by MW Cook
I’ve been gone for a long time.
Not just offline. Haven’t made much progress on any projects for about two months.
Want excuses? I got tons. Good ones, too. Excuses that would make you shake your head and mutter, ‘Gosh, poor Matt.’ Especially if I could tell you my excuses in person. Because I can sure spin a story.
And I can still work on new excuses, too. There’s always something going on to take my mind away from my work. I have enough excuses lined up to put everything off for the rest of the year, really. I could do it. Don’t imagine I haven’t thought of it. It wouldn’t be hard.
And I would do it, too. And you wouldn’t blame me. My excuses would leave you with nothing but sympathy for me. Wouldn’t that be nice? To play the role of the martyred writer, desperate to tell my story but, alas, the universe is working against me. Was a gloriously tragic tale! How romantic! How pathetic! How … common.
That’s what every failed writer/artist/musician/dancer/chef/yogi/spiritualist/humanitarian/idealist does. And their dreams are stillborn.
Sympathy is a pat on the head. Nice. Kinda warm. But giving birth is better on every level.
Your sympathy is not worth nearly as much as my story.
If I give in to the excuses that call me, I’ll get a friendly pat on the head.
If I flip the bird to the excuses, climb the obstacles and write my stories, I’ll give birth to a world of characters and emotions and stories and lives.
And, who knows? I might even get that pat on the head anyway.
I’m back. See you around.