Where's Roberta "Grandma Death" Sparrow when you really need her, huh?

"Somebody should write that bitch."

I'm scared to shit.

If time travel were a reality and not simply storytelling fodder for science fiictions scribes, I'd rob a bank right now simply to score enough cash to hurl myself ten years into my future. To see if I'm in the position I sit up at night now hoping for. To know if everything I've done and undone throughout my first 27 years hasn't been in vain.

I'm not even exactly sure what I'd do or feel once I'd see myself in 2019. If 2019-me isn't the successful storyteller and Hollywood-centric scribe that I one day aspire to be, would I throw in the proverbial towel back here in the present, then crawl into some hole and check out? Or would I still go about my dreamchasing, intending to buck the revelation and rewrite my own path? How about if I saw myself indeed in the place I want to be? On the stage of the Golden Globe awards, which I'm writing right now as I type (Mickey Rourke just won the Best Actor award....fuck yeah, that just makes me happy), accepting a trophy for some darkly twisted and multi-layered film and/or television series that I put finger-to-keyboard to dream up and send out into the world, reluctantly. Meeting filmmakers such as Danny Boyle and Darren Aronofsky and having them commission me to author their next project, on spec or however else they may desire.

Not even on a Hollywood stage, on second thought. That'd be great, of course, but I wouldn't even mind being atop the New York Times best-sellers list with a striking and haunting piece of genre fiction. "Matt Barone is the new Jack Ketchum" would be the most flattering and accomplished front-cover quote I could hope for, provided by a fan named Stephen King. Imagine that.

I'm a prisoner of my own insecurities, doubts, holdings-back. I know there's an endless arsenal of stories and characters and conflicts buried deep within my head, that just need something to jossle them to the surface. Because every night I put head-to-pillow in a bit of fear ("I'm scared to shit," now making sense). When will that first big story idea hit me? I want to start banging out a whopper of a tale, but how can I when the tale is being a stubborn mule and won't show itself just yet?

I want Rod Serling to watch over me and feel pride from above, knowing that he's inspired some normal Joe from New Jersey to challenge his mind and imagine worlds and realms that others either neglected to share themselves or had never knew could exist in fiction. I'd love for Richard Matheson to send me a hand-written letter showing some love. Shit, I wouldn't even mind if Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg reached out to toss compliments and big-ups.

Others share similar worries and doubts, I know. Many who currently work in the same field/industry as I. And I know that the truly talented, and driven, and passionate about the art of storytelling ones will thrive (myself included, I hope). And I'm keeping fingers crossed that those who have entered our profession for all the wrong reasons (star-fucking, free giveaways, celeb-jocking, etc, etc) see their careers crumble under the weight of falsehood.

Will I make it? Do I even need a time travel machine to show me the truth? Of course not. I'm enjoying the ride, and wouldn't allow it to be tainted by deleting "chance" and "fate" from its mix.

So, to those who know me: When I constantly ramble on and on about some new movie I've seen, or some great book I can't brush out of my thoughts, know that I'm not merely shooting the shit. In no way indulging in basic entertainment appreciation. Its me pushing myself one millimeter closer to the ultimate dream. Learning and anazlyzing the craft of narrative expression through firsthand exposure.

Its tireless. Absorbing.

And neverending in its rapture.

My story never concludes. Constant climax, ever-evolving conflict. Page-turning unknowns, copious comic relief.

Choosing my own adventure, until the end credits roll.