I’m a hockey guy. That, err, might be a bit of an understatement. I need a hockey 12-step program, to be honest. We will, however, leave aside my OCD for all things hockey for the moment. At least for long enough to make my point, anyway…
Both of my teams in the NHL were eliminated from playoff contention a while ago*, so I have this empty space to fill. This does not make me happy.
So, here I am, writing this post on the weekend of the Masters tournament. Now, I should point out for the less “sporty”: there is no universe or reality in which golf is a suitable stand-in for hockey. Shit, golf isn’t even a stand-in for freaking curling! It does, however, make good background noise for napping and other sedentary activities (like professional bar-flying, for instance).
So one of the sports guys is on TV talking about how the favorite to win the Masters dropped out because his back was sore after tripping on the stairs.
Oh, for fuck’s sake!
Peter Forsberg played a hockey game with a ruptured goddamned spleen! Shit, I wrenched my back (wiping out on my bike…don’t ask) and did I stop going to the brewery? No, no I did not. Now that is professional dedication!
Okay, Mr. Minion, so why the hell are you talking about this?
Excuses. And, specifically, the making thereof.
Don’t get me wrong: I am a world-class excuse maker. An old boss of mine finally told me to stop giving him reasons why I wasn’t coming in because they were far more entertaining than the rest of his day.
I’m pretty sure I reached peak-bullshit when I called in sick because I wrenched my elbow saving a toddler from vicious, marauding kangaroos…
I have mentioned my commitment to full-time slackerdom, have I not? Believe it or not, I had ambition once. Once. Then it met someone better and dumped me.
Shit…now that was a serious squirrel-moment! Never mind.
Ahem…back to excuses: “I’m still not sure about the direction of the scene.” “I have more research and prep to do.” “I’m just not in the mood.” “I have writer’s block.”
We call ourselves artists and creative professionals…but we are oh-so-good at finding reasons to not do what it is we do. You cannot be a writer if you do not…I don’t know, let’s see: write.
For me the big problem is being at home versus out in the wild. I have convinced myself I can’t write at home, so now I can’t write at home. That, at least, is the excuse I tell myself. Marauding kangaroos would be more believable…or a sore back from tripping on the stairs.
I am a month behind on Silence at this point. I have let myself make too many excuses, and found too many reasons to not write.
Writing is, very literally, who I am: if I’m not writing, then who the hell am I? An under-employed ex-sales&marketing-monkey with delusions of adequacy…?
Hell, the shame alone is enough to make me start writing again!