You guys remember when I quit? Well, here’s the thing: That was something of a New Year’s resolution, in a convoluted sort of way. Like most (if not all) of us, I’m super busy, and in my obsessive-compulsive efforts to min/max my life, I identified TD10 as a creative sunk cost, so to speak, and decided (in an almost neurotic fit) that my energies would be better spent in other, seemingly more productive ways.
And, well, here we are. Like most New Year’s resolutions, this one barely made it past February 1. Turns out I kind of need this. So, I’m back at the writer’s desk. What that’s going to look like is anyone’s guess. Obviously, my priority is any unfulfilled assurances I may or may not have made.
After that, I’m not sure. I’ll be experimenting with short stories that explore the Land of Glacia – the ever-elusive campaign world in which The Broken Light and Blood & Salt (loosely) take place. The hope is that, in addition to fulfilling my apparently irrepressible desire to write (of which I am endlessly resentful*), these stories will help me to expand this frozen world that has dominated the landscapes of my imagination. Additionally, decompressing the fiction will allow me to more easily delineate game and story elements, producing (hopefully) a more fleshed-out – but less narrative-centric – setting.
I’ve promised good things in the past. They never came. But at this point, I don’t have any other option than to keep trying, albeit with lessons learned. Stay tuned – it’s not over just yet.
*Bukowski wrote, “Sometimes I’ve called writing a disease. If so, I’m glad that it caught me.” I do not share his gaiety, but this is probably because I’m just not good at it. All the same, writing is a disease. I have it. I would be cured of it, should such a miracle cure exist. It eats at the deepest, most manic part of my inner being; it may even be the source, the wellspring, of my mania. It may even drive me to delete this entire post not long after publishing, and retreat again into the dark of the post-TD10 world. I have written hundreds of thousands of words regarding this game alone, and I am satisfied (mostly) with barely a fraction of them; I have even less than a fraction’s worth of satisfaction with my many thousands of words of fiction. And yet, I continue, oscillating between frustration with both my works and a lack thereof. The main difference between other writers – who have long lamented this well-documented internal struggle – and myself is that I will never be able to yoke this bedlam and turn it to the field. At risk of exhausting Bukowski, “My ambition is handicapped by laziness,” but a lot of other things, too. My pastures will remain partially tilled, my yields hardly enough to make it through the winter. As a creator, I will subsist on moldy bread and stale water, and when the spring comes and the earth renewed, I will squander, again, my chance at salvation. Each and every time.