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When I was young I’d get these debilitating fears over the fact that I’d never get to read everything I wanted before I die. I’d spend whole summers cooped up inside, damn near reading a book a day. And if I thought about it for too long, this sharp fear would grasp my heart and turn me all cold. Because all those books I might never get to!

I’m happy to say that this fear has become far more demure and will never be listed ever again as a problem. Rather, it’s quite nice to think that there’s always so much more out there to discover.

Nope, I’ve just transferred this fear into its counterpart. Now I’m afraid I’m going to die before I get to write all the stories I want to tell. What’s worse, is that there are new story ideas for miles every year. I don’t even work on most of the damn things; they just sit in saved files or notebooks or bookmarks online so I can refind something cool that would be neat to write about.

It’s awful. I wish I wrote ten thousand words a day. Then maybe I’d make a dent on the list and not get these dreadful fears that I’ll die without having finished the hundred books I want to write.

And what if I get dementia or something along those lines? Cease being able to write anything coherent, forget words and their meanings. I have no illusions that anything will happen to me like what happened with Harper Lee, the poor woman, since I’ll likely remain somewhat unknown my whole life what with the men and the kissing and the adventures, but still, the fate of my stories would be like Heroes: a great start followed by slow steady decent into the bowels of hell.

Not a good thought to dwell on. When I go, I hope to have finished and published far more stories than what I’ve given so far.