I don’t know why I do this.

That thought probably runs through my head every five minutes.  On a good day, maybe once an hour.

On a bad day, it’s always there, a giant fuckin’ neon sign, flashing beneath the words: FAILURE!  FAILURE! like some terrible warning light on an airplane headed for impact.

2012 was a tough year.  I fought off some reoccurring health problems that stymied my creativity.  It’s tough to do your best when your body isn’t doing its best.  It’s hard to write when there’s a persistent discomfort behind the day.  I’m 33, and up until about a year and a half ago I took my health for granted.  Ironically, it was once I quit smoking and started eating better that I started to feel on the far side of youth.  It’s an odd thing, seeing oneself a wee bit less resilient than before.  I guess there was a part of me that still figured I was immortal, I suppose.

I don’t know why I do this. 

I’ve been thinking that a lot lately.  Maybe it’s the winter.  Maybe it’s the shitty sales.  Maybe it’s the drawer of aborted novels I’ve built up this last year.  Maybe it’s because it’s so damn hard to make a living with my creepy stories.

It’s probably all of that and more.

I don’t know why I do this.

If I add up the time that I’ve been writing, I come out to about 2/3rds of my lifetime, plus or minus a year here and there.  Not just writing, but spending nights inside with fiction instead of outside with friends.  Sure, I have a social life, or some shred of it, but for the most part, I’m a loner.  Got a girl that loves me and tolerates me, and some good friends.  But Saturday nights don’t see me dancing, that’s for sure.  I have three pairs of shoes, and none of them are nice enough to get me into any clubs.

I don’t know why I do this.

The closest thing I have to an answer is I simply don’t know how to do anything else.  If I could turn back the clock and talk to eleven-year old me scribbling bad Sword of Shannara fiction me I’d tell him this: “Pick another fucking passion, this one will make you hate yourself.”

And it does.

About 99% of the time, I’m confronted by the fact that I have, by no measurement of my own judgement, come upon any semblance of success.  I can’t pay rent with my writing, not consistently, and the few times I have been able to I consider outliers.  Flukes.  Magical happenstance.  Who knows?

“Pick another passion kid, cause this one, you’ll always see the light flashing: FAILURE!  FAILURE!  Is that a fun way to live your life?  Do something, anything else.  Build computers.  Be the happiest pipe fitter in Pittsburgh.  Join a circus.  Writing’s a quick ticket to self loathing.  99% of the time you’re a failure, and you’ll say to yourself: ‘I don’t know why I do it,” until the words are little more than a pathetic mantra for a pathetic person.  Pick another passion kid, this one’s no good.”

So why still do it?  Day after day?  Why waste away scribbling stories few people read?

Because, it’s the closet thing to bliss I’ve found.

The endorphin rush of creativity, the burn.  Pulling something from nothing, worlds from words.  That 1% of the time I’m not focused on finding new stories and entertaining new readers, but simply enjoying the words I come up with.  It’s magical, or at least as close to magical as grouch like me cares to get to.

But man, it’s a motherfucking struggle to get there.

And if 11 year old me asks: “Is it worth it?” I’ll tell him the truth.

I honestly don’t know.

Sometimes, I really don’t know.