irregular blows to the head

i am a hack. this just came to me now. like irregular blows to my head. i am a hack. it must be so. after all, i have published nothing that is remotely mine. yes, i've had stuff reach print. an article here and there. a book even. but they're not mine! they were pieces reluctantly spewed at the prodding of publishers, clients, bosses, and sometimes, even circumstance. it was their thoughts, their needs. none were mine. where are the words that had, at one point in my life, shamelessly, mercilessly shaken me awake nights, demanding that they be written? have they left me? just as youth had? there's nothing worse than a 29-year-old hack.

well, maybe a 30-year-old hack. but in a year, i'll be that, too.