Looking for inspiration, though none exists that is long lasting. Nonetheless, I must find something to inspire my work. I am no William Burroughs; I won't be sitting still in an altered state watching the shadows crawl across my walls. My mind doesn't give in to things that way. Perhaps that is a curse. Perhaps my writing would only be helped if that were the case.
Wrote down my goals early this morning. Nothing far into the future, more like things to be done within the day or week. I finished two and a half of them. I'm supposed to record myself reading from my novels. The thought terrifies me. I would be a stuttering fool if I were to do that now. I'm not ready. And yet, I must become ready no later than mid week. I have a radio interview coming up a week from tomorrow. I'll have to talk out into a space that I'm not sure will be occupied with listeners. I can hope. Hope costs nothing to myself or anyone else for that matter, unless that hope is a false one.
One thing I am certain of, I have faith in the work I do, that I am doing. And that isn't delusion speaking, and I'm sure it would sound divine uttered from another's lips, but the truth is, I have talent as a writer. Whether a modicum or a filled stream's worth. And I have goals and ambitions that I hold fast to because without them I would go mad. And not in a melodramatic or psychotic way, but in a way in which one would have to sit alone in silence and think about all the choices he's made and how those choices have brought him to where he is at this moment. I own those poor choices. Owning them helps to keep me here in the moment. I only have what I am doing here in this moment. And it has to work for me, because God knows I don't have anything else.
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