The Concept Is Also The Problem

So sometimes I swell up inside with feelings and observations and thoughts that ransom-demand I express them creatively. If I can't, if I don't know how to process and understand them through an art form, I become angry, negative, listless and even sort of depressed.

I need to expel what's in my head and/or heart, and I need the by-product to mean something. I need it to make sense.

For example, I've had an idea for a new blog format I've been meaning to try for years. I finally did a test pass in NYC at the end of 2008, and having just recently seen some of the early results, I feel like this might finally be the macguffin I've been looking for. A synergy of interests that converge my talents toward a smart target. It's an idea that allows me to create something new, something honest and relatable that other people can connect with, enjoy and maybe even feel inspired by.

Unfortunately, I'm already experiencing doubt and cold feet. If I want to talk about the things going on in my life and in my head, in a visual form no less, it's going to require me to pull vivid details from my personal life and the people in it.

Now, I've been doing as much in MySpace blogs for a couple years now, but this is different. There will be visuals, I'll be drawing avatars, trying to capture likenesses. Doesn't matter if I leave the names out or change them altogether, my depictions of certain events could get back to people and it could freak them out. Shit, it's freaking me out just thinking of putting my history onto the goddamn internet.

There's a complete lack of control once it's released.

So why do it? Why bother?

I suppose the answer is that for the past few years that I've been writing and blogging online, there has seemed to be an overwhelming amount of interest and support from those who have been kind enough to respond, comment or encourage. I wrote a goddamn advice column for christ's sake. People put my words together and react, and luckily, it's a positive reaction.

But I've tried not to get into specifics too much. I used to think I'd turn some of the most devastating yet hilarious moments of my life into works of art that people could appreciate, that some of my worst adventures would become my best stories.

But a couple of years ago, I found I'd appeared in someone's work: a hack job smear campaign short film created by a spiteful ex-girlfriend.

And in that blinding instant, I realized what it's like to be turned from an intimate companion to a cheap anecdote.

From that moment on, I felt like every song ever written about someone you loved was a bullshit play for sympathy from needy artists. That we're all full of shit. That perspective is an illusion and everyone's trying to look good instead of being honest.

And thinking of myself as an honest man, that knowledge sort of damaged my ideals about what's appropriate to share, what one can cull from the clay of life to sculpt a vision.

Maybe I'm rambling here. I'm just saying that I try my best to respect privacy, to protect the secrets and insecurities of others. I might be an agnostic, but I still believe in treating others as you wish to be treated, as the good (crazy) book says.

So what do I do? I feel like I can't move forward with my vision for this project until I deal with this issue. I can't concentrate on or execute this undertaking if I'm struggling in the dark with how honest to be.

I don't enjoy hurting anyone, unless they're an evil fuck and truly deserve it. That's a sweet sensation of righteousness.

But I'm not sure how to fly this thing. Not yet.