Fork In The Road
It’s hard to put this into words that will make sense to you, because I’m having a hard enough time making sense of all this myself. At least the conventional and rational part of my brain is. But I guess I’ll put it this way. I’ve reached a fork in the road. Plain and simple. One path is the one of least resistance. The one where I lie to myself about being a writer. Where writing comes last in a day filled with a thousand menial tasks and chores. The path where I sit at my laptop long after the sun has set. Too tired to string two thoughts together, yet mindlessly typing just to tell myself that I wrote, and therefore, I must be a writer, right? The other path is the one where I take off for a little while. Maybe up to a year. To sit in silence, and create the novel I know I’m capable of. And that’s the path I must travel. I don’t want you to worry, because this isn’t a mental breakdown or a phobia of life and the reality of it. It’s simply the creation of art. Something that I cannot do with all these distractions. So, I’ll take them all away for a little while, and see if the problem is the noise, or if it’s me.
I’ll be back soon. Maybe with a classic novel. Maybe with nothing. But either way I’ll return with an unforgettable experience. And maybe that’s the most important part.