I’m going to be really honest here: I was looking for an image of Sisyphus and his boulder friend, but then my brain went straight to Chris Redfield and his infamous boulder punching and that seemed more suitable somehow.

Right now I feel about as ridiculous as Chris Redfield.

This is my 900th piece on this website.

That’s a lot of writing about who even knows what.

I’ve never hidden the fact that I want to give up on writing. Lately that feeling has reached fever pitch and holy god do I want to give up. Sure, yes, I had a dream I could make writing a career but it seems less and less likely to be realized. I’ve heard the stories about people who hit their stride later in life, but those people were actually talented so…there’s that.

One person who has always inspired me to keep going is Kenneth Grahame.

I won’t go into a dissertation about Grahame here (for a brief but beautifully written bio on him, the introduction to the Aladdin Classics printing of The Wind in the Willows by Susan Cooper is well worth your time), but he always wanted to be a writer and life and obligations stood between he and his dream. After he retired from office work, he finally moved to the country and wound up writing what would become The Wind in the Willows; for all intents and purposes, an enduring masterpiece of literature.

I keep a picture of him in my piano room. I don’t tell people that. If I were to tell people that, I’d have to also admit that I don’t think I can ever give up, no matter how laughable that makes me. I know I am an embarrassment to myself for continuing on in the face of failure; yet I can’t give up.

No matter how much I want to.

I don’t want to write fiction. I adore reading fiction, but I’m no good at writing it, even worse than I am at non-fiction. What I do is observe and try to put words to things that don’t easily have words surrounding them.

I am the interpretive satellite.

I like to have experiences and seemingly (compulsively) write about them.

Why I do this when I feel like I have nothing of interest to say is baffling. Yet here we are.

I don’t know how long I can keep going. I am a broken, broken mess inside.

(I just spent the past several minutes staring out the window, staring at the wind, thinking.)

I wish I knew what to say. That’s probably a huge indicator why I’m not a good writer. I’m not trained. I don’t think I have style. I wish I was better. I keep trying to be better. But trying and achieving are two different things and I don’t know where I land in this mess. I’m not good at uncertainty, yet uncertainty is the name of the game.

I’m old. I’m too old to not have achieved anything notable since 2004. Fifteen years is a long time.

But I’ve consistently put content on this site for five years and I am proud of that.

I’m grateful to be proud of something.

Who knows where we go from here.

Thank you for joining me on this journey, wherever it happens to lead us. You’ll never know how much your support has meant, and continues to mean.

Thank you.

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