The only fate worse
Than the one of a writer
Is one of poets

What kind of self hating maniac am I?

Finished a documentary on the writer and poet Charles Bukowski. After many years he achieved fame, but it was a hard path. Of course I saw this after reading a Seth Godin blog post about how hard it is to succeed as an author. So it hits me:

There’s a good chance I will fail.

A statement like this is enough to scare even a heroic mortal. But I then have an even crazier thought:

Even if that is true I have to try.

So again I ask: What kind of self hating maniac am I?

Am I no different from the average guy in a bar who hits on the most stunning girl he’s ever seen? He knows he has no shot, but he tries. I’ve never been that guy. I do a lot of research to determine success. Until now.

Why? I’m prepared to put my head in the lion’s mouth, without years of training or even asking the lion her first name. What’s changed?

Happiness. Peace. Self respect. These are worth everything. I thought I had them. Truth is I was trading them in for comfort, supposed security, and a boring, slow march towards death.

Changing paths is necessary, even if it means derailing an accelerating train.

There are no lies. No self deceit. No unicorns and faeries to make all my wishes come true.

More like hunger, poverty, and loneliness. Maybe, just possibly on the other side of this there’s a pot of gold. Or a bag with rent money.

But I will find happiness, peace, and self-respect. How can I be so sure? I’ve already found them.

Guess I’m a self loving maniac after all.


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