When I think back on last year, the accomplishment I am most proud of, is my play. It was just me, my laptop, and my imagination. I poured the very best of myself into it, and the fruits of that labour look promising. There were times I felt as if the play were writing itself. It was perhaps the best creative high I’ve ever experienced.
I’m having a hard time writing my current project. I just can’t pour myself into it like I have with past projects. The subject matter is something I know a great deal about, and the culture is also something I’m familiar with. The first episode is 95% complete, and it’s a pretty good treatment. The next five episodes will also be of similar quality, but damn… I need a kick in the ass! I am being paid to write a TV series and that’s exactly the kind of gig I covet above all else. Why can’t I approach it with undiluted pleasure?
My energy is all knotted up like some kind of knot factory making knot after knot after knot. All those knots are coated in a bullet proof teflon layer of guilt. Pure liquid guilt poured generously over top of all those knots. And the whole knotted thing gets further tied into a giant fuckwad package of angst.
More than anything, I’d like to be me, being me a week from now, sitting in Atlantis writing about how I finished the sixth episode last night and the whole thing is brilliant and the giant fuckwad package of angst went off somewhere, far off away from me, to go eat a giant bowl full of dicks. Furthermore, I wish that, that other me was on the job right now, churning away at all those episodes so I could be free to drink beer, or masturbate, or watch episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer while chewing on turkey breast sandwiches and thinking about how great life is because some other me is off somewhere being brilliant so I could just go ahead and be me doing nothing but writing in my blog, talking about how great I am.