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    Writing,  tfurrows (circumlunar.space),  5/8/2018
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I'm sitting in the Columbia, MO library while I'm writing 
this. My son is here with me, working on school work. We're 
sitting at a sort of cubicle desk on the second floor. I can 
see the sky out of a series of windows, many of which are 
set at an angle. It's a cloudy day out there.

Just above the sight-line of my cubicle I can see two aisles 
of books. From where I'm sitting, the aisles are long enough 
that I have to turn my head in either direction to see the 
ends of them. I can see the top too rows on the shelves 
without changing my posture. There are a lot of books 
staring back at me when I look up.

Before I started writing this phlog post, I was thinking 
about getting back to working on a novel that I want to 
finish. It's been on hold for the past month or so while we 
packed our stuff and move across country, but it's still on 
my mind. Eventually, I have to pick it back up. But as I was 
getting ready to do just that, these books staring at me, 
surrounding me, almost falling in upon me they're so high an 
numerous, make me feel too intimidated.

"Look!" they said, "Look at how many mortals have gone 
before you! Look at the endless volumes they've created! 
Look at the countless subjects they've broached, with 
precision and expertise! What can you possibly add, Joey, 
what?"

(The books are a little too familiar, and that makes me even 
more uncomfortable.)

"I'm a charlatan," I explain quietly. "The world wants me to 
have a special skillset, special knowledge, in order to add 
to your shelves. The world wants me to be spectacular, 
amazing, and even above-average. But I'm just me, and I 
don't want to write because I can write, I want to write 
because I want to."

(the books are silent, but their stares are judgemental, and 
I can feel them.)

"Isn't it enough?" I plea. I search the shelves for some 
justification.

"Look," I say, pointing. "Look at this volume. It's titled 
'Sewing for Dummies' and it's bright yellow and black. 
Surely, if someone can write at a level that is suitable 
only for dummies, then I can write, if it makes me happy."

The books don't speak to me out loud (I'm thinking of 
xmanmonk right now, explicably, his phlog always makes me 
smile.) But they intimidate me. Even so, I can't stop 
myself. I really, really enjoy writing, and I sincerely want 
to do more of it.

I'm going to force myself to open up the novel draft, even 
with all of these books looking on judgementally. I'm going 
to do it now.