impressive doodling

What forest? The one behind all those trees?

I was out to dinner with a good friend last night. I told him about my recent feeling of restlessness and my desire to escape the corporate grind. “I just wish I could make a living writing,” I moaned. ┬áHe nodded sympathetically.

I explained why I feel the way I do, content with my new position and new boss, but still wishing I were doing something more creative. I told him how the stories in my head need to be told. They want to be told. I explained that I think I’m a competent storyteller, and he agreed, nodding again. He was a good listener, kind and supportive.

I finished my tale of woe, the working class man’s struggle for deeper meaning and all that shit. Then he asked slowly and gently, “You want to write?”

“Yes,” I said with profound desire resonating in the single word.

“Well, then,” he said, “I think you should…write.”

He asked if I was working on the book. No. How about the blog? Nuh-uh. Journaling? Doing research? Story boards? Doodling? Nope.

He wasn’t insulting in his feedback. Really, he was only telling me what I already knew, what my girlfriend has told me many times, what I needed to hear again from another voice. If you want to accomplish something, start making moves toward it. You aren’t going to finish a book, he said, without working on each and every chapter, page by page, paragraph by paragraph.

He was right.

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