Something awesome happened this morning: I was pulling into the parking lot at my place of work, and as I did so, I spontaneously blurted out loud to no one but myself the name of the completely uninteresting, uninspiring, unexciting-to-me-in-any-way-whatsoever company for which I work … and this verbal reminder of just what it is I’ve ended up doing with my life caused me first to erupt into a sort of crazy-person laugh, and then to literally dry heave a couple of times. For a moment, I was fairly sure I was going to have to lean out of my car and vomit on the pavement.
So I’m thinking this is a pretty good sign, right? Because clearly it means that I won’t be able to do this much longer … which, in turn, means I’m getting closer to doing something with my life that doesn’t make me want to fucking vomit from the sheer banality of my existence. And that’s gotta be a step in the right direction, don’tcha think?
Actually, it’s not the job that’s the problem; it’s my inability thus far to move forward in some tangible way toward my goal of establishing a career as a creative writer, thus enabling me to no longer need a 9-to-5 cubicle job. And that’s what’s making me cackle like a crazy person and almost puke.
So here’s the deal: I am going to write a novel. Or a script. Or something. Starting today.
This decision scares the shit out of me, because I’m afraid I might discover that I suck, or that I don’t have the willpower to see it through to the end, or that no one wants to buy what I’ve written … any one of which would completely undermine what, for a very long time now, has been my somewhat-comforting but totally unfounded belief that I am talented enough to someday make a living as a creative writer.
Well, “someday” is here. Time to find out if I’ve been kidding myself.
PS: This doesn’t mean I’m abandoning the blog. In fact, there’s a good chance it means I’ll be telling some stories here that I’ve been holding back. See? Everybody wins. Maybe.