Writing again

I shudder to think of a life much less than I have or could, noting the great difficulty with which I gathered myself to this place. I'm horrible at finishing things that require great focus, or at least I was, and I feel as if my body can't hold it all together. It's as if I'm that old bear you had as a kid, tattered and dirty thing, tufts of cotton pouring out at torn seams, dreadfully misused but immensely loved. Ugh. Everything hurts.

Let me just say I have not yet withered into a heap. I'm not that pile of leaves in the back yard waiting to be bagged up and tossed with the yard waste. I'm still standing! I'm still strong. I believe in me and I'm working towards something better. Something epic. I need to create my legend. NEED. It will take so much work, but I'm no longer afraid.

I've been listening to different podcasts that are exemplary and basically have deified the genre for me, that I am singularly sold on the idea of writing. Podcasts like Psuedopod, Starship Sofa, Lightspeed, Nightmare Magazine and No Sleep are my mainstays. They've basically jump started my fascination with fiction once again. The hooks are in so good they've drawn blood. I'm excited.

I'm excited that I'm passionate about these stories in my head. I've also joined Critters.org in order to get some much needed feedback and critique on these burgeoning ideas. 

We'll see what the future holds. But if there's anything I've learned in the last few weeks, the future is mine to shape. It's all up to me. If I fail in this, it's my fault. Yet, who's to say that could be considered failure?

Write It!

I once thought the world was something it is most certainly not. I once had dreams, visions of what life could be- fantasies fed by the over bearing media sculpted illusion. A quixotic menagerie of exceptional lives that became my ideal. I should be ashamed to say it, but I own up to my ignorance. My life is nothing if not my own; I must carve out my own niche, and not be infatuated by the shine of one alien to me.

Why is it that we envy? Do we even understand that many folks who live these ideal lives are all surface for our understanding. We know nothing of the poor innerworkings that shake their foundations, much like our own.

My second book is ready. It's been ready. Seems like I have been waiting for the right time to present it. That time is now. Maybe it will finally allow me to be the individual I hunger to be, and the being God needs me to be. Somehow, that is probably wrong. I am already the man I need to be. I am Marcelle. I am Marcelle's life. Life and Marcelle are the same.