Schmetterling

I used to say I had a saying, and it went something like this: When faced with a difficult choice between two seemingly otherwise equal alternatives, I'll always take the one which leads toward the greatest unknown. There's a poet by the name of Frost who said it just a bit better, but I like my version. Essentially, if I'm going down a road, I want to be surprised when I get to the end. Otherwise, why not just stay at home?

The butterfly flaps its wings.

One road led to a school in a far away town. It was a road down which I'd traveled before, but I'd be going with a friend. A dear friend. Still, not the road for me.

Flap.

I decided to keep at this writing thing, moved to the coolest place I could think of and made a lot of friends very quickly. Wrote a lot too. Most of the best of it with a man we'll call Buddy, who would later leave town to become a big mucky-muck at a small media company.

Flap, flap.

Buddy offers me a job at said media company. I take it. Do some good work there. Meet and work with a lot of people who will later go on to greater things, scatter like Monarchs in the Fall. But all things must end, and so does this one. I leave town and at this point, I think we're done. I get a real job, or as real as I can stomach, and plan to settle down and leave all this writing foolishness behind.

Flap, flap, flap.

I spend a lot of time reading a game site then manned by a guy we'll call Richie. Richie announces a writing contest and the prize is a game. I submit something, because I want the game. I get it. I decide to try again somewhere else, and I have success there, too. I'm a shark at this point, setting 'em up to take them down, but it's the internet. Who cares?

One of my shark attacks lands me a regular gig at a small site. It's nothing big at first, but it turns into a weekly column, and people like it. I'm content toiling away in the midnight hours, after my day job, perfecting my little nuggets of writerly goodness, and have no aspirations for anything more. In fact, I say as much at one point to another writer, let's call him Philipe, who at the time (as he is now) is pretty well known.

Flap.

On a lark, I send an article out to a pro game rag for consideration, not expecting much, but hoping it'll at least bring in a few bucks. The people who run this rag are familiar with my previous work at Buddy's place and I get published right away. It's a 10-1 shot, really. They offer me a job, and I take it. I'm now apparently a writer again. God help us all.

Flap, flap.

It's a good gig. I meet a lot of writers, including the guy Europa mentioned. One of them offers me a speaking gig at a conference on one of the coasts. It's a small thing, but somehow my boss is convinced it'll be the biggest of the year. Maybe I might have mentioned that. Maybe I read it somewhere. Or maybe it was just a little butterfly who told them. Or maybe I'm so enamored with the idea of speaking on a panel I'll say or do anything.

Flap.

I do my thing, survive, and start looking for the promised free booze. There is none. Boy meets girl. She mentions a name I know. I say "I know him." We chat. She's cute. She leaves. Day gets worse. Much worse. And the promised free booze never materializes. Life as a writer is hard.

Flappity, flappity, flap, flap.

I get home and find a card from girl in my pocket. I remember a few things she said and decide to look her up. One thing leads to another and we end up doing a little work together. And the doing is nice. She says something to me about pirates, and I think that's funny. A week later, when I hear from her again, I remember the pirate bit and her name brings a smile to my face. A smile which lasts for the next four hours as we talk and talk and fall in love.

You know why I like Chaos Theory? Because it's essentially a map of the road less traveled. Except, since the road is less traveled, the map is a bit fuzzy in spots. And like Conrad knew, it's in these empty spaces on the map, these hearts of darkness, where we find the greatest adventures. Or at least the most unexpected.

My high school guidance counselor told me that if I wanted to be a writer, I should go to school and study journalism. "But I don't want to be a journalist," I said. "I want to be a writer." I was foolish, as a teenager, but I had the right idea. Sort of. If I'd taken that well-traveled road and studied journalism at some school or another, I might be better-placed now, or making more money, or have been actually writing back during all of those dark times when I was just trying to get by. But I didn't do that. Instead I lived and flew on my butterfly wings from place to place, meeting people, doing things and accumulating a static charge that would one day dissipate at just the right place and time, bringing me to withing flapping distance of my love, someone I would never have met under any other circumstances.

Fliege, kleiner Schmetterling. Fliege.