I remain hamstrung by the idea of ‘what if?’ Or perhaps the ideology of ‘what if?’ keeps the now from being fully realized. Or, maybe it is all just a nightmare from which I lack the ability to wake up. All of this adds up to the fact that I have become a writer that comes to the page to escape rather than the one who seeks out the page to tell–no transmit–stories from elsewhere. Moreover, the stories I tell lack the human blood and sweat of the moments I am enduring in my natural life. So, all in all, the words are ringing pretty hollow right now when they are ringing at all.
I am afraid to tell specific kinds of stories for fear of what it might break in the real world. Emotions running high, and patience threadbare, it doesn’t take much to set off an endless war.