How the hell do people write books about themselves? Telling stories of where they were and what they were doing, that’s one thing. How about sinking the pickax into your own gut and mining the bits for all the things that make you, you?! Who wants to do this? The first reason why I want to try is strictly monetary. I’m hoping that I can find a way to help support us in some fashion. The second reason, okay, there is no second reason. Not really anyway. I guess I feel cheated that I wasn’t able to make my mark in this world in some other fashion. Although, where I am is mainly due to decisions that I have made, I do feel that there was some kind of misalignment in the, chance, opportunity, luck machinery. The Fate thing, if you want to call it that. Anyway, things are the way they are and there’s probably a good chance my circumstances may allow me to make a mark in spite of myself.

The point of this post, and getting back to my original question, when you’re writing about yourself and you’re trying to be honest, the truth (your truth) starts to hurt. I want the words to be about me and I want to be fair. But somehow an element of self-loathing begins to seep in and puddle around your thoughts like little mini moats keeping you from making that fair assessment of yourself. As I mentioned earlier Fate may have had something to do with the traumatic turn in my life, but damn it, I keep coming back to just blaming myself. And the drama continues…