Today we’re writing at home, but with distractions. Pandora is on the computer, and someone (else) is cleaning the house. [If someone (else) were not cleaning the house, I would be cleaning it, and hence, not writing. House cleaning is a primary means of writing avoidance, so I avoid doing it whenever possible.] The refrigerator is another big distraction, not to mention the pantry.
Pandora just got the “pause.” I cannot write with music playing. Also, the mic picks up the music at odd moments and I suddenly see words appearing on my screen all by themselves, like “Me and my cousins and you and your cousins it’s a line that’s always running.” (Stupid software understands Vampire Weekend better than it does me.)
However, when I am forced to write in a café or something, I can often tune the music out if it isn’t too obnoxiously loud. And if the talking is a dull roar, that’s okay, too. On the other hand, if someone is sitting right next to me having an intense conversation, that’s a killer. Suddenly nothing in the world is more important than whether she finally got the top she wanted at Ed Hardy or whether the stupid idiot texted her back. Or whether he understands the nature of the job and is willing to put in extra hours for no pay. (For the experience.) Sigh. Other people’s lives are so much more interesting than mine.
Writing this blog is, of course, the ultimate distraction. Because I’m actually writing, so it doesn’t qualify as writing avoidance! And I can futz with the template for hours, I tell you, there is nothing more fascinating than deciding what it will look like. And I haven’t even launched! Will today be the day I announce this blog to all my “friends” on Facebook? (If so, scroll down and read the posts in order, dammit!) Will I click on the “monetize” link and start selling adspace? Then I can start obsessively counting my hits and followers--will anyone click on the ads? How many pennies will I make? Will this blog make me famous so the studios will be begging me to write screenplays for them? Or will it make me so rich I'll never have to write a screenplay again?
Hmmmmmm . . . must ask agent.
Now I'm facing the fact that it's been over a week and I've yet to take myself on a single "artist's date." I had such great plans, sitting out on Dockweiler Beach. I was going to go to Union Station to admire the architecture. I was going to check out the Renoir exhibit at LACMA. But why bother when I can look at pictures of it all from the comfort of my computer? And have the refrigerator close at hand.
But I will be back in my shrink's office tomorrow admitting that I failed. I did not break out of my box. I did not open up my head. I did, however, get halfway through the re-write of the outline of the big commercial movie.
A thought to ponder: who's a better writer, the one who is contented and secure, who comes from a place of honesty and compassion, who looks at the world with inquisitiveness and without judgment? Or the miserable, depressed, lonely wretch who looks at the world with sarcasm and contempt but is really, really smart? Discuss.
