Has April showers brought you flowers? Or a grinding headache, all you A-Zers?
Congrats! It’s over! You’ve reached the first Wednesday of the month so it’s the only (sort of) required post for all of May. 🙂 And it should be your favorite because you can pour out all your doubt and fear and insecurities and receive a fresh slap of rejuvenation and inspiration from your family of IWSGers. If you’re new, head on over here where you can sign up for this totally amazing and supportive writer’s blog hop started by Alex Cavanugh.
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“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” ~ Ray Bradbury
My insecurity this month is sobering up.
I don’t want to leave the intoxicated bliss of believing in myself. Because outside of it, I have to face the harsh reality that there are like, a gazillion more people in this world and most of them are 1.) more talented than me 2.) know how to advertise themselves 3.) are probably working at least a *smidge* harder than I am and 4.) have their shit figured out.
Which I’m still trying to do.
Most of the time I don’t care. That’s where the intoxicated bliss comes in. Like, 78% of the time, I’m happy for everyone who’s doing their thing. And doing it well. And doing it successfully. Because if musicians didn’t compose and artists didn’t create, my Pandora stations would be pointless and there’d be nothing to look at while dozing off during writer’s block. Art inspires art. It’s a cycle. I get it. And that’s why 78% of the time, I’m thrilled that 1,2,3 and 4 are happening for you. Truly.
But once all the rum is gone, that sobering reality descends and I’m all shit, why am I even bothering? I take a step out of my creative haze and it’s like the day has gone to night and up is down and what the hell was I thinking? I like being drunk on writing. There’s a sort of soothing comfort that makes everything okay when one is the master of their own universe. It’s exhilarating. Absolutely anything can happen.
Until you sober up realize you’re just an ant. And it’s hard to go from an architect to an ant. It’s even harder when you’re not a recognized architect, and you work in a little cubicle passing out mail while the big boys upstairs keep tossing out bestseller after bestseller and you think one day that’s going to be me. I’m going to make it. But in order to do that, you’ve got to stock up on the rum. And constantly drink it. And constantly stay drunk. Because the minute you sober up, the possibility of reaching that higher office dwindles because you’re just a lowly ant again.
And that’s my fear. I don’t want to lose belief that I belong anywhere other than here, in front of this computer, building things for you.
So how do you guys deal with this? Are you constantly drunk on writing? Or do you slip into reality and get face punched with the awful truth that the odds, President Snow, are most definitely NOT in our favor?
How do you remain an architect?