Journal

If I traveled back in time and told my younger self I'd be fully committed to writing a novel, I'd end up kicking my younger self in the shins before he could get too excited. I'm two-thirds done with my manuscript. It's horrible, but I keep telling myself most things are when I'm relying on streams of consciousness to churn the words out.  It's an emotional roller coaster. There's a lot of frustration and anxiety. Reading through paragraphs on paragraphs that don't reflect the visions I had; only then to discover maybe I didn't have them in the first place. Poorly built roads leading to these moments that I so wanted to write. This is the immediate worry among a long list of worries. However,  I don't see myself doing anything else.  I don't want to do anything else. I  delude myself into thinking this is what 'having a calling' means and I fall into it with my arms wide open.  On a side note, the fact that Samuel Beckett felt