A Crossroads, Or Something

The sun shines this morning, and maybe it's a good omen, maybe it's not. I've had a couple things transpire of late that suggest my job interview this past Wednesday might turn out to be the start of a crazy good new time in my life, and every fibre of my being is dreaming that to be the case.

I won't know for another three or four days, but I fortunately work all weekend. Not normally something I'm a fan of, but there's nothing I handle worse than waiting for news. Keeping busy equals keeping sane.

I've been obsessing about this board lately. For nearly three weeks I've not posted. I keep thinking of pulling the plug, but that would be so hard. There's a lot of me on these pages. I just don't want the obligation of having to update it, but I also don't want to lose the voice it allows.

My other blog still gets about 500 readers a day, sometimes a thousand. It baffles me. It's the emails I love, though. I suppose laying myself out there, all vulnerable and open, lets people believe they can contact me and be open in return, all confessional-like. I do enjoy knowing I've pushed those buttons.

I always loved this little rag, The Ditch, but I never received such personal interaction as I do through there. It's wild. When writing's all you dream of, the response you receive is what makes you tick. Anyone who claims they write for the sake of writing and don't care what people think, is a liar.

Real writing, truth writing, it comes from a place of vulernability. I don't get the fear like I used to. I was terrified to be real about what or who I am, on the page. It's why this place was born. It took a while, but I publically worked through a few things plaguing my life, most specifically, my fear of writing.

I was terrified of writing for an audience. "I'm a fraud, they'll see right through me," I thought. "I'm not good enough, I'm not smart enough, and dammit, nobody likes me." We writers get as much insecurity as anyone, and we're fucking prima donnas about it sometimes.

Forcing myself to write every day was incredible. There are writers who say, "Oh, there's no such thing as writer's block," and I always laughed derisively at them. Six years of hell says otherwise. Now, though, I don't entirely disagree them. I no longer feel writer's block can ever get the best of me. Not if I keep up what I'm doing. That's not to say it's sunshine and roses everyday. No. There are periods when everything's a little more fuzzy, the words have less reverb. That's just life. I work through it now. It's all you can do.

Anyhow, this job, it would have the potential to be about 2.3 times more money than I've been making, 100% more than I've ever earned in a year. I could actually travel. I love the so-called sex writing I've been doing -- calling it "sex" writing is a misnomer. As adept with words as I can be, I can't really nutshell my endeavours of the past few months. Explorations of the mind, body, and soul? Advice writing for the less aware? Whatever. As much as I love it, the response I get, impact I seem to have, travel writing is a real love of mine. A passion, even. I've just never had the funds to do it. This job would change all that. First on the list would be Morocco.

I'd love to see my writing take the world by storm this year, but the thought of it just happening overnight as it were is about as laughable a notion as one could conceive. It takes time. Working in this job -- which I'd do at home -- would allow me the money, the freedom, and possibly even more time with which I could pursue that dream, while being fiscally able to sock some funds away for a year off to write, if my writing efforts don't generate that opportunity on their own.

Ah, the unknown. Exciting, isn't it? This could be my year, the year it all shakes down, man. Wow. Last year brought me such a crazy wealth of experiences. This year could be doubly so. And in 72 hours or so, I'll know. I hope.