Kicking the Can down the road and hitting a wall, in a good way.

As a self-proclaimed writer I obligate myself to various projects at all times. Whether I am working on them or not, it sure feels like the work is constant. After all, I think about working on them all the time. I have to, I cling to the identity of a writer as though I were hanging from a Hollywood billboard, 300 feet up and in a stress dream. A few months ago, possibly a lot longer, I started conceptualizing what my next script would be. I outlined and spoke with several friends about working on it together. I always like working on scripts with different friends, that way when they're not available, and the work doesn't get done, you have someone else to blame for your scaredy-cat procrastination. There's an endless amount of mini-tasks you can put before writing if you choose to, and most of the time I do. Cleaning the kitchen is so much easier then putting yourself out there to be judged a fool. When you write, the brilliance you hope you have burrowed somewhere in the depths of your cerebrum is tested. When you post it, if you choose to do so, and attempt to promote it, that brilliance is tested. We are all, I'm guessing, brilliant writers, momentarily, when lapses of anxiety and fear while on long walks or while in the shower give way to quick flashes of beautiful prose, streaking across a synapse just long enough to extend the hope of our writing dreams. Perhaps if I had hopped out the shower, the moment each of these flashes of brilliance had occurred, ran to a tape recorder, and had not worried about the mess my dripping body would make, my writing career would be further along. Or perhaps flashes of brilliance are not enough to sustain one's writing career. Perhaps those flashes, are just that, flashes, and cannot be extended into the several hour writing sessions, the required brick and mortar of a creative's career.