I haven't gotten much writing or publishing stuff done this week. Got a wild hair on Monday to reconfigure my home office. Spent the last few days trying to reorganize the chaos and remember which cords belong to which plugs. Posting of this blog indicates that I'm (almost) done and back to normal.
With my workspace back in order, I'll spend this weekend getting my novel, Absolution's Curse [ALERT-ALERT, SHAMELESS PLUG, ALERT-ALERT], published to the world. I can assure you I'll be dedicating future blogs and tweets to promoting but I decided to have this week's post trend toward another positive sentiment.
We all have the "Why do I write" story.
Wait. Don't roll your eyes and click away yet.
I'm not going to go into sappy stories about high school English teachers (sorry Mrs. Atwell and Mrs. Larson) or discuss epiphany moments where the clouds parted and my story came to me from on high.
It's about sticking your neck out to a place where you're not comfortable. It's about taking a chance you normally wouldn't just to say you tried, just to push yourself further than you thought possible.
In high school (wait, I promise it's not about English class) I was constantly the last guy picked in PE for any sport. Most of the time a few of the girls were picked before me. I didn't get too offended, they were athletic girls. Despite my lack of abilities, I tried out for the school baseball team. To my surprise I made it past all cuts. My junior year we won the State Championship with me mostly on the bench. My senior year I started at second base and set a school record for most errors in a season (I'm very proud).
But I always wanted to pitch. I spent entire summers in my backyard throwing against a wall with a strike zone outlined in bright red paint. I graduated without throwing a single pitch in a real game.
A year later I found an announcement in the sports section of our newspaper for tryouts with a semi-pro team. Before I lost my nerve I gave the number a call. The coach asked what position I played and, without hesitation, I responded with pitcher.
Holy crap, what have I done? I've never pitched to a real batter in a real game. I'm an impostor, a fake.
I went to tryouts despite the voices in my head yelling at me to stay home. Each day I avoided Coach at the end of practice so he couldn't cut me or ask why I was still there. At the end of the week he took us to the side and gave all of us our contracts to sign and uniforms. In a few short years I went from last kid chosen to a true semi-pro ballplayer. I pitched two years before injuring my knee.
I've looked at writing with the same eye. I usually fell like an impostor, a fake. I wonder why I'm here. In school, my writing assignments barely passed (oops, I did reference English class). Now I'm trying to enter the semi-pro league of writing by self publishing.
As I prepare to upload my novel I hear John Fogerty singing "Put me in Coach, I'm ready to play."
To all: Keep writing. Keep dreaming. Keep putting yourself into uncomfortable positions. You never know when you'll strikeout or when you'll connect.
C.L. Blanton
(Okay, you can click away now.)
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