It is still 2014, isn’t it? Okay, so I may be a bit late with that, but I don’t think that’s any indication of how I get along in real life. Wait, maybe it is. It’s too late to worry about it now. I’ll simply do what I always do and happy-ass my way on to the next phase of my existence. “How do you know it comes in phases?” you ask. Because I just said so. Geez. Try to pay attention.
I may very well be a victim of my own imagination, which pretty much makes me a victim of myself, which is pretty much the only time I’m going to use the word “victim” and not be referring to something in the news. I hate the news. In fact, I may not use that word again (“victim,” not “news”…damned antecedents). Who knows? In any case, I’ve been subscribing to the theory that I have some form of writer’s block, which is why I have left little more than an empty space in my wake for the better part of this year (I didn’t say it wasn’t a stupid theory). I had aspirations, mind you (or was it respiration? No, I guess not. One of them I have to have, and it’s likely just coincidence that it rhymes with “desperation.”), but they didn’t quite become manifest in the manner in which I had expected. Them’s the breaks, I guess.
To be honest, I was on the cusp of giving myself, via my New Year’s resolutions (yes, it was that long ago), the task of writing something in this blog every day (in spite of the fact that only two people read it…and one of them is not me…Goddess forbid I actually read my own writing). I had the idea that it would stimulate my creative juices (wow, that just sounds gross…I wonder if you can get those in a little box with a straw) and force me to produce content regardless of my own limitations. In conjunction with the logical, straightforward feedback I received from Ms. Pixie when I mentioned my idea (she understood much better than me that it was a little too ambitious), I finally came to the conclusion that it was a stupid idea and would only cast me into a pit of depression when I failed to meet the demands of my own agenda. Besides, I don’t like having an agenda (and that would prevent me from making fun of the people who do have them).
I realize that I’m a competent writer, and that realization is not one that is spawned from a place of arrogance or conceit (I don’t think, but that’s just me). It comes from many long hours of poring over grammar books (long after I left school behind), as well as a career that has been based on providing a variety of content for numerous places of business (which has not precluded me from making idiotic mistakes sometimes). That being said, the perception of those who are not interested in such a thing often differs from my own, and I find that there are times when more emphasis is placed on titles as opposed to output. I could say that I’m okay with that, but I would be lying. Most of the time, I simply manage to ignore it. However, there are times when the phrase “a real writer” can work its way under my skin and begin to fester and boil. Those are the times when I tend to question my efforts and ask myself exactly what in the hell I was thinking when I followed this career path in the first place. Those are also the times when I feel that making any effort to do anything beyond that required for a steady paycheck is a complete waste of time.
In the grand scheme of things, all of this means nothing, because most of these things take place inside my head. They live in the same quadrant of my brain as the disdain I feel when I see somebody misuse common elements of grammar that should have been instilled in people’s minds as far back as elementary school. I can’t help getting that disdainful feeling, but I can certainly control my response to it, which is to not respond at all. After all, what good is pairing up my arrogance with someone’s shortcomings? Making people feel small is no way to go through life. I mean, I suck at plumbing. You would think someone with any amount of intelligence would know how to put pipes together, wouldn’t you? However, I seem to lack that particular chip in my brain, and I wouldn’t like it if someone told me I was an idiot at the same time my house contained four inches of standing water and a new fountain that I didn’t install on purpose. Give me a break. I can’t be good at everything.
“What’s your point?” you ask. If I had one, I would tell you. The problem is that I’ve been locked inside my own head for long enough that I’m not entirely sure what’s going to come out when I try and find my creative “center” again. Wait…that sounds familiar. Oh, yeah. I believe I mentioned that around 700 words ago. I used the word “victim,” too, which is still bothering me. Let’s change it to “prisoner,” shall we? A prisoner of my own imagination. Wow, that sounds rather bleak. How about we just agree that something has been going on inside my head that has kept me from expressing my thoughts in any manner that did not have some impact on my current job. “What’s your current job?” you ask. None of your damned business. Suffice it to say that I write words…sometimes…on something other than gum wrappers…sometimes. Yeah.
So, here we are. You and you and me. The three of us. One of you is likely reading this for sure, and one of you is likely glancing over it while a giant lizard crawls up your leg. You would think I was joking about the giant lizard, too, but I’m not. Crazy old lady. Anyhow, I’m filling the empty space. Not all of it, mind you, but this little block. It will have to do for now. I may have been living a large portion of my life internally for the last eight months, but I haven’t completely lost my mind (because, if I was living in it, that would make me homeless…kind of…never mind). I’ll do what I can whenever I can, and the world will continue to move through time and space regardless of my efforts. That would depress most people, but I appreciate the vastness of our Universe and all of its beauty and mystery. At this juncture in life, I don’t need the answers to all of my questions. I know just need to know enough to be sure when I can’t make any promises.