Today is an interesting day. I sat down and was forced to confront the perils of my own creative resistance. Steven Pressfield grabbed me by the face and threw me into it with his book War of Art. Since I won’t go into much detail about the read, I urge the artist of any denomination to pick it up; it will give a nice kick in the arse.
Traveling this past summer and allocating the time to start and fill this blog has been incredibly fulfilling and opened me up to a new frequency of the muses, specifically Calliope’s. If I am to be completely honest with myself, I must admit that I have been incubating a novel and then defaulting to procrastination for the past year and a half. Compiled were notes, outlines, illustrations, quotes and other potpourri but only a few paragraphs of story were actually written. Resistance cleverly parried my every attempt to start the fucking thing and it’s grand slam was my trip abroad. Though, in the meanwhile, I fell in love with writing and am ever excited to actually lay quill to Apple parchment.
Now I am back in action! I even rented serene office space, my "territory", at which I am sitting now. But resistance struck again with the mundane minutiae of life, sickness, scheduling inconveniences, and the general slew of excuses. But I just keep on telling people that I am writing this book and I feel more and more like a fraud every day. I don’t know what this is. Maybe it’s a message to my self. I don’t know who you are nor will this project’s conception ever depend on your opinion. (But I do hope you will read it one day and allow it to walk you by the hand through timespaceforeverscapes) Tomorrow I will come to this little nook of mine, and write. And then the day after, ad-infinitum, until I reach the faithful end. To reference Pressfield once more, I will fight the battle with resistance and will dine on a diet of "isolation, rejection, self-doubt, despair, ridicule, contempt, and humiliation". After such potent words, I understand why I have been putting this off for so long.
A person can grow weary of fearing fear. Now, I am exhausted. Tomorrow, that cute greek muse from before is gonna pour me a hot cup of Joe and we’ll start our dance.
...of this I speak no more.