How, exactly, is a raven like a writing desk? After pondering this maddening riddle since childhood, I think I’ve solved it. The answer is….they both have quills. Get it? Quills? Okay, well, that went over well. Annnyway, I wanted to make a post so that the crushing guilt of obligation would not overwhelm me. One more thing to cross off my list. I have a lot of art on my desk that needs attention, (and it will receive such, keep your knickers on!) and I didn’t write a word for NaNoWriMo yesterday, though I did scratch down a couple of ideas on two sticky notes. I just had one of those days where I felt too stupid to move. Ever feel like that? I did manage to console myself somewhat by buying a gorgeous new tapestry jacket, so now I can be stupid in style. I will wear it to the mall, and wander about as if I am shopping for Christmas, looking vapid and smelling of the fragrance counter samples. And everyone will see me and know that I am a big fake. A writer? Ha! An artist?! Even more HA! Creative? Oh, stop, you’re killing us! Our sides!
And so it goes…those imaginings of inadequacy. The paranoia that arises freely and unbidden from the recesses of the psyche, and all because one dares to alter a blank page, either with foolish hen scratch or ham fisted brush strokes. It all boils down to the same thing. A timid mewling against the tide, or defiant baring of the breast before the sword of Damocles, it is human nature to wish to go out with a bang, not a whimper. The attendant at the bowling alley dreams of his legacy as he sprays disinfectant in the shoes. The burger flipper scrawls poetry on the napkins. Someday. Someday…
The sheer audacity that it takes, to be a nobody, yet to be a Gerhard Schnobble in this new century. Will Eisner said “My feeling is that we all have a moment in our lives when we do or try to do something that is very brave, and very often nobody will find out about it.”
I have most definitely known a great many dreamers in my life. I’ve often been criticized for being far too “by the book”, uptight, even…ahem, “Vulcan” (my personal favorite). It’s a strange existence, being sangfroid and creative at once. It is so hard for me to allow myself to dream, to think of a future that I might work toward, a goal. Yet that seems to be what is required to succeed at NaNoWriMo. One has to be capable of imagining the finished novel. Today, however, all I see are scattered notes. Onward. Upward. Ever thus.