The Problem Problem

I start to get into my work, and a thought catches me, like a protruding nail catches a sweater. "I think Erin is upset." Then another, "Sabrina is angry with you." I think about each of them, fret some, realize there's nothing to be done right now. I start to work again, and another comes up, "Where is your income for January going to come from?"

Now just a damn minute. I'm sitting down to write. This is probably the most important thing to me right now. What's this bullshit about Erin? She's not my wife. She can take care of herself. This has nothing to do with me. Maria is an ex. An ex! She doesn't even want to talk to me, so what does it matter whether she's angry? January? Who cares? I have plenty of money to cover my bills.

There is something in my mind that wants me to have problems. Problems to fret over. Problems to solve. Problems to hold me back from moving forward with my art, my work, my LIFE.

But I'm running short of problems. My life is very good. My friends are very good. My problem, if I have one, is most likely dwelling on "problems" instead of living my life.

So why would my mind love to create trouble? What's in it for my psyche? I don't know. But I have some theories. One is that moving forward has risks in it for some parts of me. No matter what I endeavor to do, there are risks. In my profession, my art, my social life -- if I fail, there will be ridicule, loss of self esteem, disappointed friends. Oh no! Heaven forbid. Why don't you just stay home. Leave that play writing for another day. Let's think about this problem.

Enough.

I don't have problems.

I have opportunities, motherfucker.

My life is good. Pardon me while I get on with it.