I ask myself that, every now and then. It’s not as though I’ve tried to write seriously for a long time. A few aborted short stories and one attempt at NaNoWriMo that didn’t get off the ground. I did attempt a webcomic as an undergrad, but didn’t stick with it long enough to develop those skills, so with a few exceptions it’s pretty embarrassing to look back at. My 24 hour comic was entertaining, if bizarre and stilted in some places, but it was fun and I’d probably try that again sometime if I were ever able to finagle 24 hours without responsibilities again.

(You know what I’d really like to do sometime? I’d like to go into the city and go to the natural history museum and sit among the dinosaur fossils all day with my sketchbook. All by myself. Every time I go to a natural history museum we all end up disgruntled, me because I don’t get all the drawing time I want, and everyone else because when they’re ready to move onto the next section they turn around to find me and it turns out I’m still three rooms back drawing an Irish elk skeleton.)

I wrote a lot in high school, of course. Is there a social outcast who doesn’t? And I was told I was damn good at it, so I kept doing it, and now sometimes I wonder if the only reason I did it was for the attention. The same goes for the sketchbook that used to be practically an extension of my hand. Did I carry that around as a combination shield/beacon? To have the excuse, “I can’t interact with you like a normal human right now, I’m Busy Drawing,” while at the same time eliciting admiring cries of, “I could never do that”? I can’t rule it out as a possibility, and that’s a disturbing thought.

It’s times like this I wish I’d gone to art school, or at least taken a few English courses along with all the stupid science. (I didn’t mean that, Science; I still love you.) Maybe if I’d taken more classes, I’d have figured out how to channel the impulse to create into actual means of finding inspiration and designing and executing. Or maybe more years of framework would have left me even less able to work on my own. I don’t know, and I’m probably not going to find out any time soon, since there aren’t enough hours in the day for classes. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I don’t like to think of myself as somebody who was only drawing as long as attention came from it. That’s exactly the sort of person I would have been proud to disdain back when I was drawing or writing all the time. And I never considered the possibility at the time. The idea only surfaced in my mind when… I stopped carrying the sketchbook. And when it got harder and harder to think of what to draw when I picked one up. When I found a high school essay I wrote and didn’t recognise the voice as mine at all.

And to add to the mix… this could all be the depression talking. I’m really starting to hate depression. I hate that it makes it so you don’t know what’s real and what’s your fucked up brain chemistry. What’s due to incorrect medication and what’s due to you just not trying hard enough? How do you know if you’re operating at “100 per cent” when you haven’t been anywhere near that for so long you have no goddamn idea what normal looks like?

Boy, I sure haven’t wandered from my original train of thought, have I? This is sort of why I picked the blog title. ‘S a creek. It’s got rocks in it, and crayfish, and sometimes it’s deep enough to go swimming, if you’re a little kid at least, and sometimes people drive trucks through it, and sometimes the storms are so bad it washes the bridge out, twice, and then you can’t get to the cabin easily anymore and you have to have Thanksgiving somewhere else and also everybody is getting older and no, you can’t go back to when you were a kid again and you just have to deal with the fact that those days are gone.

I… do not think I want to write anymore tonight. Maybe tomorrow will be the day I pull my sketchbook out again.

Maybe tomorrow….

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