The Second Day

I return for the first time. I have to say I was dreading it for quite a bit. The second of anything is always the hardest for me. Not the first like people seem to think. I don't hate Monday, I hate Tuesday. I always thought it was logical. Monday morning, you go to work (Or whatever day for those like me who have non-traditional work weeks), and you're still rested and relaxed from your weekend. Yeah, sucks to be back at the grind. But at least you're recovered and ready to go.

Tuesday though. Tuesday its really set in. Your next weekend is very, very far away. You aren't coming back from a day of rest, you're coming back to work with the same lumps and bruises you took on Monday.

So today is my second day, and I have to say I really am dreading it. I've never been the sort of guy to keep a journal of any sort. The only time I ever really write every single day most years is when I enter the National Novel Writer's Month challenge (http://www.nanowrimo.org/). Otherwise writing is something that rarely happens, just when I get an itch for it so bad that I can't possibly ignore it anymore.

So what did I promise? More talk about Creativity and Irritation. I did leave with that second part unsaid.

So why does pushing me to try and earn money being "Creative" really irritate me? Well, the first reason was enough, but here's the rest:

I don't know about anyone else that will be reading this. I don't know what your paths through life were, or if you'd understand what I'm talking about. You may think it is odd, crazy, or just plain untrue. But it is true for me.

I, am not "special". I've known this since I could ever recall. I knew I was never going to be great. I didn't have any special talents, skills, or affinities that set me apart from the crowd. I was never considered a cute kid, or handsome. I never really wowed anyone with anything I did. And I had a small problem, which I won't talk about here at this time, which made me a social leper.

So I grew up knowing this. I wasn't like the other kids I knew, where their parents lied to them. Told them they could be anything, do anything, boundless potential and all that other jazz. Sure, I heard the speeches on kids TV shows, or neighbors to their children. But it never really applied to me.

So instead I turned inward. I read, a lot. I wrote, I drew. This wasn't because I had some great creative itch, it was my way of being able to do something. To get away into my own little world. A place where suddenly I mattered. I was doing something that was great. Because in my little world, there was no one else to do it. I walled myself up into my room, or spots I claimed at school and other places where no one else went. I littered the area with works I composed, pictures I sketched, half told stories that I penned.

I started to delude myself. To think that what I was doing was worthwhile. That I was some great visionary. I treasured my little scribbles. I started to ask around, very carefully, about how I might actually share my vision with that other world outside my little space.

To which I was rejected, quite flatly. Creative Writing instructors, art teachers, most everyone I talked to said "Don't bother". The most encouraging, kind thing anyone said to me about it was, "Eh, might as well give up. You won't ever make it without some big time connections in the business."

So I put these things aside. I trashed what I had kept in my home, burning it all in the backyard. It was just another confirmation that I was in fact quite crazy. Creative? Ha. Madness and delusion were closer to the mark.

I never afterwards showed any of my work to anyone. Never. I knew what I did, didn't matter. It wasn't good at all. But I still wanted to cling to my delusions. They were really all I ever had.

So I continued to write. I continued to draw. Its pace slackened off however. No matter how much I wanted to cling to the fantasy I knew deep down, and I couldn't bring myself to care about it. At least, not like I could before I had dared open the gates.

Life for me is not a great joy. It is not the worst life I could have. I know that, I've seen that, I've done that before. But I like to keep my dreams intact.

Felicia, she always said I was a dreamer. Told me that in such a way as though it was at both times everything good and everything bad about me. I suppose it is. I just don't know any other way to be.

I like to dream. I like to think that somehow, I was wrong, and those people were wrong. I like to think that if I really tried, I could have been great, I could have really produced something that mattered.

I told you I'm crazy and delusional. To me, as long as I don't take that last step out my door. As long as I didn't actually try, I could maintain that illusion. The moment I really put myself out there. That I really, truly tried and failed, I'd lose my dreams.

And then what would I have?

But now here I am. While it's not exactly that last step, here are my words for all to see and judge. It scares the shit out of me. But maybe she was right, maybe I do need to stop dreaming. Maybe this could be the first step out of my world and back into hers.




Til next time,

Grind Away