Promises, promises

Cold feet.

That's my excuse. Take it or leave it.

Of all the creatures on this good earth, the cowardliest has to be WtW. I can only ever do something if I have first convinced myself that it's not a big deal.

Take getting married. The first I heard of that, I went a little bonkers. Then I said, hey, no biggie, it's not that much different from not being married except for the living together part, and that's going to be fun anyhow - and lo! I was bonkers no more.

And take writing. I've written a novel and a half now, and you'd think writing would have stopped scaring me. Truth is, I only did manage to write that first novel because it was a romance novel, and everybody knows it's bullshit writing. It's not important. I don't have to write about real stuff - just rosy worlds and romance-novel-people™. And this second novel? If you only had a clue how I have been avoiding it...

Three weeks ago on this blog, I promised to write a column every weekday. I thought the threat of a public humiliation upon a failure to produce actual writing would be enough to spur me to great feats... but it appears that I have defeated my own thesis. If Richard Roeper can confront the blank screen every day and win - clearly he is the better man in this contest.

And I, I return to my sadistic self, choosing to face my greatest fear and failing to conquer it, over and over and over again.

*A single tear runs dramatically down an ample cheek as WtW gazes into the distant sunset.*

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• writing
• misc