Monday, September 24, 2012

Opening Time

I've written to the end of my outline. It isn't necessarily good or bad, but it is unexpected. Stitching together different but relevant stories into a (hopefully) cohesive quilt is an old habit that I might have been better served growing out of (in lieu of finding a better way to tell stories). As it is, there are times when I'm so keyed in that I don't necessarily need to look at the outline, and thereby can forget that I am guided by it. As it was, yesterday I finished chapter 9, with nary a glimmer or vision of the next project hounding me. I felt good, good enough to glance into my notes and see what was up next. That's when I was greeted with the infinite potential of white space. Was somewhat similar to leaping, then looking. Up that high, there aren't crickets, either, just the occasional and indifferent breeze.

In addition to that, I have begun finalizing the requisite materials to finalize my third publication. Writing blurbs and choosing excerpts is as difficult as I remember. Such marketing tools made me recall also that I've also stopped waiting on fateful emails from agents, which means it's time to send out more queries. A friend of mine recently helped me with an interview question, perhaps the interview question: what is your greatest weakness. I had always thought of the question honestly, and realizing my predicament in each of those situations (having no money, but needing money to the point of lying for it) my perhaps being too honest always came to mind. He didn't necessarily say this wasn't a weakness, but he did point out that maybe a greater, and smarter, weakness to display is my inability to understand when it's time to throw in the towel.

For instance: writing. When your accomplishments are so small that even when added together they amount to almost literally nothing, it likely would seem to a normal person that one has failed, and it's time to try something else. Not me, apparently. However, I suppose when your breakdowns become your breakthroughs, things have no choice but to look up. Sometimes, actually most times, I hope there is some engaged audience observing my life, holding their breath, whispering to each other, "if he would only hold on a little more, it'll all work out." I hope that because no one I've yet to meet knows the future. That, or someone has lied to me, because in every case I was sure to ask. And being the one jumping, yet it's someone else that knows whether you'll land it or not just feels like a raw deal.

So, I might just quit.

But it won't be today. My fingers still work and my mind is still churning and all the no's have yet to strike me dead. Thus, the next step forward is inevitable. I just hope we're the ones who ultimately get to decide if we're worthy or not.

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