(Photo by Chung Sung-Jun/Getty Images)
As many of you already know, I write differently than a lot of people. Not better. Just different.
I write sports and love the X's and O's, but I love to write about life's events; the stories that make the legends. I guess it's my niche.
The pages of the Bleacher Report are like an artist's easel. We start with a blank canvas and create our journalistic masterpieces. Sometimes about sports, sometimes about ourselves, some times about "Our Beloved" Bleacher Report and how "she" is growing up right before our very eyes.
My wife frequently reminds me that sports writing is my hobby and that chasing that elusive next job should be of greater concern. And it is. But writing is what gives me life. Writing is what gives me the confidence and courage to chase the next pay check. Writing allows me to get up each morning, get dressed, and build my confidence before trying to sell myself to the Five and Dime known as employment.
We are in the midst of financial confusion in the world today. I was laid off in November and have done everything possible to keep my head held high. I try to keep my spirits from getting stomped on daily by the reality of the situation. My friends consider me one of the lucky ones because they have to go to work, while I can play with my dog.
I smile every day despite not having a place to go. I suspect my friends think that unemployment isn't bothering me. My friends are wrong. They don't know how green their grass looks to me, how intimidating that Help Wanted section or Monster.com can be.
And so, in writing, I find solace. I find peace and tranquility. I have fans. I have friends that I've never met. Friends who tell me I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread. (Frankly, I like to tear mine off the loaf in chunks as opposed to slicing it).
But as writers, we have fears, too. Am I any good? Will they like me? What if I don't get any reads? Should I delete it or let it stay on my profile?
Metaphorically, we are sort of like the guy on the tight rope, balancing himself along the overhead wire of life. And no, this story isn't about sporting events per se, even though the World High Wire Championships are held every May. This story is about walking the high wire we refer to as Life.
And so...I present to you...The Tight Rope Writer:
Where nearly half a day earlier laid the desolate sun-scorched field, now stands a towering circus tent. Through the dark of night, erected pole by pole, rope by rope, draped with canvas the size of a football field, stands the once bright but now faded shroud of the Big Top.
The wind of the early fall morning races across the surface of the crisp brown grass, only to be blockaded by the tattered red and white tapestry that will soon house center ring. It is far too early to inhale the familiar odor of hot, buttered popcorn.
It is hours before the clown smears on his first fistful of white disguise. The ring master has yet to bellow his forever famous, "Laaaadies and Gennnntlemen," yet the excitement of the circus has the small Midwestern town bursting with anticipation.
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