Years ago, a friend (and fellow writer) told me I was afraid of (literary) success.

Sounds preposterous, doesn't it?

I think he was right.

Still, he never had a wife.  Or children.  And aging parents.  And the kind of personality that always put teaching ahead of writing.

Yeah, I have excuses.

But he was correct.  For oh, so many reasons.

I've always been a fringe player, publishing a story here and there, and some poetry, some this and that. But the novel is nearly ready.  And the novella.  And the book of stories.

I'm schizoid, though.  I hear voices telling me to back off, rip it up, stay sane, forget 'success'. 

Yes or no?  I mean, hell, time isn't exactly on my side. Figure it out, asshole.  What do you want?

I love to write.  But I despise notoriety.

Maybe I just want to be a 'coulda been'.

I do know this: whether or not anything got published, I needed to take dictation. Even if I was the only one who ever heard their stories.  Because they didn't care about 'success'.  They only needed a typist.