It’s been ten years since I published my first book.  I am nowhere near done with my second, The Straw Man.  I never thought it would take longer for Straw Man.  I should be better at this, right?

Is it ok to not want it anymore?  I want to be free of the expectation that it will be the RIGHT thing.  I want what I write to be good, or fuck it.  But I don’t care about what sells.  I never was a “book seller,” I was a writer.  I never was a “successful writer with a plan.”  I just like to do it and it helped me.  It always helped me.  It always made me feel good.  Even if it was bad.  Even if the feelings were bad.  Especially if the feelings were bad.

I have low self esteem.  I rarely feel comfortable in any setting outside of my house.  Even around my family I can feel awkward.  Not my wife and kids, but the rest of them.  They stare at me like I’m an alien.  As they go, so goes the world. 

When I was young I was jealous of all of my friends.  They were confident, seemingly without effort.  In contrast, I rehearsed what I said three times before I spoke, which was often too quiet.  “Speak up!” my friends would say.  Everyone would laugh.  When I would get angry, they acted as though I was overreacting.  Being too sensitive.  I shyly smiled instead.  Not because I was shy but because it afforded me the opportunity to stifle my anger.  Count to ten, then utter, “What I said was …”  Hating myself for it.  Hating them.  That’s exactly right:  although I had close friends, I hated them in those moments. 

When you have abundant confidence, things come to you too easily.  I had to work harder.  Rehearse the comment three times so that it landed; otherwise, be silent.  It wouldn’t just be kinda funny, it would murder.  It wouldn’t be sorta smart, it would be insightful.  It wouldn’t be sad, it would make you cry.  That’s exactly right.  I wanted tears.  I wanted them to feel pain.

When I was confident about my ability to do something, it was always after diligent training.  Martial arts.  Playing the trumpet.  Writing.  But I still couldn’t behave with confidence.  I perceived every slight or criticism as an attack on my fundamentals.

But today those things aren’t me.  This is who I am:  I am loyal, maybe to a fault.  If you go against my family, you are on my shit list.  I’m thoughtful and I care about others.  I’m a nurturer, clearly.  I mean, all I do it futz around taking care of the house and the kids and my wife and the dog.  I might complain or be tired of people’s shit, but I do it.  I always do it.  If I hated caring about others, I wouldn’t do it.

I am not afraid of taking complex information and breaking off a piece for myself.  Whatever I can use.  As I grow older, I find I don’t fear failure as much as I did.  So yes, I haven’t finished Straw Man.  But I don’t fear it becoming a mess.

Now I will eat peanut butter and go to bed.