Rubber-banding

 For the past six weeks, I've been rubber-banding. I keep stretching myself until I'm at my limit, and then snapping back to relieve all the tension. I've probably been doing this all my life, but this six week period is the most focused I've been on writing in a long, long time, and it feels like I've hit maximum tension about every other week.

When I snap back, I do absolutely nothing productive for a few days. Then I have to exert an effort of will to refocus myself and get moving again. I know I've mentioned in the past that I tend to take to much on at once, and the result is not good. This is not much different, except this time, despite the snap backs, I haven't lost focus on my goals.

Also, in the face of all this stretching and returning to slack, I've managed to keep educating myself on writing, business, and even politics. Yuck, politics. 

But, not liking something that's important is no excuse for remaining ignorant on it, particularly when you find yourself feeling strongly about it. High emotion about something you're not educated about is a dangerous thing. I think a glance at the daily news here in the U.S. is evidence enough to support that statement.

So, here I am, after five days of mostly doing nothing, back at the keyboard. Blogging.

There's something else that keeps me trending towards the slack side of things, too. 

I'm afraid to start the novel.

There, I said it. I'm scared to start writing in earnest. I wrote the small prologue, a week ago, and the next day I wrote "Chapter One" at the top of the page. That's as far as I've gotten.

I know I'm just afraid that it won't be very good. I keep telling myself that's okay, but the part of my brain that wants to protect me from pain, from doing stupid stuff like touching hot things and jumping out of airplanes without a parachute, is really, really good at being overprotective. It's like my mother somehow imbued a part of her essence into me when she died, and whenever I'm about to try anything, even something I'm excited about, she reminds me how much nicer it would be to just relax and read a book or play a game.

Okay, that's all me. But I got that tendency from her. From my father, too, whose belief that the only things in life he had to do were, "breathe, pay taxes, and die," still echoes in my mind like a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I don't want to be like them.  They weren't bad folks, but they struggled mightily to be happy in this life, and even more so to be successful. 

My father had a drawer full of stories and a novel, unfinished, that he never even tried to get published. He also had a house full of distractions, from records to books to movies, that he spent all his time on when he wasn't working a job he hated. Or passed out drunk.

My mother ran a successful business. For someone else. She spent all her money on clothes, toys for me, and bailing out broke family members whenever they needed it. She died young, broke, and deprived of a pension by a rich plastic surgeon who, upon losing a patient on the operating table for the third time, closed up shop and retired to a mansion in the Hamptons, well protected behind corporate tax shelters and malpractice insurance.

Fuck that.

So here I am, trying hard not to be them anymore, not to live like each day doesn't really matter all that much. I'm not giving up the fight, and no matter how many times I stretch myself too far and snap back, I'm going to keep on stretching until I reach my goals. 

I'd rather die trying than live regretting.

I have a novel to start. Chapter One, here we go.

See you tomorrow.