I'm a box with vague warnings on the outside. Taped up clear, and held together firmly, but inside is a mess of wrinkled paper and pencil shavings. Below are the kinds of things found within this recycled vessel:
I tell em I'm a writer, I say I write fiction stories, stuff like Stephen King, or Blake Crouch. But I'm a liar! I live in the dark recess of Lala Land. I have proven to myself time and time again that the great American novel takes too much. It wants my heart, my intellect, and most importantly my time. Oh, the time!
Instead, I play with ideas. I make plans, and I usually have a hard time following through. I tell em I'll start a publication, where the money for printing (or getting a license to do such) will come from I have yet to know. So I tinker, and other ideas cross me as I fill pages that will never be seen by anyone save for myself. This realization can be debilitating, but it has somehow propelled me into the next idea.
I tried to start a podcast. I wrote layouts for episodes and took notes about films and media, ya know, stuff that's important in the world of pop culture. I got a couple of friends to agree to discuss everything "edge lord" over a couple of microphones, and then... I heard my voice, and my confidence wavered. It became harder to meet up and record episodes with the other guys as well, and I concluded that if I'm going to do something else, something beyond just working my day job, taking care of my child, and filling my time with pointless hobbies then I'm going to have to start alone.
I encourage you to take a page from this box. You don't necessarily have to keep it forever or cherish it but perhaps it can teach us something about handling our packages with care.