Painkiller pilsner
I’m not gonna make it.
I’m not gonna make it as a writer. I know it now, and accept it.
The old recipe for success used to be luck and talent.
The new recipe for success is luck and hustle.
I think I have a modicum of talent, no way of measuring luck, and absolutely no hustle.
To be successful today as a writer, one does not have to be a good writer. A writer today can be very mediocre and be successful.
What it’s really about today is putting yourself out there. Constant self-promotion, networking, reaching out, following up, befriending new friends and foes, asking for things, communicating, following up again, updating. Putting yourself out there. And I don’t like to do that.
I despise it.
I just want to stay in my little hole and never have to leave it.
I’m lacking a fundamental characteristic to make it as a writer, and I’m finally accepting it. I am the way I am, and I know I would make myself more miserable by trying to push myself into some self-promotion bubble. I’m too sensitive, and I’m too anti-social. Experience and time have taught me that. Age and wisdom have allowed me to accept it.
I write this not to complain or grovel. This is not woe is me. I write this because in life, it’s hard to accept a dream for what it is. It’s hard to align yourself to the reality in front of you and find value in that. It’s hard to grow up. But it’s also OK, and necessary.
I write this because I want to be free and encourage others to do so. To all three skunkworks readers wasting their time reading this chicken scratch: you’re gonna be OK.
When you feel like you’ll never get there, look at where you are and think about if you’re already there.
Maybe you’ve already made it.
Look at me: I’m winging about not being a writer, but here I am, writing.