It's far from easy to unequivocally become a master of your craft. I feel that it has become especially difficult because of the distracting world that I reside in. Time slips through my fingers like sand on an August day at the Jersey Shore. See, I have all these great ideas that drift through the hallways of my mind like ghosts - I can't see them or take hold of them but I know that they're there. I often think about what it was like to be a writer fifty years ago, before the Internet and cellphones. Submerged in a world of typewritten pages and cigar smoke, aged scotch and old jazz. Here I sit, with an iPhone and computer screen, my brain has become addicted to the over-stimulated society of today. My soul aches with the wisdom of a grandfather, my mind with the wanderlust of a child, my heart with the unconditional love of a mother and my body with the disgruntled attitude of a blue collar father. This is the way it is, this is who I am.