What is it to write

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I have drunk the last of the whisky and I have read a review of a novel and I don't truly know what it is I am capable of. I feel this infinite sense of my own inadequacy, my own non-achievement. What have I done with my life? I am well past the middle point but in the lives of those who have done great things there is a consistency of ambition, of dedication and of courage that I have singularly lacked. I am battling against the idiocy of the laptop computer that I am trying to write with because I am afriad to put pen to paper. I simply do not have the strength of purpose, the force of nature, the obstacle-defying urge and the compulsion to overcome the desire of this computer's savage joke to smash up any effort to simply place one word in front of another without being thrown into another sentence like a psychotic elephant on the page. Oh lord save me from myself and my feebleness. I am struggling forever against the imminence of my own shortcomings and cowardice. I do not know how to fight each day in a world that only rewards those who do not surrender to small setbacks. All I want is to do something well, and keep on doing it. My fear used to be to die having achieved nothing. That day is drawing closer, but I seem to be no closer to being able to die at peace with myself. Then again, if I was to die now, I might on some level be relieved that the struggle was over. Perhaps I should learn to enjoy what I have and stop fretting about things that i cannot make happen. Mediocrity is not so bad if you can only embrace it. I must embrace it. Long live mediocre contentment!