The Ricky Bobby Summertime of the Soul

In Talladega Nights, Will Farrell played Ricky Bobby, a man whose habits trended to the absurd. One of them, a comedic gem of the highest quality, was the fact that Ricky Bobby never knew what to do with his hands during an interview. 

It was painfully awkward to watch. Hilarious? Undoubtedly. Distracting and cringe-worthy? Always.

Of late, I feel like I have slowly morphed into Ricky Bobby. Only instead of being unsure what to do with my hands, I’m not sure what to do with the fruit of their labors. 

I sit down, day after day, and realize that I don’t know what I should write. Often, I don’t even feel that I should write. I can’t bring myself to edit my works in progress anymore. It feels like each decision I make is worse than the last. I read, I re-read, I quibble, I make a change and then delete it. I stare fixedly at the page, willing myself to do the real work of being an author. 

Time and time again, I am rebuffed. I don’t know what to do with words anymore. 

They’ve become such an intrinsic part of who I am that I don’t even realize it anymore. My every text is laced with the experience of the last seven years. I can’t even write a message at work without it being painfully obvious that I wrangle words for fun. 

Yet that is no longer really true. I had so many plans at the start of this year. So many things I wanted to do to get my career really going. To feel that I was an author in truth instead of just in name. 

Then things went belly-up and have done nothing but get worse since. 

So here’s me, hands held in front of me in such a painfully awkward display that I feel like the whole world is laughing at me for it.

I only hope I can find once again the place where they are supposed to rest before I lose all the gains that I have made with seven long, painful years of personal growth.

RickyBobbyfully,

The Unsheathed Quill