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 I’m unpublished, unqualified, unworthy and most damning of all, uncertain.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.