What the hell did I just write? Very stream-of-consciousness and very raw. Mostly about my future as a writer and the other writers in my creative writing class.

I feel like this is it for me; it's time to make a decision. Up until now I've never felt like I needed to make Creative Writing my final major.

There are young, talented people in the class, and they've worked hard to make their work great. Who am I? I don't think my work is great, or any good; and I mean that sincerely, not as an author affecting humility, but as a reader who finishes reading them and goes, What the hell? That was crap!

Everything's so relative, isn't it? Some people think other people are crap; other people love some people. Nothing is definitely going to happen. There's no guarantee those talented people will ever write outside of the class, will ever find an agent and publish work. Who's gonna guarantee them that? Nobody. If anyone ever guarantees you anything, they're nobodies; they don't know what the hell the score is. They're the ones looking at the stars--I imagine in a giant soccer stadium with the flood lights on full-blast--trying to find the faint stars through the pollution, and saying, And we'll all live in harmony and everyone will love each other and nobody is gonna ever die again, I guarantee it. Who the hell guarantees anything? That's what I want to know.

Anyway, so there's no guaranteeing the people in my writing class will ever publish and become successful writers--actual, honest-to-god writers who get paid. Isn't that every budding writers dream? To get paid to write. And if the stuff they write isn't very good, but they still get paid? Now wouldn't that be something. Of course, like any field, there are good writers and bad writers, and sometimes the bad writers gross more than the good writers, etc., whatever. My point is this: the talented writers in my class, they have something I don't; I see it clearly. They're good writers--or at least decent writers who can see good writing on the horizon--because they work hard. I guarantee (look at this guy guaranteeing) that they've worked hard for long hours, which is why they're so good. Turning back to me, I don't work hard. I slack off, laze about, think a bit, then push out some half-coherent drivel about a car accident and the pain of youth or whatever. Do you see the problem here? I don't practice! Goddammit, I don't practice. I put it off, kick it further down the road, push it until the very last moment, then scribble a few lines about "causers and victims"--what the hell does that even mean? I mean, what the hell is wrong with me that I'm afraid to try? I'm afraid to put pen to paper, and write and think and try. Fear is so powerful an inhibitor--as much as alcohol is an uninhibitor. Except I'm always drunk off my flying ass off fear. My life changes because of it; every action, decision, impulse, thought is tinged in fear. I'm so disappointed in myself. Seriously, I think it's something tragic that I must address now. There's no great climax or rising action or pivotal catch-all scene where I must decide; the great moment is a Thursday in November an odd number of days from Thanksgiving while sitting in my car on a foggy night in my college's parking lot. That's the time for me to decide.

So what will it be? Will I choose the blue pill, or the red pill? My life, my decisions, my consequeses--isn't that how it's suppposed to go? Yes.

Unfortunately, I just can't decide. To write, or not to write--that's the mother-flippin' question. A writer, or not a writer; stories, or no stories; fiction, or not-fiction. What the hell, man? Why you gotta treat me so rough, Life? I'm given tremendous opportunity, and I complain; that's the extent of my ungratefulness.

I've decided. Just like that the decision is made. I told you it isn't a climactic scene of kissing in the rain 2,000 miles away from home. I choose to write (I guess). I want to become great. I want to write great stories so bad... Who the hell says that? If you're gonna be a writer, don't do it for the money. Chances are the money's shit, your stories are shit, and everyday you contemplate how to improve yourself while absolutely nothing comes to mind. How do I consume greatness? I suppose it's self-made. Shit.