Inception. The origin of a thought or action. Ideas seem to spring up from the dead memories of my brain. They grow out of the wasted pages of books I’ve read but can’t quite remember. Still I know quite a bit from them. They pop up like shoots of green in a field of shit.

Today I thought about the golden mean again. This idea came to me in Magic building, but translates into my first few years at Georgia Southern University. Did I ever live that failure down? Still my disease is that of the serial optimist. I will have a great idea and I will drop everything because my excitement gets the better of me. I quit going to my classes because I thought I had in me the great American novel about MLK’s assassination how little did I know. I did the same when trying to lose weight a couple years ago I was in the gym Almost everyday but I burned out. I have to curb my enthusiasm. I have to contain my joy.

My other failure I rarely think about was the job situation. It was getting to the point where I couldn’t stay any more. I didn’t fit into the work force. I didn’t know what was going on around me. I do the same at school my ignorance of school matters kept me from succeeding. But what I’ve done now is starting to break my troubles into manageable pieces of fifteen minutes. I can write after the fifteen minutes is up but I can’t stop before. I’ll note the number of words written in that time frame to gauge productiveness. I’ll start with once tonight and two time tomorrow and three times by Thursday. But then I may be able to up the time one minute at a time each day after that.

I just can’t write anything, that’s not what writing is. It’s a way of organizing my thoughts into something I, or someone else, can read later. If I put everything in then I can’t get to the “good parts” as it were. So vomiting onto the page isn’t the solution. There is a need for middle ground. Staying present. Don’t stop. Whenever you feel down doing something good. Shut up and write.

My life is stunted. It seems from the moment I can remember anything I was running away. I skipped school so much I failed the 10th grade. I to this day don’t know why I didn’t want to go to school. But it’s the same thing that is stunting my life now 15 years later and it seems as if I’m still locked away in a room hiding.

I noticed before I slipped into my childhood. I suppose that’s what writing down the bones was right. If I continue to write I will eventually stumble upon a subject that is meaningful to me. I thought first about deception as a subject matter. Deception is the heart of evil and conflict, but it isn’t unique to humans. I feel the topic is close to me because I feel most of my life has been a deception in one form or another. This is something I’d love to write about but I don’t know where to start. When it is time to write, write.

I feel that all the books I’ve read over time are things I should have been writing about. In order for these ideas to be a part of me I have to use the words to incorporate them into my mind.

I’m not sure if any of this makes since, but I want there to be a record of my efforts to write. I’m unsure of myself right now. My grammar and spelling and language are primitive for sure, I’m working at it right? Fear, embarrassment, timidity, these are the enemies of a successful life. I’m headed to bed but I hope after tonight you’ll see a lot more work in this journal.

Writing is the truth with details. It was the most profound statement I’ve heard about writing. It stopped me in my place and made me recommit myself to the truth. The basic block of the writing life is learning how to write for a block of time. Choose a certain amount of time and sit down and write for that amount of time. Sit there and write for a song as you can. I don’t write that much because of my own limitations. I can’t see what I write. I can type and I can think. I can’t see. And so after I’ve written for the set period of time I can’t seem to continue because the words are building up line and line and I know I will have to face them soon. All the missed spellings and bad grammar and lack of coherence. I want to improve those flaws but the only way is to work through them. But as I push on the only thing that comes to mind is the fact that the words are getting more sloppy the text is losing it’s freshness and I am making more work for me to clean up.

But what other choice is there? I was made to write this much I know. If only for the fact that my mind is always active always thinking but it’s not making me any money. My mind is somehow different from everyone else’s in ways good and bad. But that difference is what makes my thoughts interesting. I can’t describe that difference yet, but I know soon I will. I know the outcome is a miserable man who thinks too much about things no one else seems to pay any mind. I see the pain that is unnecessary, and yet I’m powerless to change that intolerable situation for others or myself.

Contacting first thoughts to record the details of my life. Writing is inspiration made real in our minds. It is creation. Don’t hold back if you think it’s good, use it. Don’t keep it to yourself. Open your heart and mind and share wholeheartedly. Be in love with your life. Accept loss forever

This writing practice is like exercising. It’s not something that I want to do it’s something I have to do. I never can get myself to do the things I need to do. My life seems like a deadline that never comes. My goals are never really made clear and so I say one day I’ll do such and such, but right now I’m not. But it’s always on my to do list. In response still feel the anxiety of unfinished work, but in reality I never had any intention of doing anything. It’s a lie I tell myself to make me think I’m better than I really am. I don’t have to write words for other people to read, These words are for myself. These words are to help me burn away the junk inside my own mind. In order to get to the truth I write whatever until I find the treasure buried under the junk