I’ve been a baseball fan for as long as I can remember. I followed the Orioles at first, because they were the closest team to where I grew up. I grew older and my fandom waned, but my love for the game didn’t. I needed a new team, one I could believe in. I ended up falling in love with a dynamic young player in Pittsburgh named Barry Bonds. The late 1980’s and early 1990’s were great times to be a Pirates fan, and I wholeheartedly jumped onto the bandwagon. It was a great ride, and I enjoyed every minute of it. Then Sid slid.
An unprecedented string of losing began, and the bandwagon emptied. The losing lasted 2 decades. But then two years ago, the strangest thing happened. They started to win. They were still in it at the All-Star break. They had another dynamic young player, Andrew McCutchen. The Pirate bandwagon started to fill up again. I saw new hats and shirts on the streets, kids just like me who were latching onto a fun new team. It’s really cool to see actual fans again.
As late as last night, the Pirates were in 1st place. It is highly likely that they’ll make the playoffs this year. They’ll have a winning season for the first time since I was (gulp) 16. As one who has endured the losing, this is particularly sweet to me. I’ve earned every bit of vindication, and I plan on celebrating it. Don’t get me wrong — everyone is welcome on the bandwagon. Especially those who are flying the Jolly Roger for the first time. By all means, come on in and enjoy the ride.
Inspiration is a fickle mistress. She flits in and out of our lives, seemingly at random, serving little notice before her course changes yet again. She wears many masks, often hidden from our view. We sit and we wonder what these feelings are that well up inside of us. We never see inspiration there, in the guise of a song or a movie, of a quote or a tweet. We obsess over the tangible, and it never occurs to us to question what drove us to those obsessions.
I started writing 10 years ago. It started as an exercise in self-discovery. I wanted to see if I could actually finish a whole book. 400,000 words later I had 2 and more importantly, my answer. They’re full of plot holes, poorly drawn characters, and enough grammar mistakes to make my 12th grade English teacher blush. But for all their warts, I can go back and read them and get wrapped up in all of the same emotions that drove me to write them in the first place. It’s as if they were somehow transferred into the words on the page. I got them out of me, and put them into their own place. They’re safe there, and I can visit them if I want to.
I’m writing a third novel now. The inspiration still comes and goes, as fleeting and random as ever. Age has made me a little wiser, though, and I’ve learned to grab onto her with both hands whenever I feel her presence. I let her drag me wherever she wants me to go. Most of the time, I plow through another few chapters of the next revision of the book. Sometimes, however, she takes me far away, to a place that has nothing to do with anything else I’m writing. That’s why I created a blog. I want a place where the inspiration can dwell. I’ll visit her here, and I’ll follow her where she leads me.