#epictitle

The weather reporters reference sheet

Freaks

Aw shit, she's possessed by the blue bastard and his friends

You know, I only have to glance at Neil Gaiman's tumblr feed to start asking myself, "Why aren't I writing something right now?"

Oftentimes I don't glance at his tumblr feed. I can complain all I want about not having enough time/energy to write, but it's categorically untrue. Even taking into account all the extra-curriculars that I've embroiled myself in one way or another...the community choir, various and sundry activities with friends and family, church...and even with two jobs, there's time. There's always time. I could be picking away at a short story during my off hours. Or a novel, if I'm feeling adventurous. But I don't. 'Cause I suck at starting things.

It's like jumping into the lake for the first time in the summer. I always stand at the edge of the dock, knowing full well that once I'm in the water, I'll enjoy myself tremendously. There will be splashing about, and diving deep...brisk front crawl and lounging back, scullion, breast stroke...myriad diverting activities that I will enjoy every minute of until I leave the waters, exhausted but pleased. But I will stand there. A minute. Five. Ten. Sometimes I'll turn around and head back inside. That first step, that moment of breaking the water's surface...feeling it flow cooly up and around your body, scraping like glass against your warm skin...those first few moments when you break to the surface once again, fighting for air, your every nerve standing on end as your body gets acclimatized to this sudden and startling change to its environment, its temperature...I dread them. It's not as if it hurts, or lasts terribly long, but I have such a strong grip upon comfort, upon routine, upon what I had been used to experiencing, that it is some grand mental stop for me.

But I know that taking that step is good for me. I rarely turn away. I hesitate, but I find my courage. I convince myself. I get coaxed by my happily splashing friends. Sometimes I'm already decided well before I get to the dock's edge to show no fear, and jump in immediately...but the decision is always there. It's always a battle.

Perhaps I'm being too hard on myself. I am writing. I'm writing all the damn time. I'm writing for Cottage North. I'm writing for The Boarding House. I'm writing for Four Points Academy. I'm writing here, on tumblr, or on twitter, or Facebook, or myriad other places.

Yet none of these things are a novel, or a graphic novel, or a screenplay, or a play, or a work of nonfiction. They aren't radio dramas, or webcomics, or speeches from a podium. They are made for small audiences, or made to be a brief diversion. I put myself into everything I write, but really, who sees me in Cottage North?

And why do I want to be seen?

...I want to be known. Deep down. It's there. I'm a showman at heart. I adore being on the stage. I like being seen. I like acting differently from everyone and being noted for it. My ego is fluffed by every compliment. I am greedy for more. I am vain. My mask is indifference, dispassion and humble humility. My character is noble: Julian is above all that. Julian participates. Julian does what is asked of him. Julian doesn't complain of hours lost in volunteering. Julian smiles to everyone in public. Is gracious and polite...

*sigh* I'm being too hard on myself. My cynical side likes to toy with my ideological side.

There are some days when I feel more than happy to go out into the world and do good. Other days I'm grouchy and tired and ready to get snippy with someone I know. On those days I do put on my mask. I wear Julian the character. He smiles, he replies kindly enough, but just beyond that mask that man's having a bad day. Maybe that's right. Maybe that's how things should be. Sometimes I can't even summon the strength to do that much. Sometimes I just pout through my day, a great storm cloud hanging over me. I can't help but feel that such action is worse.

Hmm. I seem to have lost the thread of what I was talking about. Writing. Writing writing. I love it. I enjoy doing it. Even editing. Even when it saps the strength from me because I'm mentally exhausted. I couldn't go too long without doing it.

And if that is what I want, what am I afraid of?

Rejection? Failure?

I suppose. But I'm too cocky by half for that. I've got a ridiculous level of confidence in myself that I can do whatever I'd like to if I were to just put my mind to it. I also know that not trying at all is a waste. These are the best years of my life. My mind is sharp. My ideas aren't too crowded by success or failure or world weariness. I have energy. I have talent. I have a will to create, to forge a path for myself.

So what am i waiting for?

Maybe one foot is out in front of me, hovering in mid air, and I'm just waiting to convince myself to allow my balance to flag so that I can drop like a stone into the water.

But that's never how I do it.

No. When I finally make my decision, I take a few steps back, then charge forward and leap.

I wouldn't want to get tripped up on the dock, after all, and when I'm in mid-air, there's nothing more I can do but wait to hit water.