Next?

       My favorite quote of the day yesterday was not exactly poetry, although it came from someone that has a gift with words.  He said, "I'm firmly against gratuitous violence...but if you get carried away with a new promotion and don't finish your novel...there is a very high probability that I will personally come and punch you right in the tits! I mean that in the most caring of ways.**"  It was born from a conversation where I mentioned how I want to move up, have more responsibility, make more money.  All of those things take sacrifice, and what suffers most in these scenarios is typically the time taken for self.

       Sacrifice has been just a part of life, as I've "back burnered" my own personal goals and desires, if you will.  It was done with open arms, without a thought about it, really, in order to make sure that shit just got handled. That's what I do...I take care of things.  While I was taking care of things, all of my friends and family got married and had kids.  I have my own accomplishments that I am proud of...and I feel like I've done pretty well for a kid that came from a poor family with no overt advantages, but there are things I feel I missed out on. I know there are other 30 somethings out there that feel the same, that feel like they're still getting their shit together.  At least...I hope there are. I hope I'm not the only one.

      The above mentioned novel is not yet finished, and I can blame a lot of things.  Not enough time, other responsibilities that take priority, the fact that my left brain gets most of the exercise and my right brain at this point is like the flabby guy at the gym rolling off of the treadmill...those are all pertinent and realistic reasons that the book isn't done. The others are sheer procrastination, and fear.

My right brain, getting destroyed by daily math.  Statistics: a shot to the balls.  

     What if my book sucks?  That's a real fear a la Marty McFly, "What if they say I'm no good? What if they say, "Get out of here kid. You've got no future"? I mean, I just don't think I can take that kind of rejection."  That is partially true.  The other weirder one is this: What if it's awesome?  What if I had the ability to write for a living, as I've always said I wanted to do, and had access to unlock my happiness?  That kind of change, although I fully realize would be 100% terrific, is scary as hell.

      While I've always embraced change,  I've never fully embraced this one.  Writing and having it published and actually sell has always been "that ridiculous dream" for me.  It would mean, in a way, I would no longer own it all to myself, in that world existing only in my head, wondering "what if?"  And that...that may be my biggest fear: to expose the story in my head to the viewing public, to attain that goal, and instead of asking "what if" I would be forced to ask "what next?" It's a ponderous thing, how "what's next" can leave me feeling skeptical of both the now and the next.

     It's an uneasy feeling, looking ahead and realizing that this is new territory.  This isn't a cyclic rehashing of old patterns and defenses...this is brand new, fresh out of the box, some assembly required, not-sure-how-I-feel-about this stuff.  This is saying, "I want this to work out" and then trembling in fear as I do something about it.  And then of course, I either sink or swim, which is a terrible metaphor because I am terrified of the water. 

       I know that if I don't finish this novel, I'm in for an unpleasant punch in the tits, and so I will probably start with just avoiding that.   A fear of success is a very real fear, and I certainly have it.  I just have to ask myself the age old question: what's worse: the pursuit of success, or a jab to the boobs?

    

 
Skeptically Yours.




**None of my friends actually abuse me, though it is commonly threatened.