Blogged Down, Rising

[editor's note: In a hopelessly tangled state of mind I open a page of blogger publishing to churn out (and it is churning, people, like the sea in storm) a post for the mass of readers who turn to this website for a daily dose of I-don't-know-what.]

I feel I should say something. Something monumentally imposing and dramatic, like, "I've decided to quit blogging for a while and pursue other dreams." But that's not quite true. I do want to quit blogging, just at the moment, because it's become something like work. In fact it feels more like work than it feels like fun, and since when do I promise to do what I no longer want to do (except love my neighbor, walk with dignity, accept misfortunes and enjoy every new thing)? Regardless of my despondent attitude toward the blog, it still retains its charms and is often that glimmering thing at the bottom of this dull world I have created for myself (my little bubble under water), but it won't suffice forever.

November is almost upon us. I have promised to write a novel in November. More accurately, I have promised myself that I will attempt to write a novel every November until I have actually written one. Judging from the pile of rubble that I heaped on an unsuspecting world last November, this may take more than one effort. Like breaking down a door with your shoulder; the first few hits count for nothing except bruises. A door, it turns out, is a surprisingly sturdy thing. Apparently, novels, like their wooden cousins, bear some striking similarities.

I'd rather fail at something I love than succeed at something I hate. Was it Woody Allen who said that? He was right to say so. I echo him now. If you hear the occasional rumbling volcano, It's me. I can't take much more of this status quo. But, for the moment, I will not Vesuvius all over the place. I have to figure out the all important what now before I can blow the top off of anything. But I will at some point come majorly undone (the way cables unwind from a bridge that is collapsing). Because my life is all safety and sunshine. Because it terrifies me to move away from safety. Because I know that I don't have courage enough for the dreams I am trying to reach. Because I need to terrify myself before I can figure out that failure's not so bad. Because bravery is really just faking it (bring me my brown pants) when you want so badly to run away. (Why can't we all be brave and strong?)

I hear it over and over again. It's becoming almost an everyday mantra from people I respect, people who's business it is to make such assessments. "Sarah, you have potential for greatness." I've always heard this phrase well-mixed with a million others, "Sarah, you're on my shoelace." "Sarah, you forgot to lock the door." "Sarah, you should become a comic." I didn't know I was supposed to pick that one out and make it happen. And the only way to achieve greatness is to forget what 'greatness' means and to work everyday to be the picture of yourself that you most want to be. I am a portrait of myself. Everyday. At this moment, I am not the portrait I wish to look at. So, I may fail. And you'll be there to watch me fail. But it's worth this much love at least: to run towards life yelling, "I'm gonna get you, Sucka!"

It's like Jojo says, "If it's worth doing, it's worth doing badly."