I can’t write, and this makes me feel terrible. I mean, I do write; I write a lot. But like, I can’t. Does this make sense?

I have these lofty dreams of putting something consistently down on paper and that maybe that thing that I put down is then somehow lauded by other people that seem to know better than me whether it is good or not. This is ultimately a fool’s errand, of course. For one, nothing I ever put down seemed meaningful after I’ve torn it apart and edited it, even if I’m proud of it. Even if it made me cry, it feels paper-thin because I doubt myself. I feel like a kid in high school making lousy poetry. I don’t want to have my poetry trampled on. I want to take it seriously, but I don’t know that it deserves it or that I deserve it.

Eventually, I read the next story from Brandon Taylor or R. Eric Thomas. Eventually, I read the next article by Alexander Chee, and I think what the hell am I even doing? I read Olivia Chadha, Mike Chen, and Alison Stine, among other wonderful writers, and any-THING I put on a piece of paper may as well be one of my children’s diapers left out in the hot sun.

In other terms, it’s as if I hear my voice taped, recorded, whatever. This is a problem in the same vein. I love making music. Some of the music I make is objectively good. My technical skills as a recording artist and the breadth of what I can do with my instruments is objectively impressive. Like I play A LOT of instruments. It really would be something to watch someone else do it. But it all feels like a hot dumpster fire burning with the intensity of a thousand suns when I listen to it, and it’s me.

But maybe I think this is normal for all of us? I’m pretty sure it’s normal for all of you who “made it,” and I see that “making it” means different things to everyone at each step of the journey. Mostly I really love to read good words, see images, and hear sounds that fill me with awe and hope I can do that trick too. Because by reading those things from artists I love. From listening to sounds that I love, I’m enamored with the possibility that maybe just maybe, I can too.

I also know that it isn’t about making it. It’s about the thing that we love to do. But I want to be validated. I want to share my joy. I don’t think it’s so selfish. It’s a real relationship. It’s love.

Anyhow. As I get midway through writing another book, none of the others having done anything at all, faced with the ultimate knowledge that perhaps this one won’t do anything either and that rejections are fine; they are a thing, I’ll keep going. And in moments, they really suck, but I can’t see not doing this. So I’ll write another and another.

And so maybe I’ll end up being Kilgore Trout; there sure are a plethora of them out there. Artists are plugging away, churning out content, having shelves of books that no one will ever read, and it’s okay. Kilgore Trout was objectively a poor writer, though (according to his creator), I hope that I’m not, but if I am, it’s also fine.

Thank you to all of the artists that inspire me. Many of you I follow and interact with daily. Some of you have been kind enough to say nice things about some of the stuff I’ve done. You challenge me. You take me to places I could not go on my own. You make me double-take my thoughts. You give me laughter and tears. You show me worlds and stories I could never have imagined. I don’t pretend to be on the same plane of existence as your writing, but your works make me want to be, and I think that helps.

We’re all fools, maybe. If you all continue to be fools and keep doing this silly thing, then I shall too. Not much else really does it, you know?