John Lennon once said, “a conspiracy of silence speaks louder than words.” From the deafening response to the last blog, there’s enormous interest in international crime and justice blurbs among readers. Right? Perhaps I’ll just keep this hobby to myself. 😉

I’m posting half of a short story early next week. It has nothing to do with Mike Brody, or any other writing project. Stylistically it differs from those projects and the writing on this blog. The official plan: post in a blog entry, allow comments, then revise based on the comments. I’ll post the corrected first half and everyone can comment again. If it works, then we cycle through the second half. This way anyone can read it and only those who register can comment. A fair and workable arrangement.

I’ve promised this before, but it meant finding the right story, one that interested yet didn’t consume me. There’s only room for so many obsessions in my life. This semi-detached approach lowers my defenses enough so that I can receive the comments.

Hopefully this works out.

Titles with meanings, even obscure ones, separate a memorable blog from one I can’t recall writing a month later. This blog is the former. I hope.

The title �Bury the Wil Wheaton Within� doesn’t mean hey, somebody go hurt Wil Wheaton. No, that would be wrong. If you really must, it’s on your own karma. Don’t email me any details in advance or afterwards. And note that I abhor violence towards anyone. Cream pies at gala public gatherings are much funnier.

Wil Wheaton Within is a generic name for a serious disease. This is not a disease that afflicts just a fringe celebrity who’s less famous as an adult than as a child, or a writer who spends more time preparing for auditions and acting than writing. Those are personal time management decisions. It is a disease that afflicts many; famous, semi-famous and unknown.

The primary and most severe symptom is a self inflicted denial of what one wants. A review of Wil’s blog suggests that he wants to act. He blogs about acting and possible jobs often, more than any mention of writing, or book signings. No one suffers the relentless and grueling heartbreak of auditions without wanting, perhaps even needing the job at the other end. Yet for all the ink to the contrary, I suspect that acting is not what Wil wants. I sense the real want is approval, approval for something that is entirely out of his hands, thus more often than not disappointment follows.

Why do I think this? Because for quite awhile I’ve had the Wil Wheaton bug, taunting me like a monkey on the back. In the end of the day, I like writing more than most anything. No one pays me to do it, still I write anyway. Whether or not anyone ever pays me for it is out of my hands. All I can do is write and submit. Recently the plain truth of this hit me. Nearly everything about a writing career is beyond the writer’s control. My say ends at the page. Denying this holds me back, but accepting this renders any disappointment moot. All that matters is that I write.

And so this moment of reckoning buries the Wil Wheaton Within.