I've recently come to the realization that I've been mentally putting my wishes to become a published writer on the back burner because, since I was a kid, life has pounded the notion into my head that my writing is some kind of guilty indulgence or escape from responsibility. Being adult means accepting some soulless 9-5 fate and stoically enduring a lifetime of back pain, with nothing to show for it in the end but a long list of things I never got around to, and more back pain. Somehow, having bills means you should be punished or something–grounded. Some kind of weird blue-collar pride in how anchored you are in harsh reality. Striving for something a little wilder is merely prolonging the inevitable cold plunge into *REALITY*. –Please see the handbook entitled "So You're Nobody Special Either" for tips on how to keep your chin up when it doesn't work out.

It's caused me to become overly hesitant in accepting my own kick-assness and truly opening myself to the mindset that this is actually a valid career aspiration rather than a pipe dream that everyone with "valid" job skills seems to think they're humoring me over.

Last night John told me I had a gift that I wasn't utilizing to it's full degree. Every time he makes reference to my "gift" I roll my eyes and point out that my writing is not good enough to be called a gift. I'm not writing high literature. I'm writing quirky, brain-candy–and anyway, I've read way better stuff than I can write.

"Are you kidding? You've got the ability to create worlds. That's a gift. You just need to totally immerse yourself in your writing for once."

I suddenly knew EXACTLY why I've been so hesitant about just diving in and making this thing happen and I'm so pissed–I can't even decide which one of us I'm more pissed at. I guess myself, since I'm the one still around to do something about it. So here I go. No more dragging my feet. This is my job and its time to start getting paid.