It's blindingly clear to me that I've got it all wrong. I should've pursued writing seriously a long time ago, and with conviction improved myself to a state where I could do that full-time. I know that I've never had the raw talent, but I have had more than enough desire for this to have been possible. Except, thinking about it, I don't think I'd care much for a life in the arts; in fact, anything that involves some detachment from this possibly mythological "real world" seems dangerously uncertain to me. But the sentiment lives on, so what I must mean is that I wish I could live many lives, with writing being my focus in one of them. I heard this great line yesterday about this sort of impossible yearning being the fuel behind our passion for fiction: if we cannot experience things first hand, let us at least try to imagine them more lucidly through a talented writer. It's a great sentiment, and goes some way into capturing why good fiction can be so satisfying.

Satisfying for the reader, though. What about the writer? What on earth does he get out of this endeavour? I can only imagine, you understand. I wouldn't want to call the contents of this blog Writing in the classical sense of the word (I'm sure you wouldn't either), but taking my creation as some form of creative expression, I think I write to understand myself better, and to try to confront the dour parts of life so that they are no longer as powerful. Since I've had to continue to do this for five years, one can infer that the aim hasn't always been met, but still.

I don't know if life appreciates being categorized and summarized so often by me. With that in mind, I can understand why it decides to offer impossible dreams, like being a writer. By thinking about my thinking, maybe I will learn...but let me stop before I make it even angrier.