I have never wanted to exist in the world of papers and paychecks. I also never really wanted to exist within the world of writing the soundtrack for someone else’s life story to make money that way. This isn’t some big statement about the woes of capitalism and my issues with it, although I assure you, I have plenty. By the time you finish reading this, I hope that I will have imparted a new impression on existing within the realm you find yourself in. On branching out, and taking risks. On failing, and trying again.
I’ve never been particularly good at drawing. I’ve never been particularly good at writing either, although, given the medium you’re consuming this on, I hope that it is at least palatable. I’ve also never been good at writing music. The creative, undefined avenues that many of my friends and peers dove into eagerly, deep below the clear waters of dabbling and into the muddy clouds of career and uncertainty, were too deep for myself, all those years ago. For the longest time, I blamed my family and my proficiencies. I was good at math. I understood science. It didn’t matter that I don’t have a passion for it, the aptitude was the only element of consequence.
So, I pushed it down. I ignored this yearning for a world where I truly told my story. I hid away this part of myself and my self in favor of trying to fit this roadmap that I had laid out. Just three years of college, then three more of working to pay off the debt, and then I was set to do as I pleased. But soon enough, life got in the way. I started drinking, smoking, focusing less on the important stuff, and more on other things. I made friends and I got into trouble. Three years turned into five, three more turned into five more, and that debt changed very little, despite the work days that started when I got up and ended after I fell asleep. I felt lost and alone, abandoned by myself. For the longest time, I blamed my family, my circumstance, but I finally realized I had no one to point the finger at other than the man in the mirror.
For no reason other than fighting this self imposed loneliness, I started playing guitar. It went slowly at first, some practice on weeknights, and lessons every other weekend. I was frustrated that there was no progress, and after lamenting my lack of talent to the clerk of the little guitar shop in a historic town on the outskirts of a large industrial zone, he laughed at me. And he gave me the best advice I have gotten in my non-white collar career. Be bad, every day, for at least five minutes. And I did. I learned a song, flew back home and played it for my girlfriend, and for the first time in my life, I felt that dark cloud get a little lighter.
So, I quit my job. I spent the last bit of my savings to rent a trailer and move back home. And I started over.
I spent time with my friends and family. I got a new job where I actually got paid for overtime, and most importantly - to this piece - I started writing. And it was terrible. Gaudy, cliche stories about samurai and cowboys, and prose that would put you to sleep. I did the same thing with drawing and music. I could never really find the right shapes or the right style, I could never find the right notes, I could never find my song. But it was mine. These terrible drawings, these boring stories, these songs that got lapped by GarageBand sample tracks. All mine, for the low low price of 5 minutes, minimum, per day.
Everything I did went against my training in technical communications. Against report composition. I was using phrases like, ‘I hope,’ and writing in first person. I was presenting my theses in metaphor and prose that I found entertaining. And I was starting sentences with coordinating conjunctions, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I stopped worrying about whether it was entertaining or original or not corny. For the first time, I was just having fun with it.
Eventually, I decided to enter one of my stories in a little community driven contest hosted by a horror author. He liked my piece, and offered critique that I had never considered, let alone heard before. And I lost. Not second or third, but I lost lost. Last or very close to it. He told me to try again next time and I did. And I kept trying again.
I write with friends and strangers now. It’s a world I never thought I’d be a part of. And, it’s a world that’s not that far off from where I was, mentally or locationally. I’m still me. I’m still tired. I still work too much and waste time when I’m not working. Between the two of us, I sometimes waste time when I am working too. I’m human, and god help me, so are you. And I believe in you.
I’m still in debt. I still have my office job. And, while I am unbelievably fortunate to have had this option, I am grateful for that guitar store clerk and that horror author. I will admit there are days that I don’t allow myself those five minutes. But going forward, dear reader, I promise you I will. And I want you to, too. If you can’t do five minutes a day, try five minutes a week, or a month. But take some sliver of your time, and go do that thing you want to do.
So, go out there, you future author, sound designer, engineer. Go out there and try your hand at a skill you’ve never developed. Join a club, or a school, or a workshop. Try your best at this new unknown. Try your best and fail. Fail hard, make so many mistakes that you think you can’t go on. Then get up. And try again.
