The way I figure it, reality is like a “Keep Off the Grass” sign. You could obey it, but why?
I spoke yesterday about the fact, during the next month of my life, I plan on doing something that makes me anxious and uncomfortable every single day. I’m doing this to blast-through my anxieties and limitations, or some crap like that. I’m both dreading and looking forward to it.
Also, the idea bores the hell out of me.
Oh, I don’t expect it to actually be boring. I expect it’ll be challenging and inspiring and life-changing and all that. But the idea isn’t very interesting. I’m a fiction writer. When I wake up in the morning, the sweater dangling off of the top of my closet door is an annelid worm from the Missing World, here to dip its ethereal tongue into my mouth and drink the residue of my dreams.
Only today I woke up too soon.
And the television still playing episodes of Red Dwarf I’ve seen six jillion times from the night before is actually whispers from the future, trying to speak to me in a language only I, with my unreasonable deep connection to Red Dwarf from my egregiously excessive viewing, can understand. It’s trying to warm me.
About the worms. They’re getting hungrier. And they’re coming.
Or something like that, anyway. My point is that I’ve always been obsessed with fiction because as humans with brains we live in a tiny one-room apartment of quarks and inertia and dental enamel floating in an infinite sea of imagination. It’s never made sense to me to just stay in the room.
When I think about doing uncomfortable things over the next thirty days, my mind doesn’t want to stop with shaving my head and asking waiters in restaurants to fulfill crazy and awkward requests. I want to go much, much further.
So I will.
In addition to cataloguing my actual experiences with my discomfort-training over the next thirty days, I’ve started a new blog. There, my fictional analogue is going to do exactly the same thing. At the beginning, we’ll be doing the same uncomfortable things. Only he’s not going to stop where I would.
What’s more, there will be no indication whatsoever that this other blog is fictional. I won’t link back from that blog to this one, or mention this one, or in any way give away the game. Oh, the evidence will be there, obviously. I mean, I’m still going to use my real name. I’m not trying to fool anyone who digs to find out if it’s real or not. But maybe some people will read it. And maybe they’ll react.
Either way, it should be fun. And a little terrifying.
It starts tomorrow.