Nailing down a date is super scary. Slow-encroaching, deadly-creep kind of scary. First, because I know have to hold myself accountable for something, and if I don't make it I'll pretty much hate myself. Second, because it means that I'll officially be enbarking on a long-awaited, maybe-lucrative career as a bonafide AUTHOR of something, which is terrifying all by itself.
Most people I know don't KNOW that I'm aspiring to this. Most of them know me as the stay-at-home dad that I also am, and that's pretty much it. I feel like there's a metamorphosis of perspective coming, and that soon I won't resemble the guy lots of people think I am. It'll be something to adapt to. It'll probably confuse some, also...I can be occasionally socially awkward with people I don't know very well, and in those situations I can barely string together any type of coherence.
Yet here I am. Writing. Bearing my bleeding soul. When one writes something, it tends to be a direct look into their mental process. It's really personal; there's nothing to hide behind. Sure, one could argue that one could hide behind characters much the same way that one could hide behind a puppet, and sometimes it might feel that way, but ultimately what the puppet does and says is going to reveal a different facet of the puppeteer behind it...their way of thinking...perhaps idiosynchroses they are self-conscious about...their fears and dreams.
But, that's the job, right? When you sell your story, you sell yourself, and all the things that contain you and you contain.
Or do most folks only care about the show? Do they care about the puppeteer at all? I don't know. Maybe the answer lies somewhere in the middle, where most answers tend to clump.
Okay, I'm wandering. Back to work.