With all these projects and ventures I’ve undertaken since graduation, I would be remiss to deny the omnipresent fear of failure that I wrestle on a daily basis. Literally, I disrobe and fight it, like that large stuffed moose I used to beat up when I was a child. If you and I ever reach that point in our relationship where I’m totally comfortable with you and willing to share childhood videos, remind me to show you “SummerSlam 1988,” when my father captured a wrestling match between the moose and I. Clad only in a pair of tighty-whiteys, this skinny five-year old was kicking some serious moose ass. I went to pick the mammoth plush toy for a devastating body slam when I slipped, and, after a startling quick three-count, was left defeated by the inanimate object. That’s pretty much what it feels like when I wake up these days. There’s a pressure to succeed weighing down on me. Only, unlike the moose, there’s no endearing smile and no big floppy ears.
If I can be serious for a moment, I’d like to try and work my way though this phobia. At the moment there is no pressure from entities other than myself. I’d like to keep it this way for as long as possible. One of the reasons I refused to approach any publishing houses or industry personnel before departing on my travels was, I did not want my world to revolve around a constant search for what would be good fodder for a book. Outside of the interviews, which were loosely tied together with maybe for our five pre-written questions and then open dialogue, nothing was scripted in advance. To regiment my every action would have probably led to disaster. The variables in this experiment were what allowed for so many unique and unexpected experiences. I felt not an ounce of trepidation or hesitation for six weeks… Except maybe from dealing with love interests, but girl stories are best told over alcohol, not blogs.
Now that I’ve returned, now that the process of formulating this book (or books, I still haven’t decided) has commenced, each day the cracks in my foundation are showing. Everyone I speak to is asking for progress reports. They all want to know how far along I am. When will they have a signed, finished copy of their own? I’m trying not to think that far ahead. I’m trying to remain grounded in reality. I’m trying not to let my imagination wander into dangerous territory, to daydream about the epilogue before I’ve even written page one. There’s enough material there to pool together into what I believe is a fascinating story. Whether it’s a travel guide though the eyes of independent musicians, or whether it’s a tale of some lonely kid driving eleven thousand miles soaking up as much information as possible from people he admires or people he’s just met… Either way it would interest me as a reader. I hope it interests my peers.
There’s always this voice telling me my aspirations are just too big. Sometimes I can’t even comprehend what I’m trying to achieve. It makes me want to throw everything I’ve recorded into a closet and not look at it again. Fifteen minutes later, I’ll be driving for coffee or playing guitar, and suddenly I’ll have a flashback. I’ll close my eyes and I’ll see myself walking down Ridgemont Drive in Abilene, Texas looking for a place to eat. Pink and sunburned, shirtless and rummaging my pockets for some loose dollar bills, kicking up red earth and watching sporadic traffic pass me by. I’ll flashback to the most random, meaningless moments and feels like being lifted up into the sky. It is the very epitome of cliche pap, but it is true. After these finite moments, once I remember to exhale, once I blink and I come to, I can’t wait to sit down and start writing again. It keeps me from succumbing to the fear of failure.
