Who am I kidding? I’m not a writer. I don’t even have enough ego to be classified as a writer. And I don’t produce anything worthy of the megabytes this takes up on my iPhone and harddrive, the minutes of my life it takes to write this, the calories you use up in clicking on my link. I should just stop. Sure, I feel the need to write. I even feel the need to publish. But why? Why bother? I’m not going to be a great writer. I’m not going to ever have a biography about me or 10,000 readers, or even have articles written about me.

Oh, I’m never going to inspire words in others. No one will ever read me and say to themselves, “I have to say something that important.” No one will remember my mind. It will die when I die.

Now that is humanity. That is mortality. I need more than that. I want to be hundreds of people’s favorite or most hated or most anything. I just want to get someone to feel strongly. If I make enough people feel that, feel enough to make them move, then I’ll die happy, knowing I did what I wanted to do with my life.

But I suspect I’ll be a failure embarassed by her early attempts at publishing garbage, novice pieces that were promising but never delivered. That’s what I’ll be, an aborted delivery.

The idea makes me fear the next few years.