For today’s post I am going swerve away from the accustomed path of parenting and talk about me. Me as an individual. Me as a person that has hopes and dreams and the idea that not always do those dreams revolve around my children. Of course my first and foremost plans include the wee human beings, but I do have expectations for my own existence that do not center utterly and completely around them. Does that make me a horrible mother? The question has to be rhetorical, because if the answer is yes then I would like to be oblivious and go on living in this delusional state. Because the cold hard fact is that since baring these babes, I have never lost the intention for what I want to grow into.
I have came to the inevitable failure point in a story that I am working on. The place where I have developed my characters, plotted out the entire story line, written some pretty great stuff if I do say so myself, but unfortunately feel as though I can’t go on. My first problem with this tale is that it is of the Science Fiction genre. In reality I have absolutely no business writing Science Fiction because I don’t really know anything about it. The idea has become completely unbelievable because the details are lacking, and the more I begin to believe the concept, the less I think the readers will. It’s messy and chaotic, and I desperately want to clean it up but can’t find the wherewithal to do so.
When I think of Sci-Fi I think of ‘A Sound of Thunder’ by Ray Bradbury what genius that guy was! He developed everything he needed to within a few short pages and the idea’s that he presented in this short story are still being used in literature and film today. Another one of my favorites ‘Oryx and Crake’ by Margaret Atwood, this woman is phenomenal and by far one of my favourite authors. But aside from my biasness she unknowingly created this concept in my mind. After reading ‘Oryx and Crake’, ‘The Year of the Flood’, and ‘A handmaids Tale’ all within a few short weeks, I decided that I was going to also delve into some Science Fiction writing myself.
So now I am in this awful place of whether to scrap the whole shebang or try and push through until I have something of value. I know that I will not be able to throw away the work I’ve done thus far, but hide it away, remove it from my desktop, try and forget about this atrocity that I have unwittingly started; this is a definite option.
This is why I call it the failure point, which I know is a very defeating term to name it, and probably isn’t helping my situation all too much but it is the handle that has surfaced and now will never be known as anything but. I would like to think that it is our burden as writers to go through these times of collapse, and with persistence and a diligent fingers-to-the-keyboard attitude we can rise up and finish the vision. But right now, I have buried myself so deep in the proverbial blues, that I question even calling myself a writer. The hope of this script ever becoming anything but a half finished narrative is quickly becoming, just that, a far-flung hope.
Lars woke up just as I wrote this last line, he saunters out to the living room where I am dwelling solemnly and tells me that he has dreamt about driving trains. He tells me that one day he will grow up to be a train driver…A conductor, just like the Fat Controller in the Thomas the Train series. He is serious and just like that his barefaced confidence has removed me from my funk.
If each time I feel overwhelmed and see no drive towards the future of my goals, each time I decide to move down the easy route of quitting, what kind of a role model am I being for my children? Because as much as I believe that my personal dreams have no relationship to my children’s, I lie to myself. In their young age, the kids look up to Jamie and I, everything we do they harbour and could subconsciously use in later life. If I give up each time things get tough, my example to my children is that; give up when your plans go south.
I don’t want to be that person, I don’t want my fear of failure to steer my decisions in life; and I certainly don’t want this ideology to carry on to my children. So now I will finish writing this self indulgent post, and move this curser toward the documents I had previously hidden away, and I will write. And although frustration will probably take me over again, and the plot will still come out choppy and the characters may not be believable I will push forward. Because at the very least I will have conquered the Failure Point, a place that has taken so many creative endeavours of mine, and man will that feel good!