Passing Fancies, Moments of Brilliance and Bitching About the Rain

It seems the more I write the more I fall in love with myself.  Sick and egotistical I know, so I wonder how many authors write purely for their own entertainment.  The novel that I am now attempting to write is slowly taking shape.  Actually, that is not true, the story is already finished . . . three volumes worth to be exact.  It is the writing that is SLOWLY taking shape.  Among art forms, I believe the written word to be the purest.  The witty turn of a phrase or a startling description that can paint a picture without the aid of a brush are two of my most favorite things.  I possess a gift for neither, so grinding out a novel is no small task.  Occasionally I read back through what I have written and see a flicker of hope, a moment of clarity when the light from my star breaks through an overcast sky.  Just as quickly, the brilliance fades and the entire project becomes a passing fancy.  A brief moment of self-love pitches itself into a prolonged sense of self-loathing.  This is particularly difficult to swallow when I trade the pen for a book mark and delve back into whatever book it is that I am currently consuming at a fairly prodigious rate.  Until recently I had made a very concerted effort in my life to ignore the words of others.  To be honest, I am still fairly picky where this is concerned, but I am warming to the idea with each passing day.

There are some truly brilliant writers out there and the thought of anything I write being worthy of a spot on the same bookshelf is, well, ludicrous.   Truth is, just about the time I start convincing myself that it might be possible to make this a productive vocation rather than a fairly consumptive recreation something always sees fit to knock me back to earth.  Whether that be a written work that makes my own look like the scribblings of a toddler or an improbable job posting passed along by a friend.  I think the latter has shaken me far more than I would have expected.  The vague understanding that this change in my lifestyle is not a permanent one is easy enough to shove to the back of my mind.  I tend to live in the now for the most part, while maintaining grand plans for the future.  The problem is, even the best laid plans of mice and men . . . well you know the rest.  The reality that this is truly a sabbatical rather than a retirement hit home recently when a friend from back home sent a job posting that I might be qualified for.  For the first time it sank in that sooner rather than later, I am going to have to face the truth and it ain’t pretty.  For the better part of the past week, I have really struggled with the idea and I came to the only rational conclusion:  Be Irrational.  Foolish, Unreasonable, Crazy, Ridiculous, Absurd and Silly, these have all been used at one time or another to describe some of the greatest moments and grandest achievements throughout the history of mankind.  So, why NOT me?  Why can’t I do the same?

I know what is expected.  I could read it clearly in my wife’s eyes.  I should return to the 9 to 5 or 8 to 6, or God forbid the 7 to whenever.  Not to do so upon our return to the US would certainly raise some eyebrows.  The naysayers will say nay and my convictions will be tested.  It has taken me most of my life to figure out what it is that I really want to do, and I won’t let loose of the notion so easily.  Certainly I have the ability, the skills and credentials to return to the world of the pinstripe panted drones who shuffle the papers of big business in a never ending quest to receive THE gold watch, I just don’t have the desire.  I think most would find themselves of the opinion that not returning to a career utilizing my degree and licensure would be an act of great waste, while I believe returning to the same would be an act of greater cowardice.  I have ALWAYS marveled at the bravery of those who have chosen to gamble on themselves and spit in the face of convention.  I now find myself at this crossroads and the devil can keep his fucking guitar, I will buy my own gold watch.  With that settled, it is time to make like Charlie and find my Hustle.  In the soundtrack of my life, this is where the Dubstep beat drops and the rest of the story is written.  Now if I could just get it to stop fucking raining.

It is hard to grab life by the balls when you don’t want to get out of bed in the morning.  We are three weeks in on a patch of foul weather that doesn’t show signs of stopping.  Unfortunately, I have long since run out of corn for popping if you know what I mean.  I need to take the leap, make a move, get things going again, but the gray skies have me grounded like fog at an airport.  I NEED sunny skies and the warm sting of summer on my skin, and I need it badly.  I need long afternoons at the beach and visits from home.  I need foreign travel, inspirational recreation and dinner under the stars.  If I could just forget what the inside of my home looks like for even a moment or two I would be better for it.  Until that time arrives, I plan on pouting and being in a generally foul mood.  I shall stomp through the mud and curse the rain.  Just a fair bit of warning for those that prefer my ordinarily sunny disposition.  Until then . . . R.