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Monday, March 21, 2005
Why is it that everyone who writes something expects the piece to be brilliant? Why is it that every time I write a piece I expect it to be brilliant? That’s the better question. I think that what stops me from starting a piece is the knowledge that it won’t be War and Peace when it’s done. I don’t really have that knowledge, by the way. I just have the suspicion looming over my shoulder that things will turn out that way. Maybe I look for that excuse, use it as a crutch. That’s what us strange types do, you know. That’s why we have therapists. I have a therapist. I cannot remember now exactly what my reasons for starting therapy were. Does that mean I’m shallow and looking for new reasons to talk to her? Does it mean that she’s good, and I’m cured of the original reasons, but now have a whole new set of reasons? I’m so confused. And there’s a reason right there, isn’t it. What I can’t wait to do is write about something besides myself. I know, I know, but you’re so funny, and you have all that angst, and then there are all those problems, what great material that must be. Well screw that. I want to write about Easter bunnies. I want to write about the grammar rule that says Easter has to be started with a capital letter. I want to write about what a mess my desk is. See, now I have myself back into the story. But I’m not the main subject! The mess is! What a release! I want to write about how much some commercials irritate me. And movies. No, not that movies irritate me, I mean just write about them. Maybe write one. About a nutcase with a typewriter. No, wait, I’m pretty sure Charlie Kaufman has that covered. Closing for tonight. Expect more. Much more. I do.
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