starts and stops

Over the last few months, I've gotten into three stories, and driven each to near completion. Each are missing crucial portions, but all together I've got about 50 pages or so of manuscript, with about 35 of those being pretty usable for a book I'm planning. Its the most output I've ever achieved in pursuit of this dream.


 That's the good news.


 The bad news is that I'm doing it in little fits. Following these little creative bursts are stretches of inactivity marked by total uncertainty and fear of continuing. I make plans and break them constantly, and frustration just gathers and pools. Cue the negative feedback loop, where my own feelings of inadaquacy damage my proclivity toward creative acts, which in turn creates more frustration.


When I was a teenager, I went through a spell of intense commitment to a particular denomination of Protestant Christianity. Around this time was an era of lots of trips to the river, and lots of jumping off cliffs. I remembered both of these little factoids when I was thinking that every act of writing is like jumping off a cliff: its scary as hell to make the leap, but once I start I just have to let gravity do the rest. The last time I tried to jump off a big ciff was probably a few years ago. Unlike my teen cliff jumps, this attempt wasn't effective; I chickened out and had to climb down to a safer height. By the by, this was during an era of my life when I'd pretty much lost faith in everything (friends, family, country, religion, etc...). 


Faith is a funny thing to talk about. The greatest proponents of it are typically idiots using religion in ways that make other people uncomfortable. And, as something of a neo-gnostic, it doesn't make sense for me to discuss faith in a religious sense. Still, jumping off cliffs requires some sort of faith, even if its just simple faith in the water being there and being as deep as it looks. Faith that things will work out, that harm won't come from an attempt. And you know what? Faith might be misplaced, and the rock just out of sight beneath the water might just bash the shit out of you when hit it. Still, good luck finding the gumption to jump without it (unless you happen to be one of those lucky assholes who just do things for the pleasure and the thrill...I've never felt that way about writing). 


 Anyway, I'm trying to hold to some sense of faith in myself. I know I have potential, that my understanding of the English language in the written form is pretty solid, that my vocabulary is wide, and--most importantly--I have an awful lot of creative concepts that would not only be fun for a reader to partake in, but also enriching. Also, there are thriving markets out there for short fiction, and fantastic opportunities in the realm of e-publishing. Its all there: everything a person could need to begin a successful career in the arts. 


 Faith, faith, faith. I have to start having it in myself. Its the only way to take this obsession and turn it into a compulsion. How many people wish for OCD I wonder? Well, I sure as shit do. I want it bad. Because, see, the problem is that I have the obsession already, but its paired with repulsion rather than compulsion. The OCD individual suffers painful anxiety until the obsession (be it counting buttons on all the clothes in the closet or washing their hands four times an hour) is completed. I have that god awful anxiety, but the thing I need to feel satisfied is often terrifying and disgusting to me. Isn't that sick? 


 Those negative feelings are the result of comparing my actual self to my ideal self: in my head I'm getting interviewed and giving speaches as a bestselling author (embarrasing, but most of us do it about something I think...), but when I look at what I wrote last, all I can see are my mistakes. Those mistakes will be fixed after a revision or so, I know that, but the errors I'm seeing don't jive with the paragon of literary awesomeness I imagine myself to be at the times I'm most excited about writing. 


 Random note: early cliffjumps were typically painful as well. It took water shooting into my sinuses and back out through my mouth before I learned to make damn sure my nose was held; I wacked the hell out of my balls a few times before I learned to cup them before impact. There's a lesson there, eh? So maybe I'm still learning to protect myself from the hurtful components of throwing myself into chair and into the worlds I'm trying to create. But before I can refine my defensive technique, I have to jump. And that, me amigos, takes faith. 


 Thanks for reading. Leave a comment. I could use some encouragement.