D'you want angst with that?

People occasionally ask me why, if I'm this git'ard chaos magickan and all, my life is still arguably bitchaboutable (with sucktastic interludes). They suggest that if I really want to improve my lot I should git my 'ard on and sort it out, or admit that the whole magick thing is a flatulent bubble of methane gurgling up from the delusional mulch at the bottom of my brain. Why, if I can in theory get anything I want (within certain ill-defined boundaries), how come I've not got it yet?

Because unless I force myself to sit down and think really really hard about it, I don't rightly know what I'm after. See, my ideal, totally unrealistic, dream-on way of making a living wolud be to write sf/f/h&det/mys about prehistoric mammals and werewolf dryads who are accountants and things and stuff. I want to write about any damn thing that floats through my cranium and get paid for it, too.

Now, I understand that this ideal version of events is unlikely to transpire, barring some huge violation of the laws of probability. I accept that. However, having recognized that Scenario #1 is unlikely, I do not then substitute a more reasonable one. For example, a reasonable ambition would be to write books in my chosen genre puddle for a living. This would be time-consuming and I'd have to deal with-- dah dah DARRR!-- editors, but it's both workable and desirable. It's a reasonable compromise between my ideal and reality.

But I don't stop there. Oh, no. Before I can even properly observe the processes involved, I've mentally compromised myself down to writing the instruction manual for ZarggGlubYuth's Infant Adrenal Gland Extractor MkII (or teen romances, whatever comes first) and then I get all glum and have to get drunk and eat yoghurt raisins until I feel better.

I have got-- got-- got to stop this whole compromise ad absurdum stuff, and get some really realistic Plan.

When I have my Plan, I will do Stuff.

Fear me.