for most of my life. I should think that’s enough practice, thank you so very much.

And my so-far-perpetual hesitancy makes me wonder. Why don’t I write? Why don’t I finish the things I begin? At risk of sounding unforgivably immodest, I’m damn good, at least as far as I’ve let it take me. I know what a good story is. I know how to tell it. I know what good characters are, and I know how to make them. I know how to let them speak through me. I know how to make place immediate and visceral. I know, almost instinctively, how to tease into doing my bidding the magic of words written down. It’s a largely unshaped talent, but it’s there. I could use it if I wanted to; I could stumble across the barriers and potholes that new-fledged scribbly-types must encounter in order to acquire the scars and bruises that are a writer’s (w)rite of passage. Rejections; dead ends; bad characterisations; plots that won’t resolve. Terrible grammar. Editors (gawd bless ’em).

I could do it.

So… why the fuck don’t I write?

…I think I’m afraid.