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  • I am tired of trying to figure things out. I'm almost 35 and I'll be damned if I didn't think it would've all fallen into place by now. Why am I trying to force things? My clock is ticking, some part of me says. Whose clock? I ask. That's an important question, I believe.

    I started writing because I didn't know the rules and I wanted to break something. Prior to the unconscious decision to start down this path, I used to write strictly for myself... and it was painful. Every word a root canal. I found freedom in spraying playfully incendiary words at anyone within a certain radius. I could be whoever I wanted, but mostly, I could be me. I was making myself laugh and having a great time in the process.

    I turned this into a career. After an incursion into the music business, I retreated and began as a writer. What fun! Now, I was letting it all hang out and people paid me. I did have to do what they said, but woo!

    That's no fun anymore. Most of the time, my heart is elsewhere. I spend more time watching reruns of The Wire than cutting new keys. Not good. As much as I can, I try to do what I'm doing right here and just write and type and write without thinking too much about the final product – that's what got me off in the past, why shouldn't I try to tap into this again? – but it often just makes me sound whiny and self-important.

    I figure I'll just ride it out. Something will come up. It has too. Also, it's winter. My charter tends to slow down a bit this time of year.
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