My Cup Runneth Over…

Have you ever had a calling? A pull of some unforeseen gravitational force leading you to another path from the one currently sauntered? It’s akin to pleasantly gazing at a horizon filled with trees, wildlife scurrying about in a natural symphonic fashion…streams of fish gliding across the scoured earth. And with each blink of the eyes the picture begins to wane and dim. Everything becomes a bit fuzzy and unfocused. So much so that you have to close your eyes to pass the time so as to catch your bearings and relive the paradise laying behind the veils of your eye lids.

Then it is dark.

I’ve been working consistently on my self-publishing endeavor Tragedy Springs & Other Collected Works since December of last year in hopes of having copies ready for a summer release. I’ve also filled my time with continuing my decade old vampire tale (working title) The Final Cadence. I’ve steadily worked on claiming the rights to a forgotten late 70s horror film and working (on and off) with a well-known genre distributor/film preserver to give said film a lovingly proper DVD/Blu-Ray/VHS re-release. Composing the music and lyrics to the upcoming Held In Scorn album has been quite the time taker as well. Couple that with the massive amount of “corporate work” I have on my plate and you have one busy creator with a thin timeline and no secondary air supply. But things have seemed to shift in a more favorable albeit life changing way.

It happened rather suddenly, as these things mostly do. Last week, I was driving home from another busy day at work with my collated working copies of Tragedy Springs and I was going over a game plan for a working schedule to squeeze in time for all projects in one day…a feat that has yet to be done. And then something clicked. Red. Like a stop sign. A burning color that screams for notification. I couldn’t unseat this blinding color. I had to stop. Stop the thinking, the planning, and the time-wringing. This was beginning to not be fun.

It became another job. Another distraction from my real voice. A way to wipe my color palate clean of the buildup of un-used creative colors. A reset was needed. And I found myself finally breathing normally. For an unpublished writer with a knack for stringing together a few shiny verses, slightly witty prose, and abnormal adjectives, I had filled my plate with too much too fast. I was moving at the pace of Stephen King instead of wallowing in the self-professed beauty of my work like George R. R. Martin (two greats I have no business comparing myself to).

I’ve come back to my visceral and primal ways. I’m not letting my over-thinking ways lead me to the finish line for any of these projects. For the first time since I was a kid…I’m letting the pen lead me. I’ve started something new. Locutions of an alien-past. But of a familiar language. An ode to my literary heroes. Filled with biographic depictions of another man’s life. Written in a timeline of forboden realities and glued together with a marrow of archaic internal demons.

It is possible that I have found my calling…or rather my calling has found me. My creative sanity has been severed and it is hemorrhaging all over a parchment meant for gods.

My cup runneth over…


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