This is it; the most important moment of your life:
You’re ahead of the rat race. One inch away from the finish line. Your chest aches and your breath is shallow and stabbing. The other rats behind envy you, you could feel it through your back; the waves of their jealousy pushing you forward. The eyes of loved ones too belong also in the background, watching as your gaze solely rests on the ribbon.
The fiber is torn by your momentum, and your hands are in the air. You double over, and breathe as deep as you could making up for lost air. When you straighten up, you look back, and the audience is gone. There is an instant of confusion, wondering why the colors are dim and the cheering is silenced.
Your in a zone of white, grey, or whatever color lays in the back of your mind in your sleep; The inside of your lids. The questions are overwhelming, but there is a clarity in their hustle. Was it even a race?
Today, I watched a shared video on Facebook. You might’ve seen it before. It’s called “This is water”. Basically it’s a speech by David Foster Wallace.
It was so life-changing; the kind of writing that makes you feel so small as an aspiring writer. Everything, every word, was put together in a way I would never be able to pull off, and the ideas were so clear and coherent and down right personal. The kind of writing that feels as if it is just talking to you, and you alone.
Anyway, I was so jealous, but I had new glasses to see and question the world through. It induced a sudden moment of absolute awareness of everything (and, No, I didn’t pop any drugs!)
Five minutes later, I look up the author. He committed suicide in 2008 because of depression. My brain couldn’t function anymore. I’m sure I blew a fuse, because it is so hard living and know that the person who wrote that speech was so depressed, he took his own life. How can anyone ever be happy again after realizing this?
If you let go of everything now.
Decide to live.
If up to this point, you’ve been dead; just a bag of many wants.
If nothing you’ve done so far matters; all the pain and the grudges you hold are nothing. You have been no one.
If you will be defined by what you will do in the next second, and the next, and the next.
Who will you be?
Isn’t “now” terrifying? Standing here in the midst of life, and thinking “that’s it?”.
This is the best moment of your life, and it’s mediocre at best. The thing is: you are doing what you’re supposed to be doing. The timesheet is punched in, and you’re hunched down over a document. On the 30th, dollars are transferred in your account. Hunger never grazed you, but are you happy? If five years from tomorrow was a copy of today, would you still put in the effort to breathe?
You pay a high price for security. You fantasize about it too, don’t you? Throwing it all away.
The heck with safe.
How about you chase your dreams with a craved in stomach? How about you never sleep warm again? Without a security blanket, you’d have to succeed because your life depends on it, you think.
But there in the dark, even deeper inside of you than the self destructive fantasy, a voice of reason speaks to you; you’re not one in a million, you’re one of a million. Isn’t it terrifying? Now is not good enough, but it’s all you could ever risk to be.
Which would it be: Raise or fold?
I have a talented friend who told me today that her life was meaningless. I told her that I spent most of my life waiting for it to start, like a man sitting in a car and expecting the engines to spontaneously run; it’s not going to happen unless he turns the key. “Turn on the key,” I said, “give it meaning.”
Yet, it is simple to dish out advice like party favors. The truth is; I’m still waiting. I secretly believe that my life will start when I finish my first novel- which is an illusion. But even my waiting gives my life meaning and purpose. I have something to work towards, and that’s better than having nothing to go on. She is still suck on the limbo before deciding.
My talented friend doesn’t even know what she wants. She doesn’t even believe me when I say she’s talented in fashion design and writing. She has been beaten down by the reality of things that it’s hard for her to imagine things working out ever. There is a stirring wheel right in her reach- a luxury most people don’t have- but no compass. A ship sailing with no destination is going to end up in wreckage on some shore, right?
In this blog, I ask “Will I make it or not”. That’s my purpose; to make it. So, like all bad friends, I’m going to force her into an awkward situation and force her into realizing what I think is her dream (Best friends know better!). I started a blog for her to post her writing and designs. Whether she does it or not, that’s her choice, but I’m giving her the first post.
Here is the link to the blog:http://myfriendpushedmeintothis.wordpress.com/
And babe, if you are reading this post, I’m sorry I’m being an overbearing friend. I love you too much and have too much faith in you to stay still.
His lure is pulling me in and it’s hard to resist. Not just him, but there are other too; Romantic once, adventurous ones, supernatural ones and some even of the horror genre.
The thing is, I made a commitment to finish Teacup Rebel before moving on to any other of my novel ideas, but as it gets harder (and it does towards the middle of the story, and perhaps it will get even more testing towards the end) I get more attracted to the idea of pursuing another story.
Yesterday, I caught myself thinking, maybe I could just write a little bit about character’s background in “The after-death club” and coming up with a joke that would go great in the scene where- And there I was! Running down a slope of almost writing a scene.
It’s tempting. It is so freaking tempting. New ideas are fun. They are still not complicated and they have all sorts of potential. There are no roadblocks with them. But I can’t get side tracked. If I write a scene in “The after-death club” today, next week I’ll be drooling over “The moderation race”, and then the week after …
I’ve got to finish my baby, before going on and chasing tails and undeveloped plots.
The editing succubus, or in my case Incubus, has seduced me again. I’ve been stuck at 44,000 words for a while now, trying to fix the story line and add more details into the old chapter. On the good side, I’m still oppressing my obsession about spelling and sticky sentences- I keep telling myself there is no point in editing now when I could easily remove a chunk of text and toss it tomorrow. On the other not-so-good side, I keep rewriting chapter 3 and trying to come up with ways to improve it and then going back. I’m stuck in Groundhog Day, and it’s tiring!
Anyway I’ve got to get over this hiccup, vanquish my demons, and get some wordage down. Any tips?