I Have No Excuses

Today tastes like chicharron (the good hard crunchy kind, solid and dense, not the little puffs of nothing), refried beans, and cheese. All I need is a warm tortilla and life would be excellent.

Last year at about this time, I was writing 55 word stories (henceforth "NanoFiction"). A story a day.

Last year at about this time I stopped writing NanoFiction. I meant to take the month of February off, then start again, but I just never really started.

I told myself it took too long, that I was tired, that . . . uhm . . . well, I'm sure I have a good reason. I must have left it in my other pants.

Truth is, I got scared. The tame little pony I'd climbed up on became a stallion underneath me, and I was scared. Of what, Ralph the Cat God only knows. (When the cats look up at the ceiling in the middle of the night and wail, "Rrrrralph! Rrrralph! Rrrralph!" they're praying to the Cat God. Like little furry muezzin chanting the azan.)

Scared perhaps, of producing a body of work? Scared of achieving some form of success? Scared of following through on a personal commitment? It's easier somehow, when you commit to an external thing, where your work needs to go to someone else by a certain date. You can push through a block by saying "But Sally will be soooooooo disappointed if I don't get up and get going on the Project. So I'll put down the Ben & Jerry's and go make some art." It's harder to get motivated when it's your own disappointment you have to live with.

So last year, I committed to posting once a week here, and so far, I've kept that. And this year, I've jumped back up on the NanoFiction Stallion. Rather than riding the horse and worrying about control, I'm going to let it animal around with me. Wherever we go is where I'll be.

Wherever we go, I will be somewhere in the world.