I hemmed and hawed about writing this post. If you've read any of my short stories or the bloggage I did back on MySpace, you know I talk about death a tad.

Still not really sure about the whole dying thing, whether it scares the shit out of me or whether I just don't care. I definitely don't want to die just yet, but only recently do I feel like I really have a reason to not die yet.

I have to write. I have to finish the stories I've started, write the ones I haven't started but have been thinking about, and I have to share them with people. As to whether they're any good or not, I can't be the judge of that. The novel I'm writing right now, I'm not sure if it's what I set out to write-- there's more characters and twists to it that I had originally thought about-- but I feel a compulsion to finish it, cos I want to see how I get where I'm going. I've surprised myself so far. Cryptic I know. I just don't want to give too much away, and I want you buggers to actually buy the bloody thing when it's published. I'll sign your copy.

But here's the thing. If I were to die in a plane crash tomorrow, flying up to Portland for a much-needed get-out-of-vegas trip (too many hyphens?), then I'd leave these stories unwritten. I don't even have the 28,628 words I have written saved anywhere that someone could come in when I'm dead and print them off, or finish the book. The only people who would really care are Dee, a bloke I work with, because he's been reading every chapter as I finish it, and my Dad, because he's read the first one and wants to know what's going to happen. I'm talking about caring about the book, by the way, not me. I hope all of you are mourning if I'm dead. And by mourning I mean raising a glass with the alcoholic beverage of your choice.

It's the idea of leaving it unfinished that worries me. I've set this challenge for myself, and I want to complete it. I want to finish them all. I want to be able to erase the big whiteboard on my bedroom wall because everything I've hastily scribbled down on it has been done, and needs to make way for the next several ideas.

If I don't die in a plane crash tomorrow, then there is more likelihood of me finishing my novels than there is of something that's quite likely. But there's the shitty thing about this situation. Now I've joked about dying in a plane crash, if I do then this blog will be some strange, tragic foreshadowing of my fate and I'll become famous for the exact thing I don't want right now. People will lament the fragments of stories they are able to piece together from printouts and digital echoes I've let behind. They'll read this blog and wonder what could have been. Well, except for the fact I'm not taking it seriously at all. If I die, I die, and while I won't be happy about it, after writing this blog know I'll probably be laughing at the sheer stupid irony of the situation, while crapping myself at the same time. And did I actually cause it to crash because of this blog? Does the world really, as I've come to believe every time I wash my car and it rains the next day, does it really revolve around me? Cos if it does then this would be the absolute worst time to have that confirmed for me.

But is it better to be James Dean, who had a lamentably small body of work and will always be young, full of unrealized promise, or to be like Marlon Brando, who did a lot of good work and is lamentably remembered for his large body?

Either way, if I'm dead, and you have a copy of anything I've written, let my parents know and maybe see about getting it published. With the disclaimer that I didn't have time to edit it properly cos I died in a fucking plane crash, so that's why it might not be that good. . .cheers!

And just to be really twisted, I'm setting it so this is published half-way through the flight. . .