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.
