It's sad that when I had all the time in the world to write, I hadn't the skill to do it as well as I can now. Yet now when I have the skill, and even when I make the time, I find the world full of distractions - a carnival of minutiae that makes the most banal entertainment seem infinitely more interesting than working on my own book.
I'm certain this is the kind of self-destructive, auto-sabotage that makes most people stay wannabes. The skilled craftsman who never builds, the talented singer whose audience is only the empty car seats on the way to work, and me - a union of wasted potential if we keep up to our old tricks...
I want to finish my book. I'm going to finish my book.
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