The windmills of my mind

I missed an important anniversary yesterday.  On the other hand, at least one source says it is today.  In any case...

On either January 16th or 17th, 1605, the novel Don Quixote was published  (or at least the first half).

I do not know whether I stand up to the good knight's example anymore:  I tend to be a great deal more introspective these days.  "Writing about what you know" has led to far more personal than social or political posts.  The windmills seem to be standing all by themselves, without me jousting with them.

Still, the desire to engage in what seems like ridiculous endeavors still haunts me.

I  went to lunch with my friend PLD* today.  Towards the end of a lovely meal (if you are ever in Los Altos, California, go by The Cravery and grab a bowl of tomato-bisque soup), I talked about the crossroads where I find myself.

All I really want to do out of life is write.  And write this.  The mini-essay form (for what are blog posts -- good ones, at any rate --but mini-essays?)  is where I find my comfort zone.**  It's where I find love of the craft.  Where I find joy.  And, if not this, then other writing.  But writing is what I do.  I am not as thorough about it as I should be, and I place a whole host of obstacles in my own way, but I am a writer.

My friend looked at me, and said, baldly and matter of factly, "You need to just do it.  Find a way to make it happen. Don't worry about pleasing everyone.  Don't worry about making it perfect."

He referred me to Seth Godin, for which I am very grateful. He told me about an exhibit he had seen about Tim Burton, about how many ventures Tim Burton has been involved with that went nowhere -- that we never hear about precisely because they went nowhere.

He left me thinking about possibilities.  About how fear so often gets in  my way.  About how I do worry about whether or not people are listening.  About fearing success as much as failure.

After all, once you subdue the windmill, what do you do with it?

The time to ask that question, though, is after you have the windmill at your mercy.  Sometimes the first -- and most important -- windmill exists mainly in your own head.


*No, those are not his initials.  No, I am not going to tell you what they stand for, other than to say it is in no way suggestive.  Mind out of the gutter, folks.

**There is of course the question of the extent to which moving out of my comfort zone would cause me to grow as a person and a writer, but that's a different issue for a different day.