Questions

As men go, I am uninspiring. Perhaps that’s because I’m uninspired. I wake and put my pants on, go to work, come home and start over. There really isn’t much to it really. Day in and day out is the same with little derivation. Sure there are minute changes on what to watch on the TV or what to make for dinner. Overall, there’s little that truly changes.

I walk through this life I’ve made for myself rather autonomously like a living zombie or a walking meat golem. There are times when I can feel the absolute power of change within me. I listen for it. I long for it. I attempt to follow its direction and redirect the power. Often it is useless to do so.

My huge noise in the darkness and void that is the outside world is nothing more than a duck’s fart in comparison to a solar storm. I rush and push and flex mental nodes that have been previously placed by my own fears and conditioning and in the end I move the boundaries to amount to a total net sum of zero work accomplished.

work:

[wurk] noun, adjective, verb, worked or ( Archaic wrought) working.

noun

1. Exertion or effort directed to produce or accomplish something

You see, I have always seen myself as a writer. I’ve had this focus for many years. I believe the first story I wrote was at the age of six or seven. It was a noir piece and barely one page long. I can ear the mechanical levers and gears of the typewriter that my mother stored in my bedroom.

The smell of the ink on the ribbon and the clickety-clack of the keys were enjoyable. I could see my protagonist in his dark hat and steely eyes. The chiseled jaw and sharp suit could cut the shadows between him and the gangsters he was after.

Throughout the years the focus waxed and waned on the idea of my being a writer. English courses came and went for me. Various books on the subject graced my shelves and were sold off to the used bookstore to give some other vagrant author the tools to succeed while at the same time putting some pittance into my pockets.

Some friends have told me that I have talent and that I should continue the path. I should continue to write until it’s finished. Keep writing. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense, just keep writing. You can always edit later.

My family doesn’t even read what I write. Aside from me, shouldn’t they be my most avid fans? Shouldn’t they be my foremost advocates?

Yeah.

It all makes sense from the outside. The perception of this advice is sound. I just had to remember the Little Train that Could. Keep writing (I think I can), push through the block (I think I can), just finish the story (I think I can), you can edit later. I can edit later.

I know I have to have thick skin if I want to play in this game. I have to not care what others think of my work. I have to be my own fanatic. I have to be the driving force in this career of wordsmithing. I have to be the champion.

The drive is there. I hear the words. I can be my own advocate. There are limits to the effects of my own cheerleading power on myself. Sometimes it’s nice to have some anonymous person say, “Hey, that’s good work!”It happens occasionally, but not as often as I'd like.

According to one school of thought, that means I’m not ready to play in the big leagues. That school of thought puts me into a group of wannabe’s and neverwere’s. Yeah, the cheese stands alone. I’m not sure I wholeheartedly believe in this particular school of thought, but the instructor makes a pretty good point. If I can’t handle the fact that practically no one reads my work, then why do I even want to be in the business?

I’m still trying to figure out the answer. Sometimes I feel like Van Gogh. I know I have talent, but will the world recognize it before I go insane? Will that dream of mine come to fruition if I try hard enough? Will admitting that I'm frustrated and fearful turn off any potential readers?

Good questions.