You know, over the last few years, something has become
painfully clear: I’m not really good at anything.
I know, I know, and before you say anything, YES, I’m
involved in a shit ton of things and am decent at a lot of stuff. But
sometimes, I don’t want to be simply decent. Sometimes, I want to be good, you
know? Like, damned good.
And I’m just not.
I’m good at playing the drums, it’s true. But, that being
said, after twenty-two years, I should be a lot better. I’m good at computers,
just not good enough to get paid. I’m good at being funny, just not good enough
for a career in standup. I’m good at AutoZone, just not good enough,
apparently, for them to pay me anywhere near a respectable wage. I’m good at
this, I’m good at that, I’m interested in a thousand things, but nothing in
there really stands out as exceptional.
Except writing.
Do I think I’m an exceptional writer? I don't know. I truly
don't. But I do know that it’s my only hope. I’m just not good enough at
anything else to make it matter. I mean, yes, they make me happy, which is
important. Metal detecting, for instance, makes me very happy. I’m just not
good enough at it to be on the show Diggers. Singing makes me happy,
too, but you won't see me on American Idol next season.
You get what I’m saying.
If I’m going to make it, really make it, in this
jacked up, crazy world, I’d better not quit writing. It’s the only thing I can
do better than my friends. I don’t expect to gain Stephen King fame or be
studied by college students for the next hundred years, but a living would be
nice. A fiction living would be so, so nice.
And therefore, wrong or right, I plod on and on with my
words, writing as much as I can when I have the time in hopes I can sell a few
tales to the readers of the world. While writing is rewarding and I love every
second, it sure would be nice to say I’m a writer when people ask what I
do for a living.
