Why

by phoolishdreamer

If you’ve ever endeavored at writing a letter, story, or manifesto, there’s always some sort of reasoning or passion behind it. So, you open up a blank page on track to write down your thoughts, and then everything suddenly comes to a standstill because nothing is being written.

I had this particular conversation with a friend weeks ago (but it feels like months ago) on the writing process. He fancies himself a writer, but like most, he says that his writing is no good and often worries if his readers will respond correctly. With my years of unpublished knowledge, I told him to sack up and just write, because each second spent worrying about what readers will think, is one second that words aren’t being produced on the page.

Of course, he came back at me with the side-arguments and stipulations of being in his position and the ramifications that’ll befall him if he says the wrong thing. It all sounded legitimate — as in legitimate whining. (To be fair, he is a pastor.) It didn’t change the fact that if he didn’t write, he’d have nothing written. And if you don’t have anything written, did you have anything of value to offer?

I mean that rhetorically, for while although most stories have been told, it’s always the angle, the viewpoint that matters more than the content. The unsaid ah-ha moment that rings like a chime through the zeitgeist. Unless what you wrote sucks — then you should probably reconsider even picking up the pen.

And then, weeks (or months) later, I hit a snag.

I’m part of two different writers’ groups where we workshop our ideas and give notes. The last few sessions for each, however, I came up empty-handed because I didn’t revise anything I had written, nor had I written anything new worth sharing. I sat there like most philosophers and façade Christians, just critiquing and analyzing — never implementing.

I confided in one of the writers that I had sort of lost the drive to create anything for my medium because in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t seem that important in comparison to the business and networking aspects. However, what I wanted to say was what’s the point? We all end up in the ground anyways, whether in a box or in a ditch, and whatever legacy left behind usually ends up being ground down and blown into the annals of history.

So she asked me this: why do you want to write, and why for film and TV?

When I initially thought about it, there really was no good reason. I didn’t like working in an office, I had no translatable technical skills, and I hated how systematic everything in corporate was. For all intents and purposes, I should’ve been a construction worker.

Essentially, I just hated people and the rat race that we live in and perpetuate. Naturally, it probably would’ve been easier to just kill myself when I realized that, but I’m also pragmatic, and I wanted to see how things would play out. I’m also a chicken. And I’m sure Jesus wouldn’t want me desecrating myself in that way.

So after I got over the existential hurdle of the question, I realized that I just really like writing. Like visual arts and music, it’s a true creative medium, with only your imagination and vocabulary posing as limitations. An easy pick for a kid that didn’t have any friendships that lasted longer than three to five years. (I eventually did make life-long friends. Really, I did.)

But why film and TV? Curveball.

I actually had to think harder about that one. I recalled the reason why I left Seattle in the first place, but not so much why I pursued film — why I did. It’s not an industry that you dip your toe in and assume you can swim. It’s also not somewhere you can give your list of demands or dreams and expect them to be met.

If I’m to be honest, it’s where crazy people go to take advantage of others, trounce over those that are weaker, speak ill of one another, and eventually die. I’ve seen more ugliness in five years than I should see in a lifetime, and most of it wasn’t even directed at me. Watching friends I’ve made in the industry get pummeled by other people talking out of their asses, is truly one of the few things that makes my blood boil.

And when I calmed down, the only answer I could come up with is two-fold: nothing better to do, and no better challenge.

That’s really all it is.

If 2020 has show me anything, whatever tower you thought you’d erect to make your monumental claim is ultimately built on sand. Any relationship built on under false pretenses or incorrect assumptions collapses faster than a Kevin Spacey TV series. Of course, I say this all while drinking bourbon in the middle of the bonfire that is the pandemic because a part of me feels like I’m ready to go.

But what 2020 also has shown me is that anything you deem remotely worthwhile, still needs a bit of elbow grease. And elbow grease comes from exercise, from constant trying and failing, from getting back up and taking one in the nut-sack. You have to move to be alive, and you have to jump in order to reach.

And sometimes, you just gotta be crazy — but in a good way.

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