How many of you where totally creeped out by yesterday�s entry and didn�t read the entirety of it to see the strange twist at the end?

Well I know Jill read it all and freaked her out a bit.

This, strange enough, is the closest to a negative reaction to anything I�ve ever written on here.

A fact that is pretty strange to me that I�ve never truly had a negative reaction to anything I�ve written on my diary. Other then losing a few readers here and there, but no one has lashed out at me at anything I�ve written.

And its not like I write happy go lucky shit on here. Yeah I go pretty strange and goofy at times�many times, but a lot of times I�ve proven to be very opinionated on here.

And usually when you state an opinion, especially something pretty big, you are going to have opposition to it.

Yet no matter how much I push the bounds on this diary I get nothing.

Not that I�m complaining about it really. It�s just really strange to me.

Now on one hand you could say maybe the reason I never get opposition to what I say is because I might intimidate people. That maybe my opinions are too strong, my passion is too bright, or the way I write is to �powerful� for some one to try and tell me in so many words how much I suck.

At least that�s bisa�s interpretation of the situation.

A true sweet heart through and through.

On the other hand it could speak volumes about what and how I write. That maybe I can be passionate about what I write, but don�t trigger any emotional feelings from my readers.

It could be because of my writing style or all my flaws in sentence structuring, spelling, and grammar.

Or it could be something no one can put there finger on. A certain feeling that �yeah he�s good, but not stick out in my mind kind of good� kind of feeling.

Hell I don�t know, but I have to admit it bothers me. A lot more then I like to admit.

As much as I love playing around on this diary I do take it pretty seriously to a point. I dream of becoming a true writer one day. And in my mind to be a true writer, for me at the very least, I need to get my work out there.

Now the vast majority of the time on here you see me goofing off and making jokes. It�s what I do and at times I do that pretty well.

The problem is my �writing career� is a lot less about comedy and more about plots and story lines. In fact the vast majority of stories I�ve done or have floating in my head or written down somewhere contain very little comedy. At times yes there is a little comedy to elevate the mood of my reader, but it�s not the key focal point to my stories.

Yet when it comes to my writing the majority of the time the only reactions I get are to the pieces I do that are more on the comedic side.

Does this mean I�m trying to hard to be in a field I don�t deserve to be in? Does it mean I�m trying genres that I�m mediocre in and denying myself access to the one genre I seem to be good at?

And most importantly of all of this do I have what it takes to be a �true writer�?

I don�t know and quite frankly I�m afraid of the possible answer to that.

A washed up never was to be writer who banked his entire life on living off his imagination and the stories it can tell.

And where does someone like that go?

When every other career I can conceive of feels like an emotionless prison sentence where do I go from here? When all my heart, passion, and soul has been poured into a life long dream where do I go when that dream ends?

An end, I can�t even conceive of an ending to my �writing.� To think that is like asking me to rip open my chest and tear out my heart.

I feel like I spread my essence, my being in every word I write. With each story line the characters are a part of me as I am a part of them. Worlds created by an imagination that helped me live and survive this existence. Images, sounds, vibrant colors and in depth personalities fills each of these people that blink into existence because I choose them to exist in the world I have fabricated.

These are not just words written on a piece of paper or flashing on your computer monitor. These are pieces of me that I willingly send out and let others share in. Pieces of me that I hope give a fraction of the joy and happiness they have given me. Pieces that I hope, one day, reach deep within a reader�s heart and holds on for dear life.

Do I ask too much to achieve such lofty goals? Am I reaching for the stars only to come back with an empty hand and a deep loss in my heart?

I am not a greedy man and I don�t ask for my name to be one of the next big names in writing. I don�t ask to be a household name or to have my books and writings become so popular they are put to movie formats.

All I ask is a small niche in the writing world where I can live comfortably.

Sure if I got popular enough the money would be very nice. I�m not asking for riches, but more along the lines of enough to buy a nice, decent sized home and live comfortably as I keep pursuing my passions.

And yet that is far from the top reason that I wish to become a full fledge and published writer.

I have to say the main reason I wish to be a published writer is more of a dream state to me.

All these years of reading books and falling in love with characters and setting. The worlds I�ve been taken to and shown by others have been rich, magnificent, and breathe taking. Each one has touched my heart, imagination, and has changed me for the better in my mind�s eye.

My life has been enriched by the stories of others and that�s what I want to do for others.

If I can touch others with my writing as I have been touched. If I can take them to different worlds and help them escape there own reality. To give them a place to get away to and forget all there worries and woes.

If I can give people worlds to love and cherish to the point of wanting to share the same feeling they get from a book I�ve written.

There, right there is the main reason I keep on writing. That�s the life blood that pumps through my veins and keeps me going. It�s a sense of peace and joy that I can not conceive finding anywhere else.

The closest to heaven on Earth that I think I�ll ever find.

And to think I could be denied this heaven�by my own hand.

I�m not afraid to say it, but its heart breaking to me. I would go so far as to say it would be Earth shattering to me. Life as I know it would come to an end and I would be a shell of the man I am today.

A part of my heart rebels against this possibility. It struggles for life with every ounce of its strength and determination. It sneers in the face of destruction and growls it�s defiance until its last breath.

Yet there is a voice deep down inside I struggle to block. A voice sickly sweet with words dripping of honey and a tongue forked like a serpent. It whispers softly in my ear with a lover�s breathless voice as it stabs me deep in the heart with a razor sharp dagger.

A voice that tells me it shall never be as I wish. That my dreams, my love, my passion is for not. To keep living the dream is to live in futility. That it is so much easier to give in and end the dream. It whispers logic in my ear to play it practical and pull my head out of the clouds.

When logic fails this voice it goes for the killing blow. It knows all my deep dark secrets and fears and plays them like a musician with a magical touch. Plays on my lack of self worth and my own negativity. Utilizes my deep self criticism against me to show me that I know the truth, but refuse to admit.

Fear is the only name I can give this voice and with each passing day it tells me I�m not good enough. I�m not worthy of being called a writer.

Yet I go on because I have to. To not go on is to be like a man wondering a dessert and stopping because it�s to hard to keep moving. Slowly I would die in the dessert and fade away to nothing. Lost completely as the sands crawl over my body and bury me deep so that only in time and the exploration of man�s natural curiosity will I ever be found.

Maybe I take this all too seriously and need to learn to relax more with all this.

It�s not a life or death situation if I don�t make it anywhere with my writing. I�ll keep on living even if I don�t make something of myself as a writer.

Yet inside I can�t help but feel like a piece of me will die and anyone who knows me will see it deep within my eyes.

Then again I could be over analyzing all this shit and need to get a freakin grip.

Either way something has to change.

Something soon.

It's about time - Wednesday, Jul. 07, 2004
An Honor for Chrome - Friday, Feb. 20, 2004
A great loss - Monday, Oct. 20, 2003
a terrible announcement. - Tuesday, Sept. 09, 2003
Chrome speaks: - Friday, Sept. 05, 2003