There's still much in motion that should, at least rationally, mitigate the frustration: the short film flitters along, my pitches percolate up their path and even have (non-writing) interviews set up. But still, listening to the BSG Podcast this morning, that existential angst to actually do what I think I'm best at, bubbled up again.

The vein was exposed last night by chatting with my friend Allan, both of us military brats, he ex-military and me, so-close-to-being-military, as we marveled about how far we came from the paths we'd been put on. He reminded me that, in truth, becoming a writer is becoming a small businessman. You're trying to get paid for incorporating your history, experiences, passions and imaginations into a tangible assets that produces both products and services containing not only artistic value but also the multiplatform potential for primary (direct sales), secondary (VOD) and ancillary (podcasts, merchandise, etc) revenue streams that, in their totality, create profits. For others.

So when he put it like that...

I might have misremembered it a little more technically robust that the actual conversation was, but still, the point of how daunting the enterprise is, remained exposed at the end of the conversation. Rationally, it becomes easy to understand how daunting the prospect of all of this is, and obviously remains. And, as Allan, also pointed out, it's amazing how far I've come, being on the inside of community where this stuff happens, daily.

Which brings me back to where I started. It's that frustration of being saturated with the sense of the dream yet not still in possession of the substance of it. My fear is, that much like in the popular notion of Xeno's paradox, I will forever halve the distance between myself and my goal, but never in fact actually encounter it. Irrational fear yes, but not an improbable result.