It was nearing 1:40 am, and I knew if I didn’t pick my sorry ass off of the couch, I wouldn’t be able to get another drink tonight, because this was California, and they stopped selling alcohol after two. I was already about four drinks in, and I didn’t want to drive ‘cus I already had a DUI, and if I got another one, I knew I couldn’t afford it. For me, it was enough to feel the buzz, but not nearly enough to reach the “click” as my favorite Tennessee Williams character, Brick, would call it. No, it was a Friday night, and I was definitely going to feel the click tonight. Especially after grading the thirty papers of chicken shit poetry I had to read care of the ninth grade class today. Oh, I could probably pay a lawyer to lose, (cus that’s generally what they did when you were fucking guilty) and I could probably stand to pay all the extra fines, added my long list of minimum credit card payments, but I was a teacher who worked for the state. I’d been given a second chance, and I had a feeling that asking for a third might be a bit much. Plus, with all those new expenses, it’d be harder to pay for the booze. No, it wasn’t worth it. $10,000 buys a hell of a lot of liquor, even in Hollywood, where you could go to a club and drop three hundred dollars on a measly seven hundred and fifty milliliters. Even if I gave the cocktail waitress a pretty hefty tip, I could buy a bottle at a nearby club once every weekend for over half a year before I’d go through that money. I wasn’t one to go out to clubs very much anymore, but I did know the value of the almighty dollar. I was going to have to put on some pants.
I got up about eight minutes later, which would still give me about ten minutes to make it to the nearby Seven Eleven, the last and least desired purveyor for adult beverages this time of night. Had I just gotten up from the futon a mere twenty minutes earlier, I might have been able to make the seven block walk to the Safeway, where they had the lowest prices, and they rarely ever check for your ID as long as you look over twenty five. I’d learned this when I had my driver’s license taken away a year back, (they do that when you they arrest you, and make you pay $125 to get it back) and the nearby Ralph’s wouldn’t let me buy my six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I’m over here getting some cheap ass hipster beer, and getting rejected like I’m some punk eighteen year old kid. Needless to say, I hadn’t been back to Ralph’s for over a year. I loved the great selection they had, but I didn’t much enjoy the embarrassment. Yes, the Safeway was always the best option, but tonight, Seven Eleven would have to do, because when you’re lazy, your options are few.
I made the trek with time to spare, leaving a few minutes to peruse the fine wine selection that the convenience store had to offer. The best wine they had was Kendall Jackson, which I was actually a bit impressed by, but this clearly was no winery. Of course, they marked it up to the point of ridiculousness, so you really weren’t getting what you were paying for- they were charging Coppola prices. Next. I was feeling in a white wine mood, so I looked around for my usual, Sauvignon Blanc. It had a nice taste to it, sweet but not too sweet, (depending on the winery), not too dry like a Pinot Grigio, and not too feminine, like a Chardonnay. They had a few options, including Yellow Tail, which was worse than the ninth grade poetry, and I made sure to avoid like the plague; Sutter Home, which was usually only reserved for those desperation moments like when you had an empty flask on a six hour flight; and Castle Rock, which I decided would be the winner of the day, because I had three minutes left until my deadline, and I’d actually had it before. It was dryer than what I was looking for, but it was going to have to do. I said a little prayer when I handed over my debit card, hoping I wouldn’t overdraft on my account, since my direct deposit wouldn’t be coming in until the following morning. My prayers were answered, and I thanked the clerk, like a priest who had just forgiven me for my sins.
I stepped out of the store at exactly two am, which was prime time for Murphy’s Law in Hollywood, so I had my guard up in case someone wanted to remove me of my six dollars, and the bottle of lower-middle class wine that I had on my person. I had walked a few blocks before I noticed the police lights that were up ahead on the left side of the street. I usually made an effort to avoid the police at all costs, (after my bad experience) but the street was a direct path to my apartment, so I decided to rough it. Police lights at this time of night in my neighborhood were pretty normal anyway. Besides, I wasn’t doing anything wrong- I would keep to myself, and keep it moving. As I came closer and closer, it looked as if there had been some sort of accident, because I saw a car stopped in the middle of the street, and it was flanked by two cop cars on the front and back. There was no second car though. It looked as if the car had knocked into a bus bench on the sidewalk, because the entire canopy was laying on its side.
The more I walked forward, the less I wanted to see. I wished at this point that I had walked around the entire block. I saw what looked to be a few young kids, maybe early twenties, sitting on the curb. Two of the females were crying. One of them was a young man, and he was talking to the police. I’m pretty sure he was answering the very same questions I had become haunted by for the past year. ‘Have you been drinking tonight?’ ‘Could you step out of the car please?’ ‘Would you like to take a breathalyzer test or a blood test downtown?’ I knew the accident happened recently, because there was no police tape, which would have been necessary for the next horror that caught my eye. I saw two young people on the right side of the street laying face down. They must have been hurt real bad because I couldn’t see them moving. There were two more police officers who were standing over them, trying to resuscitate them, but being careful not to move the bodies too much. I call them bodies because even though I was still about forty feet away, I had a feeling that they weren’t breathing. The EMT’s hadn’t arrived to the scene yet, and these young officers seemed ill-equipped to perform a miracle tonight.
Knowing there was nothing I could do to help the situation besides say a quick prayer, I kept walking. I kept walking when I was thirty feet away; twenty feet away; ten feet away; on the scene; ten feet past the scene; twenty feet past the scene; thirty feet past the scene- I didn’t stop. Each step made me feel like I had a cinder block attached to my shoes. I felt every horrible, agonizing, step. I knew I had done nothing, but I felt responsible. I felt guilty. I had clutched so hard to the Castle Rock inside the left side of my coat, I was sure it was warmer by at least ten degrees. I was probably going to have to chill it later. I pulled out my keys on the doorstep, a mere two hundred feet from the scene, and I dropped them on the ground. Nerves. I picked them up and went inside. The television was still blaring. I’d left it on. I had been watching some nonsense-riddled comedy on Netflix whose sole intention was to make us forget about life for awhile. Escapism, that’s what they called it. I turned it off. I didn’t want to watch that movie anymore.
Every next step I took felt like it was in slow motion. I had checked out. My mind was in a different place, but my body knew the routine. I found my wine key on the kitchen table, I opened up the Castle Rock, threw in a few ice cubes in a wine glass to compensate for the warmth that the bottle had accumulated from the journey, and poured. It felt like I could see every drop that came from the bottle and went into the glass. I hesitated. I needed to sit down first. My hands were shaking as I brought the glass to my lips. I wasn’t so sure if I was going to feel the click tonight. I wasn’t sure of what I was going to feel anymore after that night. I knew one of those kids.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Friday, March 7, 2014
The Speech
Though it’s hard to see through the traffic jam that has infested my mind,
I search for the most explosive ideas to explore and pass the time.
Sometimes it comes out like verbal diarrhea,
And it’s easy to find words that rhyme with onomatopoeia,
But right now, I couldn’t even poeticize a sunset,
Probably couldn’t even write the lyrics for a song filled with dub step.
I guess I could sit down and think of something quite charming,
If I had a buffer to stop me from focusing on the most alarming.
I need a new outlet for recording these thoughts,
Cause if they stay in my brain, it will end up in knots.
There’s a need to express, and a need to be heard,
Still, I want you to hang on every frivolous word.
I wanna spit this on a beat and you make you feel inebriated,
Without drinking a sip or popping a pill, let’s be sedated.
I suppose there doesn’t have to be some big grand scheme,
If it sounds good when spoken, you’ll get what I mean.
I suppose there’s no terror in a loosely structured narrative,
Though some sort of thru line would be absolutely imperative.
I don’t dumb things down if you know what I mean,
But I’ll put one thing out there- plain, simple, and clean.
I’m speaking about the creative process,
I’ll take you on a ride, so try not to get nauseous.
Because on this journey, there’s hills, valleys, and peaks,
It’s a twisting, narrow road that has no patience for the meek.
In the beginning, you must take a dive,
Those who tread lightly, find it hard to survive.
Once the coaster gets going, hold on to your seat,
I’m giving you all the answers, so please be discreet.
It all starts with an idea that they call inspiration,
Though it must not be confused with mere imitation.
See this is for the creative- not a journalistic publication,
Take it to Hollywood if you long for duplication.
Pay attention when your writing gets lazy from frustration,
Keep ending with the same suffix, and your readers will take a vacation.
You have to switch it up, so approach this quite consciously,
And try not to end every line with a word that rhymes with me-
Because we,
Inevitably,
Will slowly,
but surely,
and subconsciously,
Tune out everything,
That you are saying.
You see?
So please-
Keep the rhyme in a jazz like format,
Improvising on every line, so the words don’t fall flat.
Again, it doesn’t matter what you’re talking about,
This is a point where I must leave no doubt.
You can have a poem discussing criminal forensics,
But it must read well and flow well, this is most intrinsic.
You can have the greatest subject in the world,
Without style as well as substance, nothing will be unfurled.
A missed opportunity, a waste of some minutes,
Without truth, poems never reach their true limit.
So while sounding nice is all hunky dory,
It’s hard to relate if there is no story.
Usually it starts with a beginning, middle, and end,
Though in many poems, on only one of these can you depend.
Sometimes they start, but don’t seem to finish,
Sometimes they end, leaving you unreplenished.
Poems are whispers to the soul and should be treated as such,
If the words don’t have any feeling, then they don’t have much.
Writers are the gatekeepers who explain life to us,
So their words must go beyond the vain and self-righteous.
The words must have metaphors, the words must have meaning,
They should have symbols, so we are constantly gleaning.
This is important, and yes all of these are musts-
You want to give your readers someone to confide in and trust.
So adhere to these thoughts and you just might succeed,
Or just do the opposite and address your own needs.
But if you want to be a writer and actually get read,
You’ll probably have to do at least some of what I said-
Tell the truth, and tell it plainly,
Talk to the heart, it’s always explaining.
Say what you know, say what you don’t,
Listen to others, say what they won’t.
Whatever you do, just keep it exciting,
You’ll get better and better, I just put it in writing.
See this is the speech that you’re going to need,
When everything sucks, and your own work you won’t read,
This is not the story of the fabulous life of a writer,
It’s a call to arms to those who are destined to inspire.
I cannot explain how important you are,
Your words can travel from here to far.
They say that writers never die,
Their words can survive when demand meets the supply.
We are compromised only by the limits we choose,
We are the winners, we make the rules.
So when you realize how fast time flies,
You’ll see how little can be accomplished before your demise.
You must write everyday cause there is no time to waste,
Most of what you write will be commonplace.
So you have to keep going and dig very deep,
Every now and then, you’ll find something you can keep.
What they say is true, writing is rewriting,
Through draft after draft, we bring the truth out of hiding.
While this may be the hardest thing you ever do,
I promise if you stick with it, your heart will stay true.
Yes there’s a chance that you’ll never get published,
This isn’t for fortune or fame, we’ve already discussed this.
So if think this is you think this how you will support your life,
You better prepare for a big heaping of strife.
Most writers don’t make money from what they write,
And it’s not just because their work is dull or just bites.
If it were easy, everyone would be a writer,
But it doesn’t take long before most lose their desire.
Most of your work will be thrown away,
Yet you still must come back to it day after day.
If you can’t love the process, you’ll eventually cease,
The voice of inspiration will decrease and decrease.
You’ll tell yourself, wow this isn’t so important,
I need to find something that will actually pay my mortgage.
You’ll go off and be happy like everyone else,
Or you make have a breakdown for your heart has been shelved.
You made the easy choice, so accept it as fate,
Perhaps these words came to you much too late.
Don’t beat yourself up, not everyone makes it,
And don’t be so bitter, there’s no reason to hate this.
Bui if you are ready to receive your true calling,
Get on the train, it’s leaving, why are you stalling?
This is not the road to health and success,
If you do it past fifty, you’ve truly been blessed.
I don’t promise happiness, or that you’ll be fulfilled,
But it can give you peace, and your soul will be still.
So write, write, write, write, and keep yourself going,
The rewards will be many, so don’t stop the flowing.
When they get you down, just remember this,
Your words last forever, you will always be missed.
I search for the most explosive ideas to explore and pass the time.
Sometimes it comes out like verbal diarrhea,
And it’s easy to find words that rhyme with onomatopoeia,
But right now, I couldn’t even poeticize a sunset,
Probably couldn’t even write the lyrics for a song filled with dub step.
I guess I could sit down and think of something quite charming,
If I had a buffer to stop me from focusing on the most alarming.
I need a new outlet for recording these thoughts,
Cause if they stay in my brain, it will end up in knots.
There’s a need to express, and a need to be heard,
Still, I want you to hang on every frivolous word.
I wanna spit this on a beat and you make you feel inebriated,
Without drinking a sip or popping a pill, let’s be sedated.
I suppose there doesn’t have to be some big grand scheme,
If it sounds good when spoken, you’ll get what I mean.
I suppose there’s no terror in a loosely structured narrative,
Though some sort of thru line would be absolutely imperative.
I don’t dumb things down if you know what I mean,
But I’ll put one thing out there- plain, simple, and clean.
I’m speaking about the creative process,
I’ll take you on a ride, so try not to get nauseous.
Because on this journey, there’s hills, valleys, and peaks,
It’s a twisting, narrow road that has no patience for the meek.
In the beginning, you must take a dive,
Those who tread lightly, find it hard to survive.
Once the coaster gets going, hold on to your seat,
I’m giving you all the answers, so please be discreet.
It all starts with an idea that they call inspiration,
Though it must not be confused with mere imitation.
See this is for the creative- not a journalistic publication,
Take it to Hollywood if you long for duplication.
Pay attention when your writing gets lazy from frustration,
Keep ending with the same suffix, and your readers will take a vacation.
You have to switch it up, so approach this quite consciously,
And try not to end every line with a word that rhymes with me-
Because we,
Inevitably,
Will slowly,
but surely,
and subconsciously,
Tune out everything,
That you are saying.
You see?
So please-
Keep the rhyme in a jazz like format,
Improvising on every line, so the words don’t fall flat.
Again, it doesn’t matter what you’re talking about,
This is a point where I must leave no doubt.
You can have a poem discussing criminal forensics,
But it must read well and flow well, this is most intrinsic.
You can have the greatest subject in the world,
Without style as well as substance, nothing will be unfurled.
A missed opportunity, a waste of some minutes,
Without truth, poems never reach their true limit.
So while sounding nice is all hunky dory,
It’s hard to relate if there is no story.
Usually it starts with a beginning, middle, and end,
Though in many poems, on only one of these can you depend.
Sometimes they start, but don’t seem to finish,
Sometimes they end, leaving you unreplenished.
Poems are whispers to the soul and should be treated as such,
If the words don’t have any feeling, then they don’t have much.
Writers are the gatekeepers who explain life to us,
So their words must go beyond the vain and self-righteous.
The words must have metaphors, the words must have meaning,
They should have symbols, so we are constantly gleaning.
This is important, and yes all of these are musts-
You want to give your readers someone to confide in and trust.
So adhere to these thoughts and you just might succeed,
Or just do the opposite and address your own needs.
But if you want to be a writer and actually get read,
You’ll probably have to do at least some of what I said-
Tell the truth, and tell it plainly,
Talk to the heart, it’s always explaining.
Say what you know, say what you don’t,
Listen to others, say what they won’t.
Whatever you do, just keep it exciting,
You’ll get better and better, I just put it in writing.
See this is the speech that you’re going to need,
When everything sucks, and your own work you won’t read,
This is not the story of the fabulous life of a writer,
It’s a call to arms to those who are destined to inspire.
I cannot explain how important you are,
Your words can travel from here to far.
They say that writers never die,
Their words can survive when demand meets the supply.
We are compromised only by the limits we choose,
We are the winners, we make the rules.
So when you realize how fast time flies,
You’ll see how little can be accomplished before your demise.
You must write everyday cause there is no time to waste,
Most of what you write will be commonplace.
So you have to keep going and dig very deep,
Every now and then, you’ll find something you can keep.
What they say is true, writing is rewriting,
Through draft after draft, we bring the truth out of hiding.
While this may be the hardest thing you ever do,
I promise if you stick with it, your heart will stay true.
Yes there’s a chance that you’ll never get published,
This isn’t for fortune or fame, we’ve already discussed this.
So if think this is you think this how you will support your life,
You better prepare for a big heaping of strife.
Most writers don’t make money from what they write,
And it’s not just because their work is dull or just bites.
If it were easy, everyone would be a writer,
But it doesn’t take long before most lose their desire.
Most of your work will be thrown away,
Yet you still must come back to it day after day.
If you can’t love the process, you’ll eventually cease,
The voice of inspiration will decrease and decrease.
You’ll tell yourself, wow this isn’t so important,
I need to find something that will actually pay my mortgage.
You’ll go off and be happy like everyone else,
Or you make have a breakdown for your heart has been shelved.
You made the easy choice, so accept it as fate,
Perhaps these words came to you much too late.
Don’t beat yourself up, not everyone makes it,
And don’t be so bitter, there’s no reason to hate this.
Bui if you are ready to receive your true calling,
Get on the train, it’s leaving, why are you stalling?
This is not the road to health and success,
If you do it past fifty, you’ve truly been blessed.
I don’t promise happiness, or that you’ll be fulfilled,
But it can give you peace, and your soul will be still.
So write, write, write, write, and keep yourself going,
The rewards will be many, so don’t stop the flowing.
When they get you down, just remember this,
Your words last forever, you will always be missed.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
A Magic Trick
And now... a magic trick.
I'd like you to observe the photo below.
.jpg)
Just a normal guy, right? Nothing special to see here.
But, is there more there than meets the eye? What if one were able to alter that look.
A little tightening here, a little stretching there...
Here is my hypothesis-
I believe I can take this normal looking guy, this unknown, out of work, theater actor,
and replace him with someone different.
With nothing up my sleeves- just a bit of hard work and some elbow grease,
I will transform this nobody into a somebody.
Though I can't guarantee him any success- I will make him resemble a Hollywood Star.
I hate to give a timeline for this daunting (though satisfying trick, but I believe it
will be finished by, oh, let's say June 1st, 2014.
Extra points for me if the results come early...
You can check back every few weeks to see the progress.
You can wish me luck,
But I won't need it.
I've been training for this trick my entire life.
Let it begin.
I'd like you to observe the photo below.
.jpg)
Just a normal guy, right? Nothing special to see here.
But, is there more there than meets the eye? What if one were able to alter that look.
A little tightening here, a little stretching there...
Here is my hypothesis-
I believe I can take this normal looking guy, this unknown, out of work, theater actor,
and replace him with someone different.
With nothing up my sleeves- just a bit of hard work and some elbow grease,
I will transform this nobody into a somebody.
Though I can't guarantee him any success- I will make him resemble a Hollywood Star.
I hate to give a timeline for this daunting (though satisfying trick, but I believe it
will be finished by, oh, let's say June 1st, 2014.
Extra points for me if the results come early...
You can check back every few weeks to see the progress.
You can wish me luck,
But I won't need it.
I've been training for this trick my entire life.
Let it begin.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
It's Late and I'm Still Writin'
I went to sleep too late tonight,
I have more drafts to write.
Telling stories about the ones I've known,
Tellin' yall bout the seeds unsown.
Life ain't nothin but doing what you can,
takes too long to see the short span.
I've tried and tried to make it worthwhile,
Nowadays, it seems there's too many forced smiles.
I'll end it much quicker if I know you got the message,
Hope you don't need liquor to receive this last vestige.
The knowledge I write comes from pain-earned experience,
But still keep a sharp eye when you do your due diligence.
I have more drafts to write.
Telling stories about the ones I've known,
Tellin' yall bout the seeds unsown.
Life ain't nothin but doing what you can,
takes too long to see the short span.
I've tried and tried to make it worthwhile,
Nowadays, it seems there's too many forced smiles.
I'll end it much quicker if I know you got the message,
Hope you don't need liquor to receive this last vestige.
The knowledge I write comes from pain-earned experience,
But still keep a sharp eye when you do your due diligence.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Stream of Consciousness Poem 9-25-13
I'm here and I can't move
I've lost so much
Don't know how to reclaim it all
Pulled in two to three to four different directions
Trying hard just to float
Can't pay the bill
Love life monotonous
Success fleeting
Don't know what I fight for anymore
Don't know what makes me smile
What is it I really want
Used to know, could give an answer.
Hope is whatever,
No longer feel clever,
People dying all around me,
Trying to sleep soundly,
Can't see outside of the muck,
I feel stuck.
Can't get out of this mess,
got some serious shit to address,
Coming up on a life crisis,
Want to quit but don't know what the price is,
How can I support a family,
Can't even carry me.
Want to write something uplifting
Don't think that's gonna happen
Haven't written a poem in a while
And this is all I can come up with
Defcon two
Time to panic?
Probably should just meditate or pray
Do I still know how to do that?
Talent wasted
The path leads to a dead end
It was all a search for truth
Honesty hurts.
I've lost so much
Don't know how to reclaim it all
Pulled in two to three to four different directions
Trying hard just to float
Can't pay the bill
Love life monotonous
Success fleeting
Don't know what I fight for anymore
Don't know what makes me smile
What is it I really want
Used to know, could give an answer.
Hope is whatever,
No longer feel clever,
People dying all around me,
Trying to sleep soundly,
Can't see outside of the muck,
I feel stuck.
Can't get out of this mess,
got some serious shit to address,
Coming up on a life crisis,
Want to quit but don't know what the price is,
How can I support a family,
Can't even carry me.
Want to write something uplifting
Don't think that's gonna happen
Haven't written a poem in a while
And this is all I can come up with
Defcon two
Time to panic?
Probably should just meditate or pray
Do I still know how to do that?
Talent wasted
The path leads to a dead end
It was all a search for truth
Honesty hurts.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
1-10-13
Not too much to report today... I worked a double at the restaurant, so this is the first that I've been able to write all day. I just got finished reading a pilot from one of my writing partners about young folk living in LA. It seems pretty good, and I can't wait to put my mark on it, but I have to wake up early for the internship tomorrow. I'll get started on the rewrite for the pilot after work, and I'll come up with something interesting to say on this blog as well.
Before I go, I would like to say that I was able to find a GREAT 24 hour coffee shop in Santa Monica, minutes away from my job. I came here tonight right after work, and I love it! It's called 212 Pier- I just wish i had known about it when I was still living in Santa Monica.
212 Pier - Isn't it beautiful?
Something about writing in Starbucks and Coffee Bean just doesn't feel right. It's like writing in a McDonald's- not the most inspirational environment for a sensory-aware writer like myself. I can read in those places, but being creative there feels icky and corporate. Next time I want to write a formulaic romantic comedy, (re: never) I'll write there. Here, there's art on the walls, and books everywhere. I'm adding it to my list of go-to coffee shops, along with the Bourgeoisie Pig in Hollywood, Cafe Insomnia in Miracle Mile. Urth Caffe and Cafe Intelligentsia are coffee shops that I love as well, but they are better served for holding meetings. I can actually create here. I can't wait to see what's in store... I'm gonna go home now and finish Midnight in Paris, and try to get some more dreaming done.
See you tomorrow,
PDubs
Before I go, I would like to say that I was able to find a GREAT 24 hour coffee shop in Santa Monica, minutes away from my job. I came here tonight right after work, and I love it! It's called 212 Pier- I just wish i had known about it when I was still living in Santa Monica.
Something about writing in Starbucks and Coffee Bean just doesn't feel right. It's like writing in a McDonald's- not the most inspirational environment for a sensory-aware writer like myself. I can read in those places, but being creative there feels icky and corporate. Next time I want to write a formulaic romantic comedy, (re: never) I'll write there. Here, there's art on the walls, and books everywhere. I'm adding it to my list of go-to coffee shops, along with the Bourgeoisie Pig in Hollywood, Cafe Insomnia in Miracle Mile. Urth Caffe and Cafe Intelligentsia are coffee shops that I love as well, but they are better served for holding meetings. I can actually create here. I can't wait to see what's in store... I'm gonna go home now and finish Midnight in Paris, and try to get some more dreaming done.
See you tomorrow,
PDubs
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Born Again
Something happened today. I don't really know where it started, but in the beginning of the day, before the sun rose, before I could hear the sounds of those around me waking to the new morning, I was reading. I was reading a manuscript- a young adult sci-fi novel that I was determined to finish today, on my first day back at my internship at the literary management company that I work for. The holiday season had just just ended, and I was recovering from the two week break that is customary for most companies in Hollywood. I had initially prepared to spend most of the break by working more, sleeping, and reading, so I asked for extra work to take home my last day in the office- how ambitious of me. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the break would consist of more sleep, and more work at the restaurant, but also very little reading, and a good helping of drunken debauchery, presumably excused by my subconscious as a tool to generate more writing material; however, after this last time in beautiful Nevada, I am quite determined that next time, I will simply use my imagination for story ideas. I would much rather do that than be forced to recover from the physical and emotional bruises incurred on the trip. But I digress.
I finished reading the manuscript later in the afternoon- it was a good story. I thoroughly enjoyed its futuristic tale with a strong feminine lead, but as a guy, I would have liked more action. In any case, it wasn't just this book that had me feeling differently today. I do remember that my co-workers were telling me that I could go home by the time 6 pm rolled around. While they usually stay until 6:30 or 7, they are being paid for it, so why was I still there? I was in the zone, I told them. I felt compelled to finish the coverage on the book I had read, and I was going to finish it right there in that office, and not risk losing my momentum by stopping halfway, and continuing my report at the cafe down the street. Still, this was not abnormal behavior. I've done it once or twice before, and never felt weird about it, so this feeling must have been coming from somewhere else.
I came home and watched a documentary on Lenny Bruce that I had borrowed from the library. I'm not a comedian, but after watching the film, I felt much empathy for the plight of this man, who seemed to have a cursed penchant for telling the truth. It was a tragic story, but I did appreciate the man for what he was trying to do. Yet, this still wasn't it... Wait, it might be coming back to me. Earlier in the day, I had been doing personality quizzes to find out what type of writer I am. A few of the quizzes were okay, and some were arbitrary, but one of the quizzes told me that I was Ernest Hemingway-like, in that i preferred to write in a fashion that gets straight to the point, unlike William Faulkner, (whom I also respect) who had a liking for those ten thousand dollar words. I know that this had something to do with it, because I was reminded of how much I loved the movie Midnight in Paris, a film in which Hemingway has a great role.
I threw on the movie and enjoyed every minute of it again, having seen it only once before. Hemingway did say some inspirational things, but it wasn't just him. I believe it was seeing the manifestations of all these great writers on screen being romanticized (along with the city of Paris, which I also desperately miss) in the way that only Woody Allen can do. It led me to my old bookshelf where I found all the great novels I was forced to read as a kid- A Farewell to Arms, The Great Gatsby, and of course, The Catcher in the Rye, which was the single most influential book in creating a desire in me to write. But it wasn't the Catcher in the Rye that influenced me this time. I didn't even take it off the shelf. Along with the aforementioned classics, I discovered a book that I believe I bought in college, or may have been a present- I honestly can't remember- called Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul. If you grew up in my time, you'll know it as part of the book series that became immensely popular in the early 2000's, to the point where I am sure there is probably a Chicken Soup for the Iron Welder's soul by now. Anyway, this book basically has these short stories that are meant to inspire and uplift, and it's a wonder that I didn't find it earlier than I did, as I have been searching high and low for inspiration recently, and it never occurred to me to look at the book before that moment- I haven't read it in years.
In the book, I read a story by Ray Bradbury that really hit me, about writing every day and loving it, about being mad and not caring, about being a fool, and doing it anyway. it was stories like this, and other stories, including one about a businesswoman diagnosed with breast cancer in her 40's, who started to write comic strips about cancer. It was unbelievable- I got chills down my spine and through my entire body, because it was like they knew exactly what I needed to hear, before I even heard it. There were these stories of real people, people who existed, some of them who are still with us, and others who are not, but all of whom are like me... They're not all unapproachable, pretentious geniuses that were given divine inspiration to craft their stories onto tablets of stone, they were people who had a strong desire to tell stories.
I know I'll never be Hemingway. He wrote a Farewell to Arms at thirty, and while I'm not quite there yet, all I have are a few short screenplays and some unfinished treatments. But that's what I realize now- it doesn't matter. All of them started with a blank canvas. Like Hemingway says in the movie, there is no reason to fear death, all men who have lived before us did it, and all men will continue to do it when we are gone. Well not everyone writes, but those great writers did. They did not fear it- they wrote even when they thought the result would be terrible, or even though it might not be well received, they wrote anyway. I see that now. When I was a youngster reading Salinger, it was only the beginning of the desire, but it's the actual writing and re-writing, and editing, and throwing away, and writing again that makes you a real writer- not the dream of being a writer, or just sitting around thinking about it, or telling people at cocktail parties that's what you do. It's the not going out when your friends want you to. It's the not caring about the latest box score of the last pro basketball game, and it most definitely is not the worrying about which pretty girl you will have on your arm on Friday night. It is a calling. I do not expect non-writers to understand. Because before today, I did not understand. To be honest, most of me saw writing as a way to get myself into a higher social class, or as a way to keep myself from being bored when there's no acting work to be had. I feel that it is a shame that I called myself a writer prior to this day, because I did not write for the right reasons, and that's why I had problems finishing stories. I wrote not to inform, not to entertain, not to enlighten, not to teach, but as a means to an end- as a simple respite from boredom, or a frivolous scheme to make more money than I already do now.
I have been tempted on many sides recently, and as I get closer to the the prime of my life, I have begun to question myself almost everyday, why did I want to become an actor? It's much easier to choose as a career when you don't have to actually make a living from it. It's a lot harder when you have bills to pay, and you can't get any work. In the documentary, they asked Lenny why he did what he did, and he said simply that it was fun. It wasn't about the money. That's how I feel about it too, but my problem with acting is that I rarely ever get to do it- let alone be compensated for it. Being who I am today, I have a problem with that. As a result, I finally understand the place that writing has in my life. Nobody can stop me from doing it. If they steal my computer, I'll write in a notebook. If they steal my notebook, I'll use a tape recorder. If they break my tape recorder, right along with my hands, I'll get someone to dictate for me. They can stop me from acting, but they cannot stop me from writing. That's what I've been too blind to really understand before today. Honestly, it may have been something I've even said before; but with an idea so simple, it's almost like rote memorization. When you study, you can memorize nearly anything by heart, but it takes actual application and practice to understand what you're learning, and why.
After all these years of telling others exactly who I am, it has come full circle, and I've finally convinced myself. I believe.
I'm a writer.
I will dream well tonight.
I finished reading the manuscript later in the afternoon- it was a good story. I thoroughly enjoyed its futuristic tale with a strong feminine lead, but as a guy, I would have liked more action. In any case, it wasn't just this book that had me feeling differently today. I do remember that my co-workers were telling me that I could go home by the time 6 pm rolled around. While they usually stay until 6:30 or 7, they are being paid for it, so why was I still there? I was in the zone, I told them. I felt compelled to finish the coverage on the book I had read, and I was going to finish it right there in that office, and not risk losing my momentum by stopping halfway, and continuing my report at the cafe down the street. Still, this was not abnormal behavior. I've done it once or twice before, and never felt weird about it, so this feeling must have been coming from somewhere else.
I came home and watched a documentary on Lenny Bruce that I had borrowed from the library. I'm not a comedian, but after watching the film, I felt much empathy for the plight of this man, who seemed to have a cursed penchant for telling the truth. It was a tragic story, but I did appreciate the man for what he was trying to do. Yet, this still wasn't it... Wait, it might be coming back to me. Earlier in the day, I had been doing personality quizzes to find out what type of writer I am. A few of the quizzes were okay, and some were arbitrary, but one of the quizzes told me that I was Ernest Hemingway-like, in that i preferred to write in a fashion that gets straight to the point, unlike William Faulkner, (whom I also respect) who had a liking for those ten thousand dollar words. I know that this had something to do with it, because I was reminded of how much I loved the movie Midnight in Paris, a film in which Hemingway has a great role.
I threw on the movie and enjoyed every minute of it again, having seen it only once before. Hemingway did say some inspirational things, but it wasn't just him. I believe it was seeing the manifestations of all these great writers on screen being romanticized (along with the city of Paris, which I also desperately miss) in the way that only Woody Allen can do. It led me to my old bookshelf where I found all the great novels I was forced to read as a kid- A Farewell to Arms, The Great Gatsby, and of course, The Catcher in the Rye, which was the single most influential book in creating a desire in me to write. But it wasn't the Catcher in the Rye that influenced me this time. I didn't even take it off the shelf. Along with the aforementioned classics, I discovered a book that I believe I bought in college, or may have been a present- I honestly can't remember- called Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul. If you grew up in my time, you'll know it as part of the book series that became immensely popular in the early 2000's, to the point where I am sure there is probably a Chicken Soup for the Iron Welder's soul by now. Anyway, this book basically has these short stories that are meant to inspire and uplift, and it's a wonder that I didn't find it earlier than I did, as I have been searching high and low for inspiration recently, and it never occurred to me to look at the book before that moment- I haven't read it in years.
In the book, I read a story by Ray Bradbury that really hit me, about writing every day and loving it, about being mad and not caring, about being a fool, and doing it anyway. it was stories like this, and other stories, including one about a businesswoman diagnosed with breast cancer in her 40's, who started to write comic strips about cancer. It was unbelievable- I got chills down my spine and through my entire body, because it was like they knew exactly what I needed to hear, before I even heard it. There were these stories of real people, people who existed, some of them who are still with us, and others who are not, but all of whom are like me... They're not all unapproachable, pretentious geniuses that were given divine inspiration to craft their stories onto tablets of stone, they were people who had a strong desire to tell stories.
I know I'll never be Hemingway. He wrote a Farewell to Arms at thirty, and while I'm not quite there yet, all I have are a few short screenplays and some unfinished treatments. But that's what I realize now- it doesn't matter. All of them started with a blank canvas. Like Hemingway says in the movie, there is no reason to fear death, all men who have lived before us did it, and all men will continue to do it when we are gone. Well not everyone writes, but those great writers did. They did not fear it- they wrote even when they thought the result would be terrible, or even though it might not be well received, they wrote anyway. I see that now. When I was a youngster reading Salinger, it was only the beginning of the desire, but it's the actual writing and re-writing, and editing, and throwing away, and writing again that makes you a real writer- not the dream of being a writer, or just sitting around thinking about it, or telling people at cocktail parties that's what you do. It's the not going out when your friends want you to. It's the not caring about the latest box score of the last pro basketball game, and it most definitely is not the worrying about which pretty girl you will have on your arm on Friday night. It is a calling. I do not expect non-writers to understand. Because before today, I did not understand. To be honest, most of me saw writing as a way to get myself into a higher social class, or as a way to keep myself from being bored when there's no acting work to be had. I feel that it is a shame that I called myself a writer prior to this day, because I did not write for the right reasons, and that's why I had problems finishing stories. I wrote not to inform, not to entertain, not to enlighten, not to teach, but as a means to an end- as a simple respite from boredom, or a frivolous scheme to make more money than I already do now.
I have been tempted on many sides recently, and as I get closer to the the prime of my life, I have begun to question myself almost everyday, why did I want to become an actor? It's much easier to choose as a career when you don't have to actually make a living from it. It's a lot harder when you have bills to pay, and you can't get any work. In the documentary, they asked Lenny why he did what he did, and he said simply that it was fun. It wasn't about the money. That's how I feel about it too, but my problem with acting is that I rarely ever get to do it- let alone be compensated for it. Being who I am today, I have a problem with that. As a result, I finally understand the place that writing has in my life. Nobody can stop me from doing it. If they steal my computer, I'll write in a notebook. If they steal my notebook, I'll use a tape recorder. If they break my tape recorder, right along with my hands, I'll get someone to dictate for me. They can stop me from acting, but they cannot stop me from writing. That's what I've been too blind to really understand before today. Honestly, it may have been something I've even said before; but with an idea so simple, it's almost like rote memorization. When you study, you can memorize nearly anything by heart, but it takes actual application and practice to understand what you're learning, and why.
After all these years of telling others exactly who I am, it has come full circle, and I've finally convinced myself. I believe.
I'm a writer.
I will dream well tonight.
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