Writer's Rehab #4: The Day I Falter

I didn’t read last night.

There are times I falter and the danger here is falling off the ledge. Stopping work. Stopping rehab. And letting this all go to waste. Another ‘try’ at it, with my own worst enemy being myself, and the only person holding myself back is me.

It is so easy to blame these days. It feels so easy to blame others for my own shortcomings and lack of effort. I could sit back here all day and spend more energy blaming others than putting that effort into myself. It is easy to bitch. It is easy to sit around and come up with clever words that describe my problems. To think those who put in more work than I and find success are somehow privileged. Those are easy words to sharpen and throw out there as weapons.

Yes, other people possess privileged work ethics and I do not.

I sound like my mother telling me to get off my ass when I was younger. I hated those scoldings. But I loved her for them. And she was right.

And hard work does not guarantee success. I know that from having poured myself into projects that just did not pan out. You could dig in a mountain for years, never find gold because it was never there, and then blame others because you were digging worthless holes in the ground. And then do I somehow have a right to bitch at the world because I worked hard and never made it? I do not.

I don’t even want to publish this now. It is too negative. It is not me. I am not talking to you, I am telling all this to myself. But maybe I will publish this, just to show people the venom which spews forth and I must release. So here it is. My shame. My negativity. Raw, hurt feelings and the words which come from the same.

All meaningless pokes of the keyboard. Woe is me bullshit. Blame someone else, some company’s policy, some politician, or someone else for who they are or what they look like or what I think they possess. The only purpose this bitching serves is to let it go – for me at least. The danger for me is becoming this anger. I could spew hatred all day and become a hate-filled spewing machine. I could get good at it, even great.

But what value does a pus-spewing boil have? The wound shall never heal. Eventually, it will become infected, and in time kill the host. Let the wound alone. Let it heal. Stop squeezing it or picking at it. See a doctor. Get some help for that anger.

Seriously. It is time to heal.

We need bandages for our seething souls.

It is long past the time to heal.

I speak only to myself with these words, not you. But if you share the same feelings I don’t mind if you listen in for a while.

This is the point where I save the document and walk away. And then I start something positive and ‘me.’ This is the point where all of the hurt and rage wears off, I take a break, and I come back at writing with a fresh outlook on life. The hurt is gone. The pus is out. The healing can begin again this day.

But yes, there needs to be a point where the wound stops draining. There will be a point where I never type a negative and hurtful word again, and those shall be inherited by my characters. Because the only person I am hurting by spewing forth such venom is myself. Remember what I said about the chance you have to change someone’s mind on social media? Winning the lottery comes to mind. So if I spew hate, all I shall get back from social media is more hate, and guess what?

My wounds grow deeper and more infected with hate. This time, injected into the wound from others.

But I look forward to that day the wound is healed. When I am normal again. When I can be myself, and my words sing true. I know what my writing looks like, the good stuff, and I don’t feel I am there yet. You know when you are in your zone. The words pour forth like fresh clean water with the gentlest turn of the faucet, and they come with an abundance and purity which opens up worlds of possibility. The words do not stop. They take on a life of their own. They flow from morning to night, and take you along for the ride. You lose track of time. You do not want to stop.

And when you finally lay down to rest, you sleep on a pillow of words you cannot wait to return to.

I think the secret of success is some people realize the time they spend complaining is the time they could spend chasing their dreams. And no, having a dream does not mean achieving it. I am told by a lot of people who ‘made it’ the most exciting time of their lives was chasing that dream. That when they made it the thrill was gone.

So I look at it this way, if I live a life where I never make it, and I chase my dreams until the day I pass away – that is a life more fulfilling and rewarding than if I do happen to make it someday. If I do make it, fine, I shall enjoy resting then. Or I shall chase again.

But I have to realize that the chase is the best part.

And then get out there every day and chase.

But, just like a lioness on some grassy plain in Africa, I cannot chase if I am wounded.

I need to heal.

I need a little patience first.

But more importantly, I need to want to heal, and then to let myself heal.

No more hate.

That time has passed.

I look forward to the chase with a smile on my face and a hunter’s spirit in my heart.

The day shall come.