Strange morning for me. I set in Panera with my coffee, my breakfast consumed, and I’ve got the song El Paso on repeat because–well, just because. I have my reasons, and in a few I’ll change it to something else. Something that will give me just enough time to do this post and hit the road, for I have some travelin’ ahead of me this morning.
This afternoon I get back into the routine. I’ve had a few distractions this week, but it’s all legit, and you need a distraction now and then just to break things up. But once you get too far away from what you should do, then you get distance, and that distance can lead to break up, and once you’re made that break it’s tough to take it back into yourself.
I’ve been there more than a few times. Why? Doubt. Always the goddamn doubt. you question if what you do is worth while, if what you’re attempting is going to be another “All in vain” operation that lead nowhere. Nothing usual there: that’s the majority of our lives, it seems. You question everything, and doubt often comes into play when the questions fly.
To paraphrase a famous quote doubt is the creativity killer. You doubt, and your creativity takes a hit–but you can’t allow that, for the creativity must flow. It must keep moving forward, even if it’s stumbling about much like a young Keith Richards after many hours of Jack Daniel’s and heroin–or as he used to call it, “I’m awake, right?”
I have this little itty bitty part that I need to complete for my NaNo Novel research, and I’m sort of dragging on that. Some of that I blame on AMC, for this damn Breaking Bad marathon is dragging me away. And I would have stayed up until three in the morning to watch Gus and two others get rung up on the Heisenberg Hit-o-Meter, but it was midnight, I’d been up since four-thirty, and like I say, I gotta drive today.
There is a line in El Paso that goes, “My love is stronger than my fear of death.” Writing should be that way: one’s love of writing should be stronger than their fear of failure. You are going to fail, and fail mighty, before something comes of your endeavor. I know it sounds like BS, but there’s much truth in this. I failed over the summer. I wrote a novel, I did my best to get it published, to get the word out, to make certain it was clean and good–and a whole lot of nothing came. Oh, sure, there were sales, but you always hope for sales, and those never materialized.
I shouldn’t call it a failure, however. It’s the third thing I’ve published, and I learned from the experience. I have the information filed away and on-hand for the next time I publish.
If you learn from your experiences, it’s not a failure. Never.
Now I gotta road to catch . . .