Prey for the Dieing

I am a left-brained artist.

Not overly creative. Most of my "ideas" are just improvements and changes to existing ideas.

Not overly imaginative. Most of my "creations" must conform to a preset structure and organisation of systems.

Not overly confident. Most of my "motivation" is derived from the approval and recognition of others.

When there is not a preexisting idea; when there is not a system already in place; when there are no others, I falter. To state that since I know the cause(s) of my failures I should be able to anticipate, control, and counter them. I try.

An "Ah ha" moment drives a thunderbolt of ambition towards an ultimate end. Then an artist's expectations to reach some semblance of perfection erects obstacles. Without the foresight of such barriers I am left reeling from the collision of ideological race versus perfectionist barricade.

My writing is mediocre. My drawings are well enough. My story will be told, as soon as the real world permits me the opportunity.

For now: I will dream. I will imagine. I will believe.

Realitease

It's been over a month since I posted on here. I would like to tell you that it's been as a result of me diligently working on my GN. But that is only half true.

The place I work at decided that they were not going to support the shift I was working anymore, but they let me keep my job. I get to work 10 hours a day helping other people figure out why their phone don't work. I get to tell them why a million dollar company will not support my decision to put .25 on their account. Customer support is not efficient. I used to be able to put pencil to paper between calls. Now it is all I can do to put drink to mouth between calls.

But, what about before/after work? Truthfully? I still don't think I'm cut out for the job. I come home from work and look at big, blank pages and remember that I have to write the story still. Then I look at the stacks of blank, lined paper.

No one ever read anything I wrote and exclaimed that I should be a writer. Drawings? Sure. All the time. But never anything that I wrote. So what on earth led me to believe this was something I should do? You've all read my stuff here. Did even an ounce of it make you say to yourself, "Hey, I think this guy is on to something. I can't wait to see it!"? Or something similar? Didn't think so.

But for some strange reason, I had myself convinced. I was the guy. I was going to do this. I had a story to tell. It was my story. And I was going to draw it.

The mundane world caught up to me. My reality has shifted and has no longer allowed me to see the same things I had before. The hopes and dreams of the past have lifted.

Revealing, mocking, and teasing.