Well, there it is.

I have been unable to write, as I noted earlier, all week. I just. Can't. And today I've been really pushing myself to think of something, to put something cohesive together and just f-ing DO it. The advent of a tragedy in my life has forced me to re-evaluate a few things, namely the things I have control of in my own life, and I've realized that I am very, very frustrated with my lack of discipline and work ethic. Disappointed, mostly, because I have been blessed with an unstoppable drive to assert myself creatively on my world, but simultaneously have found myself possessed of a paralyzing fear of failure in my endeavors, and a lethargy that arises directly as a result of that fear. I am always tired, too tired to do the things I want to do, because if I were to energize myself and do them I would face the possibility of them going unrecognized. For example, I never paint things to keep, only to give away. When I do paint something for myself, I never finish it, always telling myself "Oh, that needs to be touched up a little before I show it to anyone." It's the same with stories. Poems don't even get started anymore.

What's really unfortunate is that, the more I look at my few finished projects and accomplishments, the more I realize that they are, in fact, quite decent. Some of them even border on GOOD. But I'm stuck at a place of uncertainty. New York, especially, is so intimidating in the depth and breadth of possibilities for a creative individual to earn a name and perhaps even a living, but I am absolutely terrified of moving forward to a point at which I could claim myself to actually BE one of those creative individuals on a professional level. No matter how much I create, I have never once voiced the assertion: "I am a writer." or "I am an artist." These are dreams for me, goals that if they were to be reached, would carry on their backs a weight too huge to imagine - the criticism and analysis of a public beyond my own, already severe and even punishing, critiques. Because, while New York is rife with opportunities, it is also a place with millions and millions of dark corners in which hide the failures of those who attempted to be heard. It's terrifying. Debilitating.

And so, rather than really trying to succeed, I continue to let myself languish in fear and self-indulgent criticism, telling myself over and over that I'm not good enough yet to make my debut. I never finish anything, letting my ideas pile up on top of each other. Ideas for ventures, businesses I could run on my talents, never get far enough to even advertise them. "I could paint murals in people's houses! I'll put them up in my apartment, take pictures, paint in friends' places, take pictures, and post them online! I could make a living that way!" Or "I could paint cups and saucers and sell them online!" Or "I could take commissions for paintings on canvas!" Or "I could have written a way better article on this for that blog!" or "I could really be a writer." But I don't DO it. Because I'm always too busy, or too tired, or too overworked, or too underworked and listless, or whatever. It's always something.

But the quote on Jenelle's Gchat today, "Against the ruin of the world, there is only one defense -- the creative act" is making me think. A lot. Here I am making excuses, perfectly aware that they are only that: excuses. Painfully aware. But not changing the situation. I've been sitting her all day bemoaning how I'll never make a name for myself as a blogger if I don't WRITE anything, but again, I haven't been writing.

But then, a few minutes ago, something magical happened. There is indeed a muse. And he walked into my gallery. And he was a tall older man, probably from a Nordic country based on his accent and physique. He had a beard of mostly-salt and a little pepper. He was wearing a tasteful, but nonetheless plaid, suit. And he was also wearing... get ready... a FUR BERET. I am not kidding. He is still in the gallery as I'm typing this. In his fur beret. It looks like fox fur. I dont' even know where one would go to purchase such a splendid thing as this. I never would have even thought for a moment that somebody made these things. But behold. It is here. And it is glorious.

And when I saw it, I said to myself, "Well, there's your blog post for the day. It has nothing to do with anything, but it's remarkable enough to warrant a blog post, no doubt about that." And so I set in to write about it, and lo, I have instead bared my soul. And it feels good.