95. I May Live To Fail – And So Be It

Today my father (bless him) helped me start putting up the big new cupboard we bought for all our clothes and most of Jay’s.

Apartment was even more of a Mess, though, while we started working. I had to throw out the old cupboard and put all our clothes into room 2, which is already a messy store for pretty much everything from our previous lives which we haven’t been able to sort, give away or throw out yet.

I was thinking about my Again A Bit Difficult Client, too, and a zillion other small and big practical problems, mostly concerned with health of my loved ones, earning money, cleaning up and how, by the way, it will be when Jay is born. And after.

And so I felt everything get real stuck inside for a considerable number of hours. It was like bricks began falling down inside me, too. I thought I had decided that I would only draw on my special little story, with the I’m Not Scared-soundtrack and roots in old Japanese time travelling movies. But then I felt it wasn’t enough.

And I felt I ought to work on creating an asset in the creative department, like an ebook – something I could produce faster anyway, than a comic book which is just for myself anyway, because it will take years for even the first issue to be finished with my pace.

And then I got real frustrated. This wasn’t the time for such considerations. For ‘rocking the boat’. There is chaos enough – in all sorts of places of my life, tangible and less.

Okay, “chaos” may be a too strong word. But let’s say it edges that.

Anyway …

I thought I had it figured:

Asset-creation: Ebooks and courses in webdesign from my new company.

Or … maybe forget that, like I talked about some days ago, and just create more-or-less passive income through more talks, although there seems to b a definite ceiling for how many of those I can sell.

Well, aside from that part … then there is the comic book or just … a story. My only creative endeavour, which I feel I have time for. In that category.

And then … this blog. Which is sort of the best way I can express what I feel is my purpose:

To share life’s experiences and how to keep up your spirit while you have them.

So despite some doubt, if you read previous posts from this and the previous week … at least here was a scaffold for the future, a direction on a map – something concretely planned and decided.

And lord knows, such concreteness has been lacking for years.

Asset-building and shifting to more passive income. Or at least something more enjoyable in the active category, like my talks.

Then drawing, creating and storytelling

Then expressing my purpose, through blogging.

Despite doubts – here were three definites which I could contribute to keeping real for a few hours per day, while I worked, relationshipped to the best of my ability and looked after Jay. And did lots of dishes …

Now while I was working on the damn Mess and trying to unmess it by building the cupboard, the doubts from previous days seemed to break a dike or two inside and pour in and flood a few compartments of consciousness.

The flood brought questions, such as: Shouldn’t I be doing a fiction story again? Perhaps a series? Not just the super-slow-de-facto-just-for-me comic book?

Should I be trying to sell it? Perhaps make it my asset and not those computer courses or even those talks?

‘Shouldn’t I – shouldn’t I – shouldn’t I?’ The worst rhythm in the universe …

Especially when you are struggling to built a company, trying to earn. Rebuilding your little home. Messing in general … and, of course, trying to get ready to become a father.

Shouldn’t … I?

I got no answers. Only more questions.

And the fear that perhaps I would not make it.

Perhaps I was destined to search for an outlet for my creative abilities which would be satisfying to my soul, make sense in regard to the rest of my priorities …

And search for, like, ever?

But that was of course ridiculous. Surely, as the years pass and I keep trying, I should be able to find some story, with or without art, that I can tell and tell it good.

Even if I don’t make much money …

But then at least I would have made time for and completed something I knew was vital for me, as a person — as a Soul.

I have discarded so many illusions trying for years to write a novel and then giving up in 2015. For example the illusion about the reason for writing – that it should be about making me someone ‘special’ for others to admire.

Yeah, that reason. Ego.

Or money.

Apparently I need to tell more stories, though, than I presently do. And this need, a part of me tries to couple with the need to make money in a more enjoyable way.

Which, I suppose, is all well and good.

But today there were no answers forthcoming on what then to choose to do with my scarce time. What to write or draw or both? And how, or if, I should try to sell it.

Maybe that new bout of confusion and doubt – the nth – is the exact reason why I, despite all my proven talents in roleplaying and live-talks and novella-writing, should never attempt to write more.

I’m not cut out for it. I’m not determined enough. I’m just an eternal waverer.

And I’m definitely not patient enough to write a novel. Not yet. Tried for years and had to give up. It’s that simple.

But perhaps more novellas? Linked, like a series? Maybe illustrated? Just out on Amazon, write one each month. Let production be my marketing? Be okay with it taking a few years to sell significant copies?

Maybe.

But while working on drilling holes in walls and wood I had no answer. I only wished my head would shut up. And my soul. That it could be … content.

Children are dying in Yemen, you know …

But that is bullshit of course.

What should I tell such a child, if she was adopted – saved – and brought to Denmark? That she was never allowed to be frustrated because her soul could not give her any definite answers on how to do art?

BS.

There’s a time and a place for everything.

But today I had no answers. Just that flood in my brain.

The only consolation I was able to give myself was my promise to myself that I would value peace above all.

I would try to force myself to slow down and enjoy what was: Our child coming, my father helping, my health, the sun shining, the good experiences I had had with friends and family, the drawings I had made and would make regardless.

In other words: Don’t panic. Like it says in the Hitchhiker’s Guide.

Just. Take. It. Easy.

It’s serious. It’s real. You lack something important in your life, yes. But just … calm down. It’s not worth selling out to the future. It’s not worth fretting away your enjoyment of present.

The present is a present, you know. Not to be thrown away lightly.

And you know, when I had calmed myself down enough I managed to be rational again.

Suppose I am destined. To always search for the ‘right’ creative outlet – a book, a comic book, a talk, a game – whatever “right” means?

Suppose I’ll never really find it, much less make any money. Suppose I do continue to be unable to find something of importance in my soul and make it real.

Yeah, suppose That.

Then I would still have all the other valuable things. Including this Blog. My life would have been marred by a great insufficiency, maybe so great it would be not only painful but also embarrasing.

I mean … I sound like the whiniest bitch on earth now, don’t I? The guy who truly deserves never to become an author or writer or artist or what the hell he wants … because he can’t make a choice and focus.

The laughable guy, the pitiable guy. The guy I thought others was. Not me.

The guy who just is a Fail in one big and important regard and will remain so until he is 80 and then he dies and is put on the heap. The heap of Very Much Unfulfilled Lives. The heap of people who were not introspective enough, not determined enough, not courageous enough. Who just … wavered.

That heap.

But, I thought, fine.

I’m 43 years old very soon. I’m going to be a father. And I have been a wavering whiny bitch.

But I accept that. Because if there is one thing I don’t want to be anymore, it is afraid.

I accept that I am a wavering indecisive whiny bitch when it comes to picking art projects. I accept that I may very well, ludicrously as it sounds, live until 80 and die with lots of unfulfilled creative and commercial potential.

Fine. So be it.

But if there is one thing that is more scary than that, then it is to let that fear rule me. And let it destroy everything else that I can and  should appreciate in life.

I won’t let that happen.

And that’s worth a cupboard or two.

 

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