At some point you wanted to write. You wrote a lot, and called it practice. You went to school, and you wrote. Smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Then what? It went away. Like your grandmother’s ashes in a hurricane. Just. Gone.

Whoosh. With nothing left but a feeling of hopelessness, when you’d think about trying to find any of it again.

They say these things happen.

Then you thought you’d play poker. It was more difficult and less fun than you thought. You told everyone that you were a professional poker player. You talked about poker more than you played it. You thought that the money would just fly at you, and all you had to do was catch it. Not so, good sir, not so by a stretch.

The trouble with being your own boss is that you’re a lazy shithead.

Then you got a job. A job that carefully trained chimpanzees could accomplish with little fallout. You play videogames, but are not content.

You stumble across this concept. It’s like reading about something you already know by heart, but never incorporated the name of the thing into your consciousness.

But you know, you want to find your flow.

Then what? That part of the story, is still unwritten.