Greatness

So I have this big flaming desire to write the greatest story I’ve ever written.  Doesn’t have to be the greatest story of all time just the greatest thing that I’ve ever written.  I’m beyond the starting point now.  I’m so entrenched in the story I’ve written so far and yet it feels like I’ll never get to the end of it.   Mainly because I’m kind of afraid to get to work on it.  When I actually work on it I feel great.  It’s the getting to the work where there’s always something else that needs to be done.  Or that I should be doing more.  Right now the only thing in my way is resistance?  Or perhaps laziness.  That’s not really it.  I so love watching all these other stories that have already made the cut.  As opposed to working on the story that may never make anyone’s cut.  I did 3 loads of laundry and have put away 2 and a half.  I’ve been binge watching Lost in Space but after 5 episodes. I don’t think I really like this show anymore.  But might as well finish it.  It was kind of interesting at first but not sure anymore.    After this I’m going to watch the rest of Collateral.  Then maybe Fargo.  Instead of actually writing.  Ugh.  Or putting the scenes I have on post its and putting it up and looking at it to see what’s missing and doesn’t make any sense.  Or writing those scenes that I know belong but haven’t gotten around it.  I ought to write.  I’m going to do it.  Just later.  I have my make shift deadline of the end of October for this staged reading – so that’ll keep me honest.  And I’m well beyond the first draft stage.  I guess the thing that’s holding me back is that when all is said and done with writing this ‘greatest’ thing I’ve ever written perhaps it won’t even be all that great in the end.  I’ll just be another dreamer who’s dreams are not meant to be awoken.  It’s the balance of  reality vs. fantasy.  These dream worlds are so where I belong.  Not because their any better they are just so fascinating and always another layer to discover about these characters.  But then there is real life.  Chores, work, bills, this cough that’s a brewing in my chest.  Real life is meant to be a reflection of who I am and yet it isn’t even remotely and yet it’s supposed to be.   I want to live in my dreams.  The thing I wrote last year Character Assassination – one of the insecurities I guess I was trying to figure out was the one where there’s this vision that’s vibrant and bright in the imagination and I have found that sometimes once those visions touch reality it could go in one of two ways.  The perfect dream could disintegrate into a pile of nothing or the perfect dream could be met and received and made better by the real world.   All us dreamers would obviously prefer the latter.  Anyway here’s to writing about not being able to write.