There was a period of time in the 1990’s when I was seriously attempting to become a writer. I was attending workshops, and had a writer’s group and mentors helping me. I was writing essay pieces and I had my index cards of places to send out query letters and unsolicited submissions. I was collecting rejection letters in good spirits, realizing that each one meant I was engaged in the process. The highlight of this period was when I had two publications interested in a piece I’d written about being a hippie’s child. I sold it to the Boston Phoenix and got three hundred dollars and one of the happiest days of my life out of the deal. I stopped attempting to write and publish when I convinced myself I had a demon within that would prevent me from doing what I really wanted to do, and If I was ever going to be successful in that area, I would first have to contend with my internal self-squelcher. So I set about to do that. It is almost physically painful to realize that my progress along these lines (over a period of 15 plus years) has produced little more than an unending string of avoidances and distractions. The paper tiger of fears and inhibitions and self-doubts has proven a worthy opponent. Among my faults I can count a hyper analytical introspection. Which means that few of the ironies of my own psychosis escape my awareness. My problems are obvious. It’s the solutions that prove illusive. I have some sort of glass ceiling in my own consciousness, created by me, of course, and all I can seem to manage is to press my face against it and watch my breath fog it up. I fantasize about what it would be like to break through. I can play out various scenarios based on conceptualizations of spiritual and consciousness liberation, enlightenment, awakening, dancing, freedom…, but I don’t really know what it would be like. I am beginning to wonder If I will ever know. Maybe this is as good as it gets. I can’t seem, however, to concede victory to a clump of nebulous fears and superstitions. I keep thinking I am smarter than that. Maybe I have to fight this battle my whole life. Walking away doesn’t seem to work. Pretending it’s not a problem doesn’t work. The older I get the less creative and energetic I seem to be in my approach. I hope that some wisdom from experience will kick in to compensate. But I am not sure. The issue isn’t really writing any more. Now it is more about what I will be doing to make a living. The same paper tiger comes up when I think up some new approach or strategy to change my life. It has a smirk on it’s face, and I have to chuckle myself. “You son of a gun.”