There was some interesting reaction to yesterday’s post. Primarily, I think it kind of pushed people away. I’ve noticed that happen before: throw a post out there about how dark everything look, and suddenly it’s like, “Oh, we’re rather hear about the size of Meredith’s vagina.” Which also had some interesting comments, but that’s another story . . .
No one really wants to hear about how tough things are. They don’t want to hear about the struggle, only the payoff. They don’t want to hear about the problem, only the solution. Very few people are interested in the delivery–they want to know about what came out in the end.
Sure, I get into my sobby moods. Yesterday was one for sure. The weekend was not one of my best, and Sunday night I went to bed feeling piss poor. The mood didn’t improve that much through the day, but after I had some tea last night, and though about what I was going to write to start Part Eleven of Diners at the Memory’s End, then it seemed like things were starting to pick up.
Yesterday didn’t garner a lot of comments, but there was one in particular that caught my eye. What was put forward was the idea that perhaps it wasn’t being isolated, but rather I was being told by my Muse–who, believe me, sometimes does speak to me in mysterious ways–that there are things out there, many wonderful things, but I can’t quite see them yet. In order to get to them, I’ve got to push past where I am now, and keep going, keep writing, keep moving forward, and eventually I’ll find all the things that are meant to be mine.
So much of what we do is done in isolation. Oh, sure: you can haul your laptop down to the corner cafe and get some coffee and a little something to munch upon, but when you start putting word to whatever medium you use, you’re in your own little world. No one else is there, just you, and your imagination–and maybe your Muse, getting ready to plant a spike heel in your ass if you don’t get a move on.
It’s even more bothersome if you tend to live your life in isolation as well. It feel like everything I do today is done with a certain amount of isolation in place. I work alone, I stay at The Undisclosed Location alone, I make my three-hour drive back and forth between The Real Home alone. And even when I’m home it seems like I spend a lot of time alone. You’re suppose to be a writer, not a south polar explorer. There is suppose to be some contact here; it not meant to be a case of finding out how much of a meaningful relationship you can develop with your streaming media before you decide you’ve had enough and you’re ready to go all Dexter on the apartment complex.
I got back into the story last night. I didn’t write a lot–only 700 words–but it went by rather quickly. I’d have done a lot more, a lot faster, if I hadn’t allowed myself to be distracted by other “things”. What can I say? I’ve been in that mood for a while, but I’ve also noticed that my production has been down considerably, and that’s no acceptable.
The only way to push through the ink is to go like mad, to keep going forward. Yeah, it’s not easy: never said it would be. There’s so much uncertainty and so much fear. There are too damn many things that get in our way and try to pull us off the path, and there are times when the urge to say, “Oh, shiny!” or “Screw this; lets do something else,” grows incredibly strong.
There is something out there, beyond the ink. There’s only one reason I haven’t see it yet:
I haven’t opened my eyes.