A Big, Big Topic

So here's an interesting one.  Interesting for me, is what I mean, of course.  It's not like I'm sitting around wandering what you're interested in, oh readers who are hidden from sight, existing deep within the very definition of anonymous.

I am locked in this eternal struggle between the forces of It's Never Enough and It's Enough, Already.  I want to be productive but I don't want to beat the shit out of myself for not being productive enough.  SuperK is sort of standard productive - she chugs along with a moderately busy schedule.  Very steady and predictable.  I'm more of a Boom or Bust guy.  Huge bursts of intense activity counterbalanced with very enjoyable idling.  I meditate and read a lot and reserve some significant chunks of time simply to be quiet in my own mind.  Just because you see me sitting quietly doesn't mean that I'm inactive - I need this time for things to clunk into place, to make sense, to flesh themselves out, and my brain can be in hyperdrive when I'm sitting motionless with a cup of coffee in my hand except for the motion when I'm drinking some of the coffee.  For some people - the dreaded extroverts - this happens when they're around other people.  These vampires suck the energy out of people like me so that they can recharge internally.  They get answers by bouncing ideas off others.  For me the answers come - sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly - when I'm idling.

So I guess I'm a hyperactive idler.  Jesus H. Christ, it's no wonder I drank.

My writing unwinds very much along these lines.  Sometimes I sit down and just rip out a few pages, barely pausing to come up for oxygen, the whole process seeming to happen of its own accord, and I like what I've written as it is.  Regrettably, this no-editing technique is rare.  This is incredibly fun writing because it's so easy but it's a special and rare gift from god.

In a somewhat more common occurrence I sit down to write and what flows out seems to have a life of its own - a thought swerves left or up or down, this way or that, and I find myself exploring a line of reasoning that is surprising even to me, and I'm doing the fucking writing, for chrissake.  This can be frustrating and revealing and frustrating - I feel like I'm driving a car that has been taken over by an alien presence.  I really have to struggle to maintain control.  

Then there is The Grind, where I sit in front of a screen and try to find words for what I want to say.  This happens daily.  I have something to say and can't see the thought in the words that I write.  Often, when I'm making up a little anecdote or vignette, the characters and action clear in my mind, I wonder what you, o reader, are seeing?

I'm not a musician but I have this sneaking suspicion that really good musicians pick up an instrument and find that they're prodigies.  They don't have to practice, right?  Hendrix was able to play like he did the first time he picked up a guitar.  It all simply made sense.  The dude didn't evolve at all.  He didn't have to grow.  He was a finished product right out of the musical womb.

So I have these introvert things that I like to do: reading, writing, meditating, taking long hikes or swims, sitting in the sun, on my patio, soaking up heat like a cold-blooded snake, allowing thoughts to come and go.  The one I love the most but which causes me the most anguish is writing.  I think I should do it more than I do but it can be so frustrating, so much work, that I tend to do the other stuff.  It's easier.

The question that torments me is this: should I say "It's Enough Already" and be content with the pace of my writing or should I allot more time than I do and really see what I can accomplish?

My buddy Willie is a musician.  He's talented and he loves music but I suspect he knows that it's unlikely he'll ever be able to make the kind of living playing piano that he can with his current day job.  This can be frustrating but we have practical lives to live.  I often wonder if I had it all to do over again would I have said OK, I'm going to be a writer and that's what I'm going to be.  Maybe I would have hit the successful writer lottery but probably not - it's hard to make a living as an artist.  I probably would have lived a low-key, undistinguished life - sort of like the one I have now - but a life that definitely would not feature a Very Expensive Car and lots of foreign travel.

So you see?  Do you?

Here's the point if you, o reader, are still reading, searching for a point . . . 

This therapist spent most of her working life as an acquisitions editor at a famous publishing house.  Apparently an acquisitions editor is tasked with acquiring new literature, and then editing it, I guess.  She checked in on my blog a few times and was always complimentary about the quality of my writing.  We talked a bit about the mechanics of transitioning what I write to a more official, public, commercial forum - agreeing that it would take a good amount of elbow grease and some luck but that the effort, at least, would be worth it.

I have not done this.  Am I lazy or afraid or dubious about the prospects of anything coming of my effort?  Yes, probably.  Sometimes I get mad at myself for not making the effort while at others I wonder if I should just enjoy what I write as a personal, creative outlet.

Should I tinker on my guitar or aspire to Hendrix-Dom?