I am all messed up. It’s four in the morning, the classic hour for insomnia. I miss focusing my mind in telling a story and it’s an unrest. For years and years I am obligated to focus on an exhausting job or on finding viable alternatives. I get anxious and continuously postpone the hours of dedication to either my narrative, graphic and musical work.
The poster above is from an illustration of my novel, written while I was in college. I waited several years until an editor accepted to publish the manuscript. As a responsible fellow eager for financial independence, I applied to the secure and overwhelming public job that I still hold today. The cost has been tremendous.
Someone else might have been strong and smart enough to cope with the situation and become a prolific writer. I believed to be one of those but I was wrong. “I have a mortgage to pay” is my motto to go to work and I freeze each time I realize that my stories will not sell enough to keep my home away from the bank, or even to put some food on the table.
What I miss the most in storytelling, either on novels, graphic novels and music composition, is the focus itself on the creation of a narrative that, as Virginia Woolf would say, satisfies the readers wish to believe. The conception and design of compelling characters, sets, story lines and emotional backgrounds endows me with the mystical pleasure of contemplating human nature and giving it some sort of a record. That is the power and goal of the arts, namely the art of fiction.
The focus on keeping a job and provide a regular income leaves me no room for contemplation and aesthetic craftsmanship. Things would be different if I were a stronger individual. The poster above shows a flying car landed on a roof with its lights on. It has been there all night long. Behind the wheel the driver’s corpse shows off some grilled brains. A dime novel scene like this one is antagonistic to the discourse of this post. I am not even able to write potboilers! Yep, I am all messed up.