For 10 years I was a pop culture journalist. I never intended that to be the focus of my writing, in all actuality I envisioned myself as a short fiction writer, but through a matter of events, like a cosmic Rube Goldberg machine (where I was a flesh and blood ping-pong ball), life led me to pop culture journalism.

And for a long time, it was a lot of fun. It was even something that I really believed was what I wanted in life. I had grown up watching videos on MTV, idolizing musicians, and creating a mythical desire to be involved in the music industry (and pop culture in general).

In hindsight, I remember having delusions of being on stage during the MTV Music Awards, loosely preparing my acceptance speech. I bought a bass guitar, and later a set of drums, seeing myself playing in front of large audiences, and later, as a journalist, being interviewed on camera espousing my brilliant perspective on the latest music trends.

Of course, reality stared me right in the face, and the ideas inside my head thoroughly hid the truth from myself.

When I sat down to write it was like pulling teeth. While I got many stories published, created my own online magazines, and even managed to get interviewed on TV once, it was always full of discomfort and pain. I had all sorts of things I would tell myself, like “writing is the loneliest art form” or “writing is like working.”

But, somehow, whenever I’d find myself behind a keyboard, it was difficult. I would write stories, and at moments feel totally lost. In many ways it felt beyond me, but I hid it all under the idea that I just needed to work harder.

About 3 years ago, I just let it go, and it was a decision I knew I’d been dying to make since I started writing 10 years previous.

<em>It was obvious that I was chasing a dream, a fantasy. I was looking for the end point to make all the “sacrifice” make sense.</em>

Ironically, it was after that point that I started focusing more on myself. I wasn’t thinking about what sacrifice I should make, but rather about the things I really wanted. I wasn’t thinking about “all the hard work I needed to do to get somewhere”, but began thinking about the things I loved, and how I could incorporate them into my everyday life to make it more enjoying.

It’s also where I found the joy and pleasure in writing about something that I really wanted, and what I created being something that was enjoyable for the entire process.

My book, Quantum Man, Spiritual World, is, in so many ways, a completely pointless book that maybe a handful of people would even care about. It deals with the nondualist concept of enlightenment and it’s role with meditation. I won’t get into the meat of it, but it’s an issue that mattered a great deal to me and my meditation practice.

It’s only about 45 pages long, and I didn’t even look for a publisher. I wrote it on my computer, and published it to Amazon Kindle myself.

Out of all my years of trying to write for an idealization of some abstract concept that I thought was “cool” and would lead me to “interesting things”, I’ve found the most joy on writing a silly thing that absolutely no one will care about. It’s a lesson I won’t forget.

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