There are moments when I really want a journal. A physical object made of paper (or an acceptable paper-like substance) that I can keep only for myself; a private tome for me to divulge the depths of my soul to without judgement.
Then I realize I have this blog and there is nothing the judgmental internet masses love more than delicious tortured pieces of yummy soul. Paper and it's synonyms cost money.
I feel a pressing need to really work on my craft. I just can't seem to decide on an outlet to focus on. I love journalism. It's my absolute favorite job. But I want to be a novelist. A real novelist. I want to live, eat and breathe the craft until maybe one day in the distant future it turns from craft into art.
The practical side of me says, "Focus on journalism, John. You know you can get another job that way, do well with it and grow."
The real me though? The complete me, the practical merged with the impractical, the dreamer and the pragmatist? That me wants to write gloriously long texts. I'm just so terrified of taking the leap. Terrified that if I put the colossal amount of time, effort and heart into what I truly want to write -- that it will be time wasted.
I fear the rejection and failure. It is my greatest weakness, I'm quite sure of it.