Lynn handed me the fortune from her fortune cookie.
“This is for you.”
I took the tiny slip of paper and read aloud, “Don’t be afraid to take that big step.”
“What do you think that means?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but my lucky numbers are 2, 5, 8, 11, 15 and 54.”
She laughed and let me off the hook. I know that she knows she let me off the hook.
I’ve been teetering on the edge for years, trying to balance my career in IT that paid my bills and supported my family with my alter-ego’s career of being a writer, which took me away from my family. I’ll add that being a writer requires doing shameless self-promotion that I detest doing. It is akin to standing in the middle of a busy supermarket, pulling my pants down and yelling, “Look what I can do!” as I hop around like an epileptic donkey. If self-promotion was an Apple product, it would be called iHateit.
Once, I tried to leave my body while doing self-promotion. No, really. I actually tried to astral project to anywhere but the place where I was pandering my book to some politely disinterested group. It’s no better selling to the black hole of the internet where no one can hear you scream. For the record, it didn’t work – the astral projection or apparently, the self-promotion.
Lynn knew how I hated it though we never talked about it. I knew she knew, and she knew I knew she knew.
Later that night as we lay in bed together and before we curled up and went to sleep, I decided to answer her question.
“What would be a big step?”
I turned and looked at her.
“I want to stop trying to be a writer.”
I had never used those words together in a sentence before. Just saying it felt fresh and new. Was this what is like when a woman douches? I don’t know, but saying it felt good. I could leave the unclean, messy part about self-promoting behind and just write because I like to write, and if no one reads it, meh. It’d be great if someone did, but it’s not key. I no longer fail if they don’t.
I can be THAT guy – the guy who just writes for fun. For FUN!
I was so excited, I leapt from bed and standing there in my underwear, I said more words I have never uttered before: I don’t have to write. I don’t have to blog. I don’t have to self-promote!
I was heady from the sacrilege and heresy of my own words. I had just broken my own taboo rules and it made me giddy.
Don’t get me wrong on this, I love writing. Still, in my attempt to improve and produce and be recognized, I have held my own feet to a very hot fire. It was not uncommon for me to sit down at the keyboard and not allow myself to go to bed until I wrote 500 words. Sometimes it was 1000 words. Sometimes it was to edit 20 pages, or submit work to a reviewer. These were arbitrary and unhealthy practices but I did it to myself to force growth, and I did them after working my real job all day long.
In the process of doing this relentlessly, year after year, I broke something. It was like a spring that had been wound too tight and snapped. I don’t think it is something that will fix itself.
One of my favorite quotes is from the author of Fahrenheit 451 and Martian Chronicles, Ray Bradbury. He said, “You only fail if you stop writing.”
It’s a good quote. Really, it distills all the fluff and pretense and puts it in perspective: Keep writing.
I will keep writing and by that measure, I have not failed. I simply have stopped being hardcore and mad about it, and I have stopped because it isn’t getting me anywhere. It might get me to an early grave if I kept at it, dead from a heart attack. I’m ok with giving that a miss for a few more decades.
Until that day, I’ll continue to write, casually.
Ed. This is a fictionalized account and may or may not be true, hallucinated or completely fabricated out of thin air. Perhaps it was a fanciful thought of yours. You know how you daydream. We all know how you daydream.