Years back, in what seems like a past life, I was far more creative than I am now. I read incessantly, loved to act, draw, write, and really let my real self hang out for all to see. The "real self" could be wildly moody at times, and sometimes quick to judge, but it also had a far more interesting personality (at least by my take). Something of a mad scientist with the heart of an artist. So, where did this interesting personality go?

I really wish I knew. Some of it got lost trying to deal with being told to "grow up." At six foot one, I was plenty up. I knew what they meant, but I took my late grandfather's words to heart, "The moral of the story is: don't get old." I tried to stay young at heart, kept a fine sense of wonder and magic when and where I could. But reality kept creeping in. I just never seemed to fit in where I went.

The jocks would never accept me. I played soccer since third grade, but was never in fantastic shape nor would I slavishly follow the stats of my favorite baseball or football teams. To this day, I claim the names of a few local teams as my own and keep a few of their players in mind just in case someone asks me, "Didya see the game last night?"

The geeks accepted me, but I never really fit in. They were always discussing the latest in computer upgrades, video games, hacking, Robotech, Dungeons and Dragons, etc. I was always on the fringe of understanding most of what they talked about. I was smart enough to discern a circuit board from a carving board, but that’s where my technical knowledge died out.

The arty group was, well, too arty. They dressed in black or military surplus, listened to bands like The Smiths and Bauhaus, and usually discussed things that seemed either too heavy or bizarre for me to even get a grasp on. I felt like a man without a country.

And the women, well, we all know how old Bill Gates was before he got married. I was about that old when I got to date.

So I rebuilt myself. I learned to dumb down my conversations. I took to music with a vengeance. I sampled parts of this person’s personality, a little facial gesture from this one, a tempo for speaking from another. I was a walking hip-hop remix. I found I could make people laugh and people became like combo locks to me. I just had to come up with the right combination of sarcasm, slapstick, or one-liners to get them laughing. I made friends, went to some of their parties, learned more, and developed myself more. I kept refining myself down until now. The end result?

I still don’t fit in.

I have a great wife, a wonderful dog, a fine house, a good paying job, all the trappings of Middle America right down to the charcoal grill in the backyard. But for this, I gave up my writing, my drawing skills, and the creativity that I thought would leave me alienated for life. Sure, I can work on them, bring them back to their former glory, but it kicks my guts out to see what I used to do and how far my skills have atrophied since then. My drawings look like anemic squiggles. This blog, my only writing outside of work, seems thin and cheap to me. I’ve been told some read it, but the comments bin is usually dry. I feel like my third grade teacher Mrs. Moore will read one of these entries and give me a gold star because I was able to spell ‘vegetable’ correctly on the first try. I started this blog on the advice that I needed an outlet for my creative energy. Now I wonder, what energy?

This may be my last post for the blog, I really don’t know. Maybe someone can tell me what brings in readers. Maybe they can give me an idea on what to improve upon. Maybe they can tell me that there are too many blogs as it is and I should just pack it in while I’m ahead.

That’s all for now…