i'm scared.

The opening of the novel, the memoir, the whatever, was supposed to be “I never should have left New Orleans.”

It fit. So perfectly. Those words spilled out of my lips one spring afternoon in Austin, Texas. I was there for my best friend’s bachelor party. I said them in some throwaway moment. But my friend, he understood the importance of the words, writing them down immediately. “That’s the opening to your book,” he said.

“My biography, written by you,” I responded.

And thus, “The Adventures of Alligator Jones” was born.

It never lived beyond that moment.

Fear has crept in. A little at first, but more so now.

I guess the old belief that you get more cautious with age has sort of come true. And I only have myself to blame for it. I dwell too much. I wonder what if too much. It’s silly really. I know this. I even pronounce the words of no regret a lot. Yet, I don’t live up to it.

Take now, for instance. Things should be going one direction. They aren’t. Or they are at a snail’s pace. Actually, something slower than a snail, but that’s what comes to mind. Why? Because it’s the cliché.

Inspiration also seems to have slipped a bit. I have ideas. Pretty good ones, too. But when I sit down to try and expound upon them, they fade. Or they turn into nothing. Or into Jello.

I look at my past and I see things that make me wonder about my ability to commit. At least when things are good, or looking good, or becoming good.

My journals are, and were a perfect example of this. When I am moody, depressed, unhappy, whatever -- the words flow like the Mississippi. When I’m happy, content, joyful, etc. -- they stop.

Maybe I just believe this myth. Maybe it’s true. I don’t know. I just know that when the tap turns off, I’m almost always enjoying myself. So I ignore what I want to do.

Discipline is the key, I think. I don’t have it. I need to get it.

Or maybe I just need to be miserable. Which, of course is a self-fulfilling kind of deal.

I remember the first time I seriously read my journals from cover to cover. All of them one night. It was 2000-something or other. I’d had my heart broken, and broken a heart. I didn’t understand what had happened to over a decade of my life, so I thought I’d read about it. It’s why you write it down, I told myself.

Much to my surprise, there were huge gaps in my journals. I knew I got lazy sometimes, but really this was ridiculous. In one of them, I went almost three years with about 15 entries. In another set of them, I went five years with very infrequent ones. In between those two periods, lots of writing. Before and after them. Lots of writing.

Then came the purge gal. The one I threw it all away for. I wrote a lot before, and a lot for the first few weeks. Then it became laborious. A chore. Almost a bother. One reason was the expectation. I have only myself to blame. I showed this one my writings. Something I’d never done before. She wanted them to be about her. Not about any one from the past. But I couldn’t do it. At least not knowing she was reading.

After she dumped me, I wrote more than I’d ever written. I almost killed myself. And I found a bit of a voice inside me.

Then, she came back for a moment. It stopped momentarily. But came back with a vengeance when she disappeared for good.

The period since has been full of peaks and valleys. I started a roadie with my dad, writing furiously. Slowly, it became fun. Something I didn’t expect. And the writing stopped.

Now, I’m in a place of change. A crossroad, I guess. I can chase something and see what happens. I can let it just play out. Or I can run away. I seriously sit here and think which would be better. Knowing which would be. Unless…

And this writing could have been better too. But I was scared to chase the idea that was there. Of girls, exes and twisted metal.

Maybe next time. If I remember.

All I know is there’s a killer line from a song written by Joey Kneiser. “I want to curse at the world, with my arms around you.” For years I searched for a perfect line to say to a woman that I loved. That one, I think, is it.