Stuck in the mud but scared to jump out. That’s me right now. New job, new career, actually giving a shit about writing. Those are the goals. Those are the dreams.
The job is the scary part. What are the steps? Where do I look? What do I put on a resume other than I charmed the pants off of old ladies at Trader Joe’s for seven years? What do I say I want other than enough money to live in a tiny house in the woods with mountains and snow and a garden so big I’d need goats around to handle the excess.
The writing is the angry part. Everyone I admire works hard. They do their work, they put their work out there, they move on to the next project. My work is deliberate. I dismiss it at the first sign of sex, or drink, or play. I don’t put it out there because of some lingering self defeating disgust with self promotion that I developed as a kid. Like wondering how you never get dates when you’ve never asked out a soul in your life.
This is where I am right now. Stuck in the mud. And that’s okay. It is, seriously. Because I’m glad that I see that it’s mud instead of a swimming pool. It would really suck to think I was flying when all I was doing was sinking further. Next step: reach out for that branch sticking above the mud. It doesn’t matter who’s holding it. Have to keep moving.
© 2014 Christopher Dart