Mr. Crane (fiction)

This is from my unpublished short story, "Mr. Crane".

       Sometimes the severed head that I keep in a bowling ball bag talks to me. It tells me things. Things that no one else can hear. No one else can know. Secrets. It knows many secrets, great and small. It once told me that Jesus was alive. He was working as a construction worker on fifth street, building a new church right in between Zanada's Roller Rink and Happy Town Taco. I've been to Happy Town before. Good taco's but I always end up spending forever on the crapper. I feel bad for Jesus, because I bet he eats lunch there, but the head in the bag tells me he could handle it because Jesus is really a Mexican.
       One day the head in the bag, who likes to be called Mr. Crane, told me about how the government has been pouring a mind control drug into the nations' water supply. It turns everyone into zombies. He told me that no one was to be trusted except Elvis and Jim Morrison. I told Mr. Crane that they were both dead, but he told me about how Elvis and Jim were actually undercover agents working for a secret agency devoted to bringing down "The Man". They had to fake their deaths because "The Man" was onto them. I believed him. Mr. Crane is wise.

Systamatic Self Destruction

Self doubt is a plague among beginning writers.  We sit there and stare into the dreaded blank screen of doom contemplating whether or not we have that all powerful magical ingredient that all popular writers must have.  For lack of a better term, we'll call that magical substance talent.  I'm sure it's a great thing this talent.  I bet it makes famous writers sparkle like a Twilight vampire.  If you have ever read a book by one of these talented authors, I bet your thinking to yourself, "I could never write anything that good."
I found myself in that boat recently.  All it took was one author to make me come to the realization that I would never be good enough to write a single thing that anyone would think was worth a dime.  I sat in front of my blank screen, fingers on my keyboard frozen in fear.  I wondered what it was I thought I was doing.  I can't write a book.  I can barely turn out a short story.  My ideas suck.  I could feel the depression sinking me faster than the Titanic strapped to Charlie Sheen's career.  For days I procrastinated.  I knew I had to get myself out of this funk.  I knew I could do it.  Then one day as I sat on my sofa watching an episode of  "Phineas & Ferb " I came to a realization.  I had been setting myself up to fail.
By comparing myself to someone who writes totally different than I do, in their own distinctive (yet brilliant) voice, I had sabotaged my own thought process.  I'm no Hemmingway, Poe, Koontz, or King.  I'm just me.  What I write is my own.  No one can take that away from me.  Who am I to decide I have no talent for writing?  That's not why I write in the first place.  I write for me.  Sure, I hope others will read what I write and enjoy it, but if they don't, that's all right, I can live with that.  What I can't live with is putting myself through a process of systematic self destruction that I  know must plague all writers at some point.  If your just starting out on your writer's journey, let it be known that you are not as alone as you may think when it comes to things like self doubt.  Know that you can do it.  Don't ever again let that blank page play chicken with your soul. Just remember, the only way to do it, is to do it.