The perils of knowledge (part 2)

So then… the real danger of being well-informed, knowledgeable, and in that knowledge, to know yourself to be on point to brofist Socrates on the daily, is that you become your own worst enemy. Enema. You become your own… mental… enema. Got a cool idea?! LEMME GET THE HOSE! *FLUSH*

Why does this happen? HOW does this happen? Well, it’s a very simple, not complicated at all process. You know yourself to have gathered a decent amount of cursory knowledge on all areas of human experience. So you’ve read a bit, you can follow sheet music a little, you can carry a tune, you are sparingly versed in opera, theater, cooking, baking, edumacation theory, philosophy, you can solve brain teasers fairly easily, you ace logical and spacial-sequence based IQ tests and you have cracked the code on how to fold a fitted sheet. All good and well but when your brain is a dumpster for endless factoids, a whole chunk of your gray matter holds release dates of your favorite 90s movies, along with all sorts of basic survival skills, a spare sprinkling of actual adulting skills and SOME higher learning baggage, you start doubting whether any of it amounts to you being truly good at ANYTHING.

It’s like that super smart kid in high school, you know the one, clever, funny, talented, HELLA cute almond skin green eyes ashy blonde curls omg… *ahem*… yeah, that sunovabitch who may or may not have been your first kiss and then never wanted you for anything serious but you still THANK him for breaking your heart holy shit…  WELL, that mofo was good at EVERYTHING, but you still find out years later that he never made up his mind on what he wanted to be and do with his life so he just joined a string of crappy cover bands and snorted away his youth, got fat and made a couple of kids… ok, I made up that last part, but the idea still holds. Being too good at stuff and not having enough grit to follow through with projects seems to go hand in hand for some people.

So, I guess being any good at anything or becoming good at anything requires a good heaping dose of delusion and a fuck-it-all attitude. “I’ma  do it, and allow myself to suck”, that kinda deal. Or “I’ma do it and MAKE myself believe it’s the best thing ever, or use it as a step in a ladder that may or may not be cemented to the ground or leaning on anything or even ever going somewhere”.

I have made myself believe that I’m going to start writing the missing half of my novel in November, with views to finish it before the month is over. I think I have convinced myself this is really happening, because I’m already getting hot flashes from wave upon glorious wave of anxiety and feeling like this may be the boot that will crush my dreams like the innocent little cricket that they are.

I wish I had a friend in this process. A new friend for a new project, someone who actually finds anxiety-spurred diatribes charming could be just the thing. Are you it, kind reader? Drop me a line in the comments and tell me if you were at all impressed by the fitted sheet thing.