Sometimes a break from the things you love most is
needed. My wife yells that every Saturday morning as she bolts to Starbucks for
coffee. (Who knew it could take hours just to get some Morning Joe?)
For me it’s been a break from writing. I’ve neither
pinned tweets nor blog posts for a month. In all I’ve written maybe 1,000 words
and those are in danger of running into the delete key. It’s not that I made a
conscious decision to walk away as part of some grand plan to develop my
fledgling writing skill; more like my drive to write has been sequestered.
(Yes, I’ve used my new found time to scan more political news sites.)
Most days when I sit at my keyboard I feel less
like an adult attempting to pour my soul into the pages and more like a child
scraping a fat crayon across an outline of Woody from Toy Story, trying
desperately to keep my marks within the lines.
In the past year I’ve grinned with pride, showing
off my pretty creation to the world as it fluttered in the breeze, taped to the
refrigerator door for all to see. Family members and friends have passed with
caring expressions, praising my accomplishment while depositing kind pats atop
my head. I have to admit, it’s been a nice feeling.
Then others walked by, but when directed to my
artwork instead of joining the appreciation these disapprovers said my
masterpiece had pretty colors but the jagged edges strayed too often over the
lines making it appear childish and unworthy of the big fridge. How rude. Sure
my hand got shaky every now and then. Of course it isn’t going to be perfect. I
grinned through it all, unable to look at the finished product, unwilling to
see any blemishes.
Another finished drawing sat ready to join the
display so as I searched for the perfect magnet to use as a marker I caught a
glimpse of Woody’s eyes. Wild squiggly lines cut gashes across his face. I
retracted with horror at the monstrosity I had created. In place of my work of
art stood an object so imperfect that its flaws made the original outline
unbearable to view. My eyes were forced open to what I’d done.
The last month has been an ebb and flow of
promises to get back to work mixed with deafening roars of “I’m not worthy.”
(Now I need to see if Netflix is streaming “Wayne’s World.” Crap, no writing
again tonight.)
Bottom Line: I invested a large amount of time
into writing something I deeply believed in then gave my story a horrible
disservice. I had a pretty picture but didn’t care enough to make sure my
crayon didn’t drag hideous lines across the page because I was too busy taping
it to Amazon’s big refrigerator door.
If I read a book, paid or free, and find more than
a few errors, I’ll become judgmental over that author and his or her story. What
I published was light years beyond a few errors. I have worked hard to clean it
up. The eBook versions on Amazon and Nook have been reposted. I’m taking down
the paperback version until I can get it reformatted. Anyone who received a
copy of the original and is willing to give me a second chance, leave a note
and I’ll make it right. I cannot apologize to you or my story enough.
Maybe this post will help restart my dreams. Maybe
I can get back to doing something I love without kicking myself under the desk
for my stupidity. I don’t know. And how I got here isn’t important. This isn’t
a time for excuses, just confessions and apologies.
I try to end each post with an encouragement to
keep writing but I’d feel more than a bit hypocritical to type that now. I
guess the best thing I can say is to keep moving forward even if it hurts, even
if your crayon slips outside the lines.
C.L. Blanton
