I really need to write. Not more nonfiction. Not more periodical pieces. I need to write fiction. I need to emerge from my cocoon, finally, after long years of writing. There are words in me, I know it. Only they are fragmentary and inexperienced, collected and maintained in some disorder. Still, I know how to write. I have been a professional writer for more than a decade. The trick is to start, and to continue until you finish. Nothing more, nothing less.
What is wrong with me is less a deficiency in talent or vision and more a deficiency in drive and optimism—in basic good attitude, of which I have none and have had none for years.
In the meantime, there is always truth to both overjoy us and weigh us down at the same time.
My life is progressing. It is happening, as is the life of everyone in my generation. We are the adults now. That we have not managed to accomplish in as short a time what our parent(s) materially accomplished is no excuse or preventative; we are and will continue to be—older.
Unless we claim the throne from those that preceded us and begin to attempt to hold ourselves up as exemplary to those that follow us, we will be forgotten, irrelevant, and unable to self-sustain. Nevertheless, that is precisely what we are in danger of doing, due in large part to our lazy complicity with an untenable economic system and worldview provided by our parents and the remnant intertia of the most magnificently bourgeois past in global history.
It is time for us to grow balls and make revolution in the streets as our misguided parents did to no account for lack of vision and education, or to take jobs as the baristas that will serve the capital class and the foreign markets and travellers that will soon occupy our places in a still-corrupt but kinetic (especially with regard to markets) world.