The drinking, the babble, the scuffles and the stories- sure, I've got that down. But am I a writer? No. I am a fucker, a braggart, a lying monster. A writer writes! Producing page after page of shit or glory- but it's done! The paper sits in stacks! The writer has piles of notebooks containing late night scratchings from horrific dreams to illicit and terrific sex! What a life I lead. Torn by talents i possess that won't let me go. Many of my literary heroes have said they started writing because it was all they were good at. Well...I don't suck at an impressive amount of things! And I get little to nothing done as a result of juggling for fear my time is running out- an impending fear due to my wasted youth (all puns intended).When I write with the flow, it comes out in a paragraph or two and then stops. When I play the trumpet, only haphazard wannabe Chet Baker sadness plops out. Producing music is a wonderful passion but my lack of technical knowledge kills my buzz quickly. Drawing- my art pieces are few but some say wonderful. Then I look around and see what else they call wonderful these days and want to stab my eyes out with driftwood. Juggling is fucking dangerous. However, it conjures up feelings I once had as a kid: you can do anything you want. I laugh at my own dreams these days, I really can't help it. So until I offer up some kind of meat (writing wise) to the table, I'm a tormented wannabe. Aren't we all?
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