(From a 15 March 2022 Facebook post.)
Not complaining. Just reporting. I’m losing a battle to feel relevant. Who needs another old white guy’s games or opinions?
The thought of being put out to pasture worries me. As a young factory worker, I used to watch guys retire, go home, and die within a year from lack of purpose.
In part, the trouble is the sheer effort of self publishing. In part, it’s a lifelong sense of guilt for falling short of expectations.
Writing requires energy. Energy requires enthusiasm. For an extrovert, enthusiasm requires an audience. I’m running out of ways to keep the inner child excited on my own, out here in the Nebraska boonies, isolated by a migraine/seizure disorder, Covid, Covid deniers, and the world’s slide toward fascism.
There’s a bucket list of dreams right here on my desk, and he’s asking, “What’s the point?”
Again, not complaining; just reporting. In case anyone ever wonders, “Where did that old guy go?”