I feel like I’m putting a lot on the line. I’ve put my credit, my money, my future and my well being on the line to reach the end goal: authordom. Up until now I was rather responsible and played it safe. This year I decided to go all in and I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack. OK. Maybe I won’t have a heart attack but I’m one more internal conversation from rocking in a corner. This weekend could make or break me. Working on this book, my call to action, my purpose, my brand, my life is literally keeping me up all night. That and the stupid ice machine next door. Part of me is go big or go home! The other part is just go the fuck home already. But what’s done is done. The money is paid, the time is spent, the debt is climbing I have to push through. I tried a mantra or two. I’ve tried self soothing. Every attempt to shut my eyes and tune it all out has just ended up in a spiral of more self doubt. “This is a mistake, what are you doing?” “You’re not prepared!” I’m behind on word count. I’ll now be sleep deprived. I have less than 24 hours to get my shit together or drag my knuckles home in defeat. Am I going to go home, short rent, short of a book, short of an opportunity to chase me dreams because of the voice in my head? Am I really going to allow the opportunity of having the wisdom and expertise at my finger tips pass me by simply because I’m “inexperienced”? I’ve got to cut the shit. The gig is up. I’m a fraud! Right? No that’s not it. Maybe I roll up in a ball at the commencement of day two. Cry my eyes out in an attempt to gain some empathy or sympathy. I’ll take either. Or perhaps they’ll feel so sorry for me and return my money because who wants a pathetic quitter’s money. I’ll go moping back to Brooklyn with my dignity left in Deer Park but my rent paid and a comfy bed that doesn’t make me sweat like a whore in church. Yay! Quitting! I love quitting. It makes me feel better about playing it safe. Playing the victim will certainly help me this time. WRONG!!!!!! Ugh, why do I psych myself out when it’s my own same psyche that amped me up in the first place. Following your dreams is hard work! I don’t want to do hard work. I don’t want it to be scary. I just want to write my book, people pay me for it and my insight, my awesome story telling funnels into my social beverage business; become a millionaire, write a screenplay about my success or at least a Netflix mini series, call it a day and then go home to my cute little chunk of a baby. Is that so much to ask for? I’m not asking a lot? Am I? In the famous words of Drake, “I just wanna be, I just wanna be successful”. Or was it Trey Songs who song the hook? Oh fuck it, you know what I song I’m talking about. You all were Drake obsessed too; even if you didn’t like him. The point of the matter is I feel inadequate in this group of greats. I feel like I’m lacking the prerequisites. It’s pre-health professional sciences all over again and I’m about to get a big stinking “D-” in crappy book writing. Now can I crawl into a ball and cry? NO!!! You can’t. You need to go to sleep. Catch some zzzz’s and grab this book and this experience by the collar and politely ask “Ay, what the fuck am I doing and how do I do it? …..Thank you.” Great! Glad I got that out. Maybe now a writing-ass-betch can get some sleep around here. Goodnight! Ummm I mean good morning!