i guess when i think about what qualities define me, i’d be reluctant to admit that “creative” ranks up there pretty high, but it seems to be true. i say this because i know when i’m not playing music, pasting things as my own weenie attempts at art, taking (poor) photographs, or something in that vein i get pretty antsy.

and things have been kinda tough in that respect lately.

My acoustic lifemate

i’ve been singing for longer than i’ve been talking, but never one for formal training, i hadn’t bothered to learn an instrument. about two years ago someone thought it worth my while enough to press an acoustic into my hands and suggest i take a shot at some chords. once again thank you caseyface!as such, since then, its been my primary creative outlet. and i’m proud of what i’ve been able to create.

and usually i do my best work when i’m sad. my musical catalogue is pretty heavy on the boo-fuckin-hoo end of the emotional continuum. but, for some reason, in the last little while i’ve been too sad to even play the guitar, let alone try and write anything. i even have a really good songlet chasing itself around in my head. but every time i’ve tried to start work on it, i begin to cry so hard i get Livingston all wet. he doesn’t really thrive in the high moisture and salt environment of a crying jag, so i put him away, if only for his own good.

i have been blogging like mad, reading like they’re getting ready to go Fahrenheit 451 on the library, working out with more regularity than i’ve ever mustered before, and trying to absorb myself in things that tend to focus my considerable attentive powers completely enough to keep me from going completely bonkers. but none of this feel particularly generative and it’s starting to get to me.

so, i’ve decided to take a stab at writing something longer than a blog post. i used to fancy myself quite a writer. i came in second in a poetry contest in 5th grade: a truly atrocious offering about how freedom came with responsibility or some such tripe. the prize was a trip to the opera, my music teacher made me do it. in the wake of which  they sent me to the “Oregon Writers Conference” and told me i was a prodigy. and i was vain enough to believe them. i don’t have any such pretentions anymore, i can write a mean wedding toast, but i’ve read enough miserable novels to know just how easy it is to think you can write something decent, and how much easier it is to be wrong. but i do want to give something fictionish a try.

i have to do something and so, its either this, or sedatives…