The rehabilitation of Me

See? I can finish something! Or at least continue it. Which, considering how quickly I flamed out the last time I did this (one day), should be considered massive improvement. And while I'm still working out the kinks on what I plan to do here (different blogs for my creative writing? a web page? Expandable links?), I think this is a step in the right direction. And now for the day's brilliance...

Last night, after sweating my way through my all boys, Catholic high school's graduation ceremony (super bright flood lights + bald dome = people behind me getting to watch every wrinkle of my head become a rushing river) I went home, disappeared into my bathroom (the best place to find peace and quiet from a screaming five month old, barking dog, and stressed wife) with the newest copy of Sports Illustrated. Which, it should be pointed out, is as close to sports or illustrating as I get (5' 9'', 207 lbs white boys can't jump. or run. or even go up more than one flight of stairs).

The cover story was on Bengals QB Carson Palmer and his rehab from a horrific knee injury. Seems Carson's driving force has been all the people who said he'd never be back as good as he was, and the feeling that he had something he'd earned, something he was destined for, yanked out from under him just as he was about to get it.

I can relate.

For those who don't know, I spent 2001-2003 at Miami University in Oxford, OH, earning my MA in creative writing. It was, to put it bluntly, the worst two years of my life, at least in terms of writing (I also got married, met three of the four people who might be reading this, and got my dog, so it wasn't all bad). The powers that be and I didn't get along. My writing wasn't appreciated (not all of it should have been). By the time I was done, even though I had finished something - my thesis - I was so burned out, beaten down, and full of self doubt that writing was the last thing I wanted to do.

I needed rehab.

I used to love writing. Long before it became a way to (hopefully) earn a living, it was something I did because I enjoyed it and was good at it. I was always that way. I'm not good at many things other than writing. I'm like Neo in the Matrix - I can see it, like he sees the computer code. I don't know how I do, but I do. And it was fun. I even (dirty little secret alert) used to write - gasp - fan fiction for one of those stupid teeny bopper TV shows I started watching when I was an undergrad (And no, I won't tell you which one and no, you can't find it on the internet, though I was "published" on one of that shows bigger fan sites). I used to wake up in the morning, plop my not as fast as it is now butt in my papasan chair, check my feedback from the last installment and bust out a new one in the span of an hour and a half. And I loved it.

Miami (one hairy, bad hat wearing, gold chained, Village People Macho Man in particular) killed that. Since then, I can't write more than ten pages w / out breaking into a cold sweat. I hem and haw and struggle over every word. I've turned into the OCD as a way to procrastinate poster child (I have so many things that have to be just so, that'll never be just so, so I'll never have to write and always have an excuse). I have so much doubt over every word I write and every decision I make (see this blog) that I feel like Kimo von Olhafen (the guy who wrecked Carson's knee) has shredded my brain. And so I've tried to rehab. The same way Carson is. By gathering up all my determination to prove Macho Man and all the others wrong. To beat them. I wrote a "manifesto" about it while at Miami. I re-read it yesterday (and might even post it here). It's bitter and angry (and well written and funny) and focuses on them and what's wrong with them, and how I'm going to beat them.

And now I realize - it ain't worth it.

I need to do this for me. I need to do this because I love it and get off on it (in a totally non sexual way, you pervs) and because it's what I do. Not because of them. Anger leads to the dark side, young Jedi.

Sorry, Carson. Guess you're on your own.

OUT