I need Paul Theroux to kick my @$$

You've heard of Paul Theroux, haven't you?

If you haven't, I'll give you the skinny. It's subjective, of course, so you are cordially invited to do as you've always done and make up your own damn mind.

Paul Theroux is a travel writer and novelist. You might know him for crafting books like The Mosquito Coast (which most people have never heard of until you mention that it was made into a godawful movie with Harrison Ford).

What he's best known for (i.e., what I know him best for) is travel writing. Specifically, train travel. Paul Theroux loves trains. He's ridden them across most of the world's countries, across every continent that has railroads. He's a consummate train traveler, the kind who boards a train, finds himself a sleeping compartment, and then holes up with a bottle of wine or whiskey or gin and either reads Faulkner novels or scribbles notes in his journal as the countryside rolls by. He'll slither out of his lair at mealtimes to take in refreshment in the dining car and converse with his fellow passengers. Most of these passengers he will inevitably snark at, either in person or later in print. Theroux is a snarky devil. He is excoriating in the extreme, and will not hesitate to latch onto a perceived shortcoming in his interlocutor's intelligence and follow it to its source; he seldom rests before ripping it out by the roots. He will calmly and ruthlessly stick a chisel into cracked logic, whether it be as simple as someone's raw-foods diet or as complex as a society's cherished beliefs. He borders on being a misanthrope. (If he's reading this, I'm sure my use of that word will annoy him no end; for one, he's the type of man who despises such labels, and for another, he will instantly deplore the degraded and decaying state of the American educational system which induces such an inherent tendency in arrogant youthful minds to use a word like "misanthrope" so readily and lightly.)

Long story short, Paul Theroux loves trains. He hates people. I've said it before.

Nonetheless (and you can probably tell this from what I've written) the man gives me an inferiority complex.

Not only has he been to more countries than I have, he is also a ferociously good writer, and well-established in both the fiction and travel markets.

Perhaps "inferiority complex" is inapt. It would be more fitting to say that everything I do (or don't do) makes me wonder what Theroux would think of me. Each transgression I commit against my craft, every sinful negligence I indulge, takes shape in my mind as a black mark in Theroux's ledger. I feel as though his living spirit, taking my nightstand or desk lamp or pencil-case as an avatar, is constantly watching my feeble attempts at a writing career and passing brutal, silent judgment.

If I let my novel go untouched for more than three weeks, I can see Theroux shrugging in a dismissive manner and staring out the window of a moving train. And before I can order a dry Gibson and begin to plead my case, he gets up and walks away.

If I let a day go by where I don't write (and there have been way too many of those lately), I can hear Theroux give a derisive laugh and stomp off to his sleeping compartment.

If I reach for the Xbox or computer games or comics, I can hear Theroux flipping the pages of a Dashiell Hammett book and tut-tutting under his breath.

This has a profound effect on my psyche.

I alternate between periods of glorious rebellion, where I couldn't give a fig for Theroux or any other high-minded footloose world-traveling novelist. On occasion, however, my conscience awakes, avenging harpies swoop out of the sundered heavens, and Paul Theroux rises above the horizon, his arms folded and his brow pinched together disapprovingly. And I skulk about the house like a beaten dog, cringing at the sight of my laptop and the notebooks full of scribbles and the manuscripts under my bed, each page a grievous blow to my ego.

Yeah, okay, I know. I'm insecure. No well-adjusted person would ever feel inferior to a travel writer a few decades older than them, nor allow a mental picture of that person to control them in such a ridiculously comprehensive fashion.

Well, who said I was well-adjusted?

This is probably good for me. Just by opening a Theroux book (I have three of them so far, all train-related; several more populate the wish-list) I get a free kick in the butt. One snide remark from Paul and the guilt rises in my throat like bile. No matter how engaging his tales of chugging through the Khyber Pass or across the Australian outback may be, just reading about them makes me want to throw the book down and get to work on my own career. Of course, that's where the Catch-22 comes in: as soon as I put the book down, Theroux's hectoring becomes much easier to ignore. It's only when I'm actually reading Theroux—surprised at every turn by his depth of feeling, his powers of perception, his talent for description, the wonders of his travels, and his sheer snarkiness—that the guilty feelings pervade. I had my last bout with shame and inferiority when I read The Great Railway Bazaar a couple of years ago. Having recently finished The Sand Pebbles by Richard McKenna (more about that later), I picked up The Old Patagonian Express two days ago and launched into it.

And wham-o, wouldn't you know it? The old Theroux-Induced Inferiority Complex has kicked in again. I'm feeling behind. My life hasn't started. I haven't done anything. I'm a nobody. I'll never get anywhere at this rate. I spend my days reading comic books and playing video games instead of squaring my shoulders, marshaling my courage and pursuing my dreams.

It's funny how difficult something as simple as chasing one's dreams can be sometimes.

That's why I need Theroux to kick my ass.