I was going to do a blog update about Easter, but it turned into a now-ten-page-long single-spaced thing that contains, among other things, the seeds to what may grow into a flat-out memoir. This caught me by surprise. I had not been aware I had that much to say on the subjects found therein.

"You have a lot to say," is the comment that keeps on finding me and clamping tight to my leg. I suppose I do. But how much of what I have to say matters, really? I keep circling around the question, trying to work out how much of my writing is serving a function and how much is egotistical mental masturbation.

I've never understood why the workings of my brain, fictional or non, have any impact whatsoever on the people who read and comment on them. I never quite trust the people who tell me the things I produce are good, because clearly their taste is in need of improvement and how can I trust anyone with that level of dubious judgement? Lately, I have been ignoring the tiny voice in the back of my head that prances about declaring that everything I touch will turn to shit sooner or later, because I can't seem to get rid of the sneaking suspicion that it might be wrong. Whenever I do that, though, the sneaking suspicion (because it's sneaky) changes sides, begins to mutter that I'm fooling myself and everyone else is delusional.

The way I see it, if I do nothing at all for fear of doing badly, there will never be a chance of doing well. So I continue to ignore the voice, and the sneaking suspicion continues to mutter. But it would have done that anyway.

Yesterday, the Poet told me that he could never imagine someone like me ever being neurotic, and all I could think was, well holy crow, is it really that easy? You just pretend to be confident until the people around you believe that you are, and then suddenly, because they believe it and consensual reality works like that, you get to actually BE confident?

Is that really all there is to it? Just...lie?

Is that what the rest of you have been doing this whole time?

I have a lot to say, that's very true. But does having a lot to say automatically mean that it is worth saying?

I suppose that is a question that I will have to answer with time. In the meantime, I've got this...thing to poke at, this ever-growing, shouting-louder thing that keeps digging its roots deeper and sending out new branches to test the air.

Oh, and schoolwork. Like the Shakespeare thing. CRAP, THE SHAKESPEARE THING.