May 06, 2005


I was walking across the street, leaving the janky irish pub with it's beer specials banners and it's fake-castle painted interior, thinking about the things I wanted to do to avoid finishing my Coachella peice. Aside from see Breather Resist and Melt Banana, which could now be crossed off the list. I had even casually volunteered to go to a bar I hate and "hang out" with my friends and former tourmates in Breather in order to not finish up on the writing. And it is not because I have nothing to say (I went 700 words over, actually). It is not that I do not love the writing or figuring out how to drill down and say what I mean. I do not like to finish, and I loathe to start, for no other reason than I am terrified of failing.

That said: I do not know what "failing" entails. I like and appreciate being edited, even when it is ardous. I have only ever had four peices killed, and two were on spec anyhow. I have only been asked for complete rewrites twice, and both were justified. I'm fortunate. But, even when I run down these stats everytime, to grease the odds for my fool heart, it is Sisyphysian: rolling all the fear and ego and shunted love up the hill, hoping it does not roll back down on me, flatten me out like Coyote in the cartoon.


Posted by Jessica at May 6, 2005 04:19 AM | TrackBack