Oh come come come into mummy's bosom my little possums! I have missed you derelicts, and I do hope you will forgive my truancy. I have been absolutely busy writing up a storm with commissions, screenplays, and pilots. I was just sitting here writing my speech for the keynote address, that I'll be giving at the ---Okay fine. None of that shit is true. I haven't been that busy writing. I mean if you consider crushing up Valiums, sprinkling them into my grits--and then sending tweets and text messages to people, well then-- yes, I have been busy.
Let me tell you--writing is not as romantic as they make it seem in the movies. You know the setup: The lone scribe, pacing back and forth in his agents office sucking on a ciggy, angry and frustrated. He/she is suffering from writers block. The agent tosses the scribe keys to his/her cabin up in Gods Country. The scribe packs a bag, hop in the Volvo and drives for hours. Arrives at a cute little bungalow, and their heart is immediately warmed by the serenity. Scribe molests a bottle of booze, and types away at the keys like fucking Amadeus to a Casio keyboard. Bunnies hop around and shit in the snow; stars shoot across the sky; the spider from Charlotte's Web is hanging out in the corner of the room, encouraging you to keep going--and all is write with the world. You make up brilliant dialog, construct a story that's unique and exhiliarating. You turn the draft in. It gets published. Adapted. Off Broadway. On Broadway. Film producers come, and fete you with offers. You accept. They cast your story with Tyne Daley, Melissa Leo, and Omarion (I don't fucking know, just go with it). They give you an associate producers title, the movie is a hit at all the festivals. And guess what?
You're a bless-ed winner!
You're rich! You got "fuck you!" money. Matter of fact, you can wipe your big ass with silk from Hermes. You go to gala's and give the highest bid on silent auctions. People invite you to panel discussions. NPR does stories on you, because you're like a modern day Ayn Rand, okay? You're Octavia Butler--Zora Neale.... And life, is a big old bowl full of watermelon and chicken. Oh yeah, when I'm rich? I'm eating that shit everyday. Fuck being afraid of stereotypes. Chicken is great.
Buuuut it doesn't always work that way. Most writers don't even have agents, or even artistic homes. Make no mistake about it-- I am quite fortunate in my young writing career. I've only been writing as a playwright since 2007, and I stumbled into it. I have lot to learn...and I have to go through this painful period in order to become good. Luckily I have professional support from my artistic home(s), but there are times I completely doubt myself and end up drinking cake batter through a straw and listening to Lionel Ritchie records.
I'm approaching an age, in my lovely 30s where I thought for sure, by now, I'd have it together.
God is good (all the time) and She knows my heart. I try not to meddle too much into my destiny, but there are some days that I just want to stand and shout "REALLY? REALLY GOD? C'MON????".
But I know better than that. The brain is a primitive, fickle fucking beast that has to be tamed. It takes a great amount of work to control that grey matter. And it makes no difference about your profession, age, so called status etc., The brain does not discriminate. It must be harnessed away from jealousy, paranoia, fear, anger, self doubt, deprecation and all of the crap that turtles in and out of our asses trying to block it all up. Well I for one refuse to be full of shit! Blocked up by fear or apathy! HEY BRAIN, THIS IS A NO SHIT ZONE OKAY? Release the sphincter dammit! You have nothing to loose, but your own shit! You hear me brain?! I am not going to continue a life that's full of shit! Are you with me people?! Now run to your windows, open them and yell "IT'S MY MONEY AND I WANT IT NOW."
I'm sorry, that commercial just makes me laugh. That has nothing to do with self help.
I won't be sucking at the tit of poverty forever because--well I'm a girl that has champagne taste, with Kool Aid money. By hook or crook, I'll get there.
And so will you possum.
NEXT BLOG: Am I the only one that still has sex dreams about Kenny Loggins?