I don’t really want to create things. Honestly, I don’t. In one way or another, I’ve fought it all my life. Creating is difficult. There’s tremendous risk of failure and embarrassment. There’s frequently not a lot of money in it (if at all). And it’s hard to explain to people what you do and who you really are.
I don’t want to put up with any of those things. I hate them. I’d rather be something easy to explain. I’d rather do something that other people were more willing to pay for. I’d rather do something that more readily gives me the money that a future wife wants.
But I don’t have any choice. I have to create things. When I don’t, I start dying.
As with so many creators, I struggle with the question of whether I’m an artist. Honestly, I’m afraid I am, but I feel like a fake to say so. Artists are those who paint or sculpt or do something that’s displayed in galleries. My work these days is mostly for myself or friends on Facebook or something for readers here. But am I actually a writer? Am I an artist?

Italy sending seismologists to jail for failing to predict big earthquake
If you beg someone to make you his priority, you hurt yourself
The cesspool is deep and toxic, but I’m to blame if I remain there
Love & Hope — Episode 2:
Knowing right choice years later is useless without time machine
Texas judge beating his daughter exposes truth behind coercive state
Being disconnected from love as close to hell as we’ll find on Earth
NYC cop’s profanity-laden threats secretly caught on videotape
Best years of our lives? For me, teen years were start of feeling like alien