I was speaking with my younger sister last evening on a few subjects close to my heart, namely writing, my new undertaking, blogging and the need to create. I have written several stories--novel-length pieces of fanfiction. (There was a time that fact embarrassed me to the point of stammering and hedging and explaining in detail the world of fanfiction -- which, in many ways is quite similar to the concept of DIY blogs. And if I am being honest, makes my stomach knot a bit. But that is a whole other ball of wax, can of worms, that I may or may not discuss in a later post.)
Back to Jack or should I say back to myself. I dabble. Things catch my fancy and I get inspired and I have an overwhelming need to create something. I have been writing for a good many years, hung out with the aspiring writers in college. Many were very, very talented. One in particular was quite gifted, but his talent was never truly realized. He was a writer who had a need to write, but I never got a sense of his needing success. The creative need and the success need is to me at times like the tired cliche, oil and water. This writer, an old friend, died too young. All quite sad and tragic.
I write. I call myself a writer, albeit unpublished to date. But I write, continue to write, have successfully completed several long stories in western fandoms and will say quite out-of-character for myself that my stories are literary works compared to, shall we say, Fifty Shades. I have begun an original story in the historical fiction genre, but have come to a standstill creatively. I think it is more about self-belief at this time. Again a whole other can . . .
I craft. I decorate. I have handsewn several bears for school fundraisers and gifts to family and friends. I am not a gifted seamstress or artist, can't draw a straight line, as they say, but the bears came together quite nicely. I get the inspiration to make a bear every now and then and it just recently became now again. I don't use expensive furs. A few years back, a woman had asked me to craft a bear from her grandmother's mink coat. I was flattered that she loved my bears and simultaneously terrified. I wanted to tell her, I dabble, you need a professional. When does the line shift? When does it translate to success? And why do I more often than not run like hell when I hear it knocking?