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No. 385659
>>385647
This is a perfect tangent into my biggest (might even go so far as to say: only) problem with life; that is, other people. See, it doesn't matter how fucked up I am, I never have problems until having to deal with people becomes involved. I couldn't care less about what I mess up involving my own life, but even though I consciously don't care about others, subconsciously I'm always terrified at causing someone else problems. I'd rather just hide inside all day and never talk to people because that is what's most comfortable for me.
So I can DO THINGS, just nothing that involves anyone else. To point, I like to fancy myself as a writer, too. I would be fairly well happy if I could spend the rest of my life writing fiction to pay the bills. Unfortunately, in order to do this, I need others to actually read what I'm writing. The whole motivating myself, and finding something I'm passionate about, doing the daily grind, blah blah blah... yeah, no problem! I planned, plotted, wrote, rewrote, re-rewrote, edited, and reedited an entire fucking novel. 185,000 words, thereabouts. Took me damn near four years in total. Every single one of the 52 chapters was hammered out by me sitting in a corner on my crappy little netbook typing away for three/four hours nonstop. It's done, finished, ready to go (well, at least in digital format), and the best part is, I actually think it's GOOD. I've never been satisfied with so much as a single batch of cookies I've baked, and have a tendency to nitpick and deride any mistake I make as ruining the entire thing, yet I think, time and again, that this novel is really freaking good! And yet for the last six months, I've been essentially sitting on it doing nothing.
I just... can't move. I could be sitting on something that's either going to (most likely, let's be realistic) fail miserably, or succeed. If it fails, I can just hurry up and throw in the towel and go walk off the face of the fucking Earth, because I've been telling myself I'm going to commit suicide since before I graduated high school; I'm just procrastinating at this point. However, if it succeeds, I might suddenly become able to make a living off of this. Dare we dream, I might even become the next Stephen King; this could be my equivalent of his manuscript of Carrie that his wife literally rescued from a trash can.
For most people, I suppose they would consider this part the easiest. They did all the hard work for years and years and years, now they merely have to contact an agent, write a letter to a publisher, or self-publish and self-promote. Easy shit! Socializing and interacting is what humans are made for! Well, not me.
Getting started is never a problem for me, it's doing the very last thing, because usually that last thing involves other people. All I have left to do is pull the trigger; in fact I've already built the entire gun from scratch, forged the bullets, mixed the powder, I've set up aim, I've stilled my heart and held my breath. The target is in the crosshairs. I'm ready.
Nope. I just walk away. I can't do it.
I don't even know what I'm asking for. I just felt like dumping my problems because, God knows, nobody in my family gives a shit about my problems. They're all normal people who have no problem making phone calls. They don't understand why it's always so difficult for me. They don't notice the pattern where, if asked to complete a job, I'll work myself tirelessly and until I'm bloody to complete it; yet, I haven't gone out to proactively find work. They just see that I don't have "a job", and so assume I'm lazy and don't want to work at all. That's all anyone sees. "So you want to be a writer, kid? Ha! You haven't even published so much as a single paragraph in a blog. What a joke."
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