Learning to Cope with Cowardice

It isn't apparent whether or not I have any talent. I certainly haven't developed any, nor was I born with any particularly special skills. I can't draw a straight line, that's for sure. I will allow, though, that I have ambitions to create. What exactly it will be (if it does indeed come to pass), I don't know. The short story is enticing, because it suits my lack of patience and my capricious character. The novel is too daunting a task, too mountainous. Poetry is beyond my grasp despite my fascination with words. It's the symbolism that causes me grief, I think. The verbal acrobatics required by that illustrious form can't be performed by my stodginess.

As I've told a handful of friends, my dilemma in creating is that I'm frozen by the very thought of attempting it. Adding to the vast body of the story just might not be in me, but if I never quest to find it I won't be certain it isn't there. I am a nebbishy, craven bastard for that, I guess, and while I certainly am not content with my lot, there's a certain comfort to it. An awful mindset I've created for myself, it seems. If I never attempt, I can't fail. I understand that the real failure is in not attempting and that I'm fooling myself, but what can I say?

The magic work ethic and endless wellspring of ideas that seem to be so accessible to many writers do not seem to be within my reach. I can't stimulate my mind these days. I stagnate, I am in a lifelong slump. Motivation and ambition are as elusive as the Sasquatch and world peace. All around me I see people working towards dreams while I can't fall asleep. Or maybe I can't wake up.

I have been told that I should be thankful for my blessings, that I live in a free country and have never had to worry about food, shelter or clothing. Besides the fact that these are relative (in my view), I'm not convinced. Of course my position as a privileged human affects my perspective here, but it seems as though my "blessings," coupled with my excessive practicality have led me to a dull and dreary life.

Kurt Vonnegut once said, "Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?"

I need adventure, or at least some sort of purpose. I could spend my life pursuing knowledge, but would I have the time to utilize it? How much of it is actually useful? How can it be used? If I write, what can I say that can be of any use to my fellow humans? If it doesn't help anyone else, will it be beneficial to me? Do I only derive my personal satisfcation after finding approval in others? Why should I write? I can't answer it. I should write for myself but that seems selfish; writing for the approval of others (which would ultimately be for self-validation) also seems selfish. Yet the title of "writer" suits me, more than anything else. Something in me finds a kindred spirit with literature and its masters, and while I can never hope to be another window or chimney or door of its great mansion, I could be, maybe, a brick. Or a housefly?

To the real world for now...