Alexander had pretensions, but came to naught.

Napoleon had pretensions, but came to naught.

Hitler had pretensions, but came to naught.

Who else has pretensions?  


 I seem to have this maddening itch to write and I can’t help but scratch. I can’t help myself.  I’ve declared my disqualifications in another posting titled “Words”.  I carry no credits, have no letters following my name. I’m unpublished, unqualified, unworthy and most damning of all, uncertain.  Should I be doing this? What gives me the right?

 It feels pretentious, like someone who sings only in the shower auditioning for a leading role at The Met. Not a wise move.  But I keep picking away at the scab.  It seems to heal overnight and then, next morning, there’s that damnable itch again.

 A good day is when I have my notebook open and jotting thoughts as they occur. A bad day is when I draw a blank. As unlikely as it may sound, a string of bad days can drive me into productivity. Boredom and frustration can have their benefits.

Sometimes I think writing is where I go to hide.


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