Being Dangerous

As a writer (I feel confident now I am beyond, if just barely, the "wannabe" stage), I struggle with priorities and how to allocate those precious moments I do get to write. And here we give a shout out that if you're one of those lucky people who can write on a schedule, by all means do so. I've found when I can I am more productive. However, I often find I can't keep to such a schedule because of other commitments. And as a further digression, some I can't change, those I can I'm working on (1.5 more years on council, although They are trying to sabotage that plan).

There are number of short story ideas I've had, some even started, that I've dropped. Only later I wonder if I should have finished them. Were those the stories that would have been noticed? The ones that break out of the norm and get an editor excited?

I don't know. And then there are the others, the dangerous ideas. Those ideas that you think, "If this gets published, the hate mail will flow." And I have to admit, I've let a few of those go too. I shouldn't. As someone who has publicly stated I want to write the novel that sticks a finger in the eye of the pre-Millennial dispensationalists, all while saying, yes, you're correct about some things, being on the outs shouldn't bother me. But sometimes it does.

The latest short story (that I linked to the story bone yesterday) is a dangerous story. And it's fun as all get out (well, for me the writer, the reader maybe not so much). I get to use the word "folderol." And you just can't pass up that opportunity. And it's another run at my favorite bogey man, modern organized religion (sans spirituality). This time on what it means to be religious.

And I'm writing it, damn it. It's a dangerous idea (especially in these times). Some people will be hurt by it and I may never find a market to take it (even if my writing is spectacular). But this is the first time in a long while I like writing it. Ask Dan. I've been plaguing him with snippets since we discussed it. I'm giggling like a little girl as the most excellent lines come out.

"Haven't you ever heard of a metaphor," (redacted) asked as they trudged, the itinerate priest and his madness, into the gathering night. And behind them both, Grace (a donkey) slowly went lame.

That just wrote itself in the proper place yesterday. And I frigin' love it (especially if you knew what they were talking about, the nature of faith as it happens).

There's also been some writing I've wanted to try for over a year now, and I've not had the guts to. I'm not sure I can share it here. But I'm going to research it instead of saying, "No, I shouldn't do that." I'll probably need a pseudonym for it, but I have a few of those handy.

So I rededicate myself to tilt at those windmills. To gore the sacred oxen. To wear the jester's hat and dance as fast as I can. I give myself license to do this. And invested in that authority, I give you that license as well.