You know what just occurred to me?

That angry whopper entry from a couple days ago was something I wrote because I felt like it was a story that couldn't go without being told. It was so good it needed to be shared, and as I pounded it out I didn't concern myself so much with my ability to craft it, because I knew that even if the word choices and pacing and imagery and stuff wasn't absolutely perfect, there was still something of value in the story's content, something people might find uplifting or even entertaining.

If only I had this same feeling about the wrestling novel, maybe I wouldn't be laboring over it so meticulously. Maybe I'd be a helluva lot closer to done by now. But I don't. I mean, on good days I know I have a compelling concept, and I absolutely love my main characters, but even then I still question whether anyone aside from me is gonna give a shit, and wondering this makes it hard to take the risks needed to get the missing bits of the story down on paper.

I want my work to matter to people, you know? Not that I need ridiculous fame and fortune, but I want to touch people the same way some of my favorite stories have touched me.

Seeing the success of The Wrestler makes me a little more confident that this is possible, but the constant fear of irrelevance, of being misunderstood, of being dismissed or outright rejected because of my subject matter still lingers.

I try to power through it as best as I can, and I even finished chapter four to the best of my abilities this afternoon, but I'm still struggling to find the sense of urgency I need to tell this story -- that intangible faith that I've got something within me that's worth sharing.

These are the things that run through my mind when I'm exhausted and home alone on a Friday night.