I feel like I have to apologize...but I know even that serves into this self-pitying purpose that this blog seems to have become. I think I'm writing in it out of spite now. The apology mentioned is because of the last blog post. It came off a lot more "attention-whorey" than I wanted.
That post was a precursor to a near-and-total meltdown on my part.
I have not been dealing with a few issues in my life properly, and my writing has been a huge part of that. I had to come face to face with the demon in my life: the fact that I NEVER finish any of my projects. No matter what the cause (even though the causes are all me). This is something that's been plaguing me for years. Since well over a decade ago. And I always thought I had an answer, but apparently not.
When I first started writing, I knew my craft wasn't excellent. I was way too green. Hell, I still am in many ways. And I used to think that was it: that I wasn't experienced enough or learned enough to know how to complete a work. So I studied. I took courses. I read books. I filled my head with the process. Yet the problem remained. I thought it could possibly be the projects themselves - the subject matter. Was it not compelling enough for me? That may have been an infinitesimal fraction of the reason. Point is...I never figured it out.
I would get SO frustrated with myself! So angry! I would beat myself up psychically, wondering why I wasn't worth enough to FINISH something! WHY!? WHY CAN'T IT BE DONE?!!
Luckily, I have close friends and family to thank for helping me through my recent meltdown.
With their help, I learned that my problem with quitting comes from a couple different, related things. Because of my childhood, I apparently feel a need to make something of myself. To be known for something, and to have great accomplishments. This feeds into my desire for personal success. Because of my creative side, I've chosen writing as my outlet and road to that success that I crave. So what does that make me? A writer, of course. And that's how I defined myself. That's the second problem. A man shouldn't define himself by what he does...that leaves him with nothing, were that thing he does to disappear - or, in my case, not come to fruition.
I needed to figure out who I am. How am I defined? And what do I REALLY want out of writing?
I cannot define myself as any of these: "son", "husband", "friend", "employee", "writer". Because I could lose my parents, my wife, my friends, my job, and never become a published writer. So with that revelation comes, what I believe to be, the final truth. I am a creator, an entertainer, a teacher, and a helper. None of those things can be taken from me. Those are all things inherent in my personality, in who I exactly am. Even if I were to be the last person on this planet due to some incredible I-Am-Legend-related disaster, I can still create imaginatively...I can still entertain myself...I can still teach myself as I learn...and I can help myself through it all to the end. My desire, my drive to do all of those things will never subside, no matter where I am in the world.
Looking back over everything I've written in this post, I cannot help but feel an incredible happiness. I finally know who I am. I have faced the darkness within, looked my bare Self in the eye, and I didn't blink. There is no other feeling like this.
I am no longer a writer.
I am simply a man who writes.
Whether I become published, famous, well-known or anything of the sort - I will always love to write. That is my success.
Huh. The original title to this post was "Uncertainty".
I'm still going to write my Cleveland-based story about two brothers separated. I'm still going to write in this blog. I don't care if maybe only three people read it. I just don't know when that next time is going to be. This is an exercise. And apparently an exorcism. And that's helpful.