Orson Welles made Citizen Kane at 26.

Well, I'm 27... What have I accomplished? What have I to show for it?

If you ask my Grandma B.: "Not a damned thing."

If I could cram all my half-arsed ambitions into a cardboard box and carry them to the Pack -N- Ship, the cost of postage would far exceed my solvency.

This blog is a tool. Writing needs to become my daily ritual. For me to realize even a fraction of my hopesdreamsgoals, new habits must be adopted. To paraphrase the vague and lazy introductory speeches of new NFL head coaches everywhere (I'm looking at you, Cam Cameron): we need to create a culture winning.

Writing, for me, is a labor of love. On those rare occasions when I feel I've produced a work to be proud of, the mental satisfaction that swells inside of me* is unparalleled. The feeling is always earned, though. Perhaps I haven't paid in blood or sweat, but you can bet, at the very least, everything I have previously seen fit to share with an audience represents an investment of my time. My writing process is very rarely as fluid as I would like. I can easily spend hours or even days trying to find the right word or phrase. My jaw clenches, my blood pressure rises, my vision blurs, and my deadlines usually go bye-bye** as I stare with irresolvable anxiety at that damned blinking cursor, trying to think of the perfect next word.

I envy and loathe those writers whose prose flows quickly and steadily, like Lloyd Christmas's oft-cited salmon of Capistrano. This fledgling blog hopes to serve many ends, but none bigger than allowing me to rise above my own artistic insecurities. In the practical universe, I know-- instinctively-- that I will rarely have the time to adequately tune the smaller details of my work. I'm becoming an old man. I've already missed my Citizen Kane window and no longer can I afford the luxury (no, "luxury" is not the right word, but as part of my new effort to forego waiting for the right word, I will use it anyway) of the prolonged inactivity borne from my paralyzing insecurities.

Sure, I'll probably still end up fixing the typos and grammatical errors in my posts. But I vow never to edit (after publishing, at least) for theme, content, direction, or word choice. Writers write (yes, I realize that sentence isn't even eloquent enough to be considered a cliché, but it's the only truth I know regarding the craft I claim to love). I need to write more. I need to write more frequently and learn to do it with greater ease.

I spend far too much time considering what to write, so my blogging goal is to simply entertain whatever whimsical inspirations creep into my head. My interests are varied and my taste and tact are questionable. So yes, be afraid,

---

*swells inside of me - That phrase requires some sort of meta-justification. I have none.

**My jaw clenches, my blood pressure rises, my vision blurs, and my deadlines usually go bye-bye - In elementary school, I was taught to separate all items in a list with a comma (even the one preceding the "and"). "Jane went to the market for apples, bananas, and prophylactics." I realize my comma usage may be dated, downright abominable perhaps. Get used to it.