pseydtonne | Creativity versus reality: someone else's version

Everyone seems to have two lives these days: the day job and the overwhelming hobby. Maybe it's actually been like this a long time but no one really talks about it.

I've had a dry spell. I got fascinated with a sci-fi story I'd started a while ago. Then I showed my coworker Anthony some of the rough drafts and he got keen to help me craft a better plot. We started working together. Then I got distracted.

However, I didn't. I felt like I couldn't create because I couldn't focus on the plot line. I like the characters too much. I just wanted the characters to evolve and let the plot happen. I handed him some loose pieces and he saw a much better line. That bummed me out, even though it should've helped me.

This week Anthony was in Florida. I totally lost focus on work. I couldn't bring my anxiety level low enough to ignore the rejection. Since he already has Mondays off, I was fine on Monday. Then came Tuesday. By Friday afternoon, I realized I needed one specific coworker, or at least his camaraderie, to do my fucking job. I need him to compete against, to be cooler than I'll ever be, to smooth the ride.

I always need a sidekick. Maggie's a good sidekick, but our schedules are fucked up right now. briAn was my best friend for nine years; one day he just stopped talking to me. It left me feeling seriously uncool. I am a severely social critter.

Did anyone else have a great week at work? No, not really. I just handled it oddly. Why? Because I needed someone that could absorb my blather and everyone else was in need of that some person.

Anthony has become one of my best friends. I spend more time with him than I do with Maggie, Steve or any of my other close friends. We have a lot in common. He's doing all the cool stuff, like drumming in a band that has a shot at this contest title in June. I'm very proud of him.

I feel like a failure. I haven't written anything substantive in a while. I'll do anything to avoid writing because I feel like everything needs editing. Hell, this LJ post doesn't make much sense to me and I want to edit it.

I wish I could type faster. I wish I could speak aloud as fast as I think and have the computer turn that into text. Then I'd be able to get the stories out a bit faster than the slowness I suffer now. Perhaps I should make the big break and stop looking at the damn keyboard.

Yeah, I still look. This paragraph and the last, in fact, are the first in years that I've typed without looking at the keys. I took Speed Typing twice in my life, back in junior high. I didn't start making progress on the speed of my typing until I found the Internet in 1992 and had chat rooms.

That seems to be the motivation I need. I must have people to bother, an audience, I gathering to make me do stuff. Otherwise, I never really try because I don't want to do anything alone. This is something I thought I'd confronted about myself when I was 20 and tried to live in Binghamton the summer before senior year. Perhaps it's something I'll have to revisit every few years to get consistent progress.

This is a strange feeling. I want to look at the keyboard, but I stop myself each time. I can type 45 to 50 words per minute when I look at the keys. However, I'll never make progress to the 70 or 90 wpm level unless I stop staring. I need to have faith in my fingers and home row. I can use alt-tab without looking, so why is typing any non-chord so scary?

I want to think I'll (fucking 'j' is driving me nuts. I hit k each time) just survive and cope in spite of others. I need humans. I am ca... pa... ble...

You have no idea how many semicolons, brackets and k's I typed in the attempt to get 'capable' out that first time. The second time I typed 'capable', I got it with one error. The third time, three errors. Slow progress. It's like stuttering. I want to improve. I want a project. However, I have enough half-projects sitting around.

Here I shall aattemprt to typw a paragrpah ad fast as possible without using the bakcspace key. Notice it lookes like a Tudor printer attacked.

Right. I declare now that I am capable of typing, of writing, of editing. I am capable of a lot of shit. I can use the self-energy I used to fuel my economic success, which I ignore a lot, into fuel for writing. I will make that progress.

How did I even get to thinking about this? I used to read a web comic called Life's So Rad. The author, Corey Marie, had written a different comic (Common Grounds) that blew me away years ago. It seemed so mature that it blew my mind to learn the author wasn't even legal to buy booze. I hadn't read the comic in about a year and I went by the site on a whim tonight.

It turns out she stopped the comic very abruptly. The web site acts like nothing is wrong but the front page is stuck at December. I wound poking through Corey Marie's LJ to find any news. All I found was depression -- old boyfriend being a vicious prick, new beau living away from town (Lansing, MI) too much of the time, computer issues, self-desertion. I wanted to cry for her.

Then I realized I wanted to cry because she was a creative person I'd considered an inspiration. She did this comic with no hope of pay or fame. I couldn't even draw well enough to do a web comic, but I saw that DIY ethic that made punk work -- a Duct Tape Warrior at a Wacom tablet. If she fell prey to her own demons of self-worth, who couldn't?

In turn, who couldn't recover?

Recovering drug addicts have sponsors. I could use a sponsor for creativity -- a local person to help me stay on a creative track. We could give each other assignments, keep contact, listen to each other. In many ways, this should be Anthony. However, I'm not opposed to having other help.

I have to find my inner Anthony -- cool guy, has $5, deep down doesn't care and thereby succeeds. Zen salescritter.

Anthony comes back Tuesday. It'll be centering. I think I should start writing if only to prove that a human can survive self-doubt to say something other humans can grow from. I'll do it for Corey Marie in hopes she'll come back to the publishing fold.

Could anyone tell me whether this post made sense?