The days have been hot. Unbearable. The sun beating down, cooking me inside out.
Nonetheless, I made it a point to leave my house, however high the heat was said to crank. I've been putting it off for too long: Writing.
My brain has been in turmoil over this. I felt like this massive fraud, to myself and to others when people would ask what I do.
side note: It's f**king crazy how much gull, or perhaps lack of etiquette, some people have when they first meet you. The conversation can turn down a road where you suddenly wish to jump off this fast moving train that's about to crash.
I've often been asked, "So, what do you do?" which is cool, normal. "I write, scripts mainly," I reply, cause it's true. It's what I do. "Wow, that's so cool. Like for movies?" they perk up. "Yeah." I nod, trying to keep it short, cause sometimes after this it can get weird, like Entertainment Tonight weird. I write cause I love to write, not to meet Tom Cruise. "So, that brings you money?" they prod on. "Well, not yet, but I hope to make a living from it some day. I'm trying to get better with each script." I answer, knowing where this dull stroll is going. "But how do you make a living? How much do you make? Where do you live?" they keep poking me with the ugly stick, cause yeah, we've just met, like a minute ago, let me also share with you the first time a boy broke my heart and the first time I got my period. "I work on sets, when opportunities comes up, work part-time here and there," I answer thinly, cause you've totally turned me off as a human being. "And you can survive on that?" they continue.
Like I've mentioned before. Passion sucks. Having a passion for something, something that's close to your heart is the most full-filling yet gut-wrenching thing ever!
But back to being in turmoil-
It's been a while since I sat my ass down and wrote something. My mind has been clogged, fuzzy as f**k. I couldn't snap out of it. I thought I was done in, that my love for story and writing would never return. I was lost in f**king Wanderland, wandering like a ghost, grasping nothing, cause everything would slip past my fingers, like water.
Knock on wood, I think things are changing. Finally! The tide I knew well, once before, is starting to crawl back to shore. My brain is thawed, my fingers agile, my ears seduced by the clacking sound of the keyboard, my Starbucks card on constant reload.
Side note: Even after five cups of coffee, when my head hits the pillow, I'm out.
I'm adapting a script from a novel I wrote years ago hoping one day it would be adapted into a script. I had some interest from agents in NY, but I was too yellow, too young, the time wasn't right, I wasn't hungry enough, who knows? I'm hoping the re-structure finds it news legs.
But I shouldn't say more. I feel like I've said too much. I don't want to spoil it.
