write here, right now (there is no other place i want to be)

Bonus points if you know the song reference in the title.

S. made a comment the other day about me being a "mad blogger," and it rankled a little. It probably wouldn't bother me if he weren't a successful writer, but he is and so it does. It's a little like a supermodel poking fun at a housewife friend on Weight Watchers. ("Going to another meeting?" "How many points are in that?")

I write because I have to; my inner self insists upon it. I write for an imaginary reader, the person who 'gets it'. I don't even know if you're out there (or in here, as it were), but I hope you are. That's why I post. I post here, in LJ, for you.

I don't write to make money, though maybe I should. I don't know if money would increase or decrease the joy that writing brings to me, if it's a variable that matters at all, except for needing food and shelter. (And that's what we keep D around for, among other things, I suppose.)

Would being a "published" writer mean anything? Would it mean enough to put the force of my entire will into making it happen? Would it mean everything? I don't know the answer, and because I don't, I don't try.

Either that, or I'm just scared of failing.

This is my problem, or one of them: I can't commit to anything. Not fully; not inside. Not in the way that counts.