An Examination on the Fallacy of Confidence: or, The Anatomy of Suck

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!I make noise.

Then, I fall silent.

Screams followed by whatever we call the opposite of thunder.

The opposite of thunder followed by the collective bombilation of a thousand Beliebers mating with a thousand Directioners upon the announcement of an upcoming Überconcert between the pubescent powerhouses.

Author Note: In no way am I championing the hypothetical sexual union of two-thousand teenage girls. Unless they are nineteen. Eighteen borders on pervy. Oh, and I looked up the word “bombilation.”

Am I making a point here?

No, really. That isn’t a rhetorical question.

“Yes, Head(spit) Master! You make a wonderful point that I will cherish and keep at the front of my consciousness until my final breath!”

Danke, dear reader.

But for those who may not have successfully navigated through the labyrinth of complexities, allow me to elucidate: I am painfully inconsistent, as far as writing goes, and I often wrestle with the source. In that, I could also suggest that I am painfully inconsistent with life, as writing has been, at least for me, the flowing blood of life. If I am not writing, I am not living.

“So, you are saying that you are in a constant state of death-and-reincarnation????? OMG!”

Figuratively, yes. Literally, maybe. Part of my dies when I am not writing. Of this I am confident, but do not expect me to explain the nuances involved. At least not yet.

To intentionally limit oneself when trying to master a skill is to do oneself a great disservice. If the former is true, I have done myself a lifetime of disservices, and if you are visiting this site, it’s likely that you have, too.

“Nope. I’m actually the world’s most prolific writer. I was taking a five minute stretch break and wanted to urinate off a tall building and let the streamblast pour down upon the heads of the foolish and undisciplined. Metaphorically, that is, since I am always thinking in terms of metaphors since I am, after all, the world’s most pro… err, break over. Back to writing and being successful and self-fulfilled, Shmucktar!”

Wow… That was kind of harsh. But he does have a point. How many of us seek “the writer’s life” without truly embracing all facets of that life; the long hours, the payless hours, the sleepless hours, the ___________ hours, THE HOURS!!!

This also goes for athletes, scholars, business types and those who play Mahjong professionally. We can’t be track stars unless we run!

“Actually, many track-and-field events do not require competitors to run. Take the hammer throw, for instance. You should really do some research before blogging, Dummy!”

Ugh…

I took my mom to breakfast the other day. Between stuffing delicious forkfulls of Mediterranean omelet into my mouth, I told her about my self-righteous quest for truth and understanding, citing a robust transformation of character and renaissance of personal growth over the past decade. I heralded my work ethic in all-things-socially-appropriate, then I lamented over certain shortcomings of my youth, claiming that, if given the opportunity, I would slap both the holy and unholy shit out of the teenage version of myself.

…oh, and probably hook him up with one of these obnoxious Beliebectioners mentioned above… if they were then the age they are now. I’m not sure how that works, though. Time travel and its intricacies aren’t my bag, baby.

So, anyway, why the hostility towards pre-me? Simple: the sixteen year old version of myself was, amongst other things, foolish enough to think that he was a brilliant writer.

…he was also arrogant, uninhibited, and creative enough to fix any flaws in style of confidence. If only he had my current knowledge and Spartan work ethic!

Ironically, though, he probably spent about fifteen to twenty hours a week writing fiction. Sometimes more, but rarely less.

Practice might not make perfect, but it is one hell of a remedy for suckification.

And when a writer, regardless of age, spends that much time honing his craft, for weeks and months on end, writing becomes more than a hobby: it becomes a necessity of life. Somehow, that simple bastard was able to put into application what a decade of developing an appreciation for philosophy and theory too often seems to stifle.

Looking at it from that perspective, maybe sixteen year old me should be the one kicking my ass, because I could use a break from doing it myself!

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