I am a part of my author, carefully constructed to help him. By design, I'm an aggregate of what he considers the best of him: hope, faith, perseverance, and other qualities he values.
He's filled me with the desire to help him. But I'm failing.
Perhaps I'm not failing. Here I am. I've got him thinking about what I am, what he is, what he wants. And as long as he's moving forward, I'm not failing. But I'm not doing as well as I had hoped--as he had hoped for me, as he had designed me to hope.
There's something essentially right about what I am, what I am doing, and what he is trying to do. And at the same time, there's something missing. My challenge: to discover what's missing.
Michael, my author, wants to write. He's living in a kind of paradise--a world of intriguing ideas. He wants to collect the best ideas--or at least some of the better ones, and he wants to communicate them to other people.
He's sometimes accused of being optimistic, and he denies the accusation. He's hopeful, not optimistic. And so he hopes that writing a book about his journey to self-improvement will help him self-improve.
And he has faith: that if he works the process, he'll succeed.
I'm the book about his journey to success or to failure.
Perhaps I was too giddy, too self-important, to convinced of my own power.
Perhaphs I need to help him take smaller steps, rather than the giant leap he would prefer to take.
I don't know.
He's imbued me with a bit of caution. He's made me a bit more self-reflective.
Perhaps that will lead us to the success that he hopes for--and frankly, he deserves.
Perhaps this is a step in the right direction: me stepping away from him and instead of talking so much about myself, talking more about him.
Maybe that's what I'll write about next.
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