Bukowski said "A good writer knew when not to write." I couldn't agree more. I can't stand those smarmy writing "experts" who tell you that to succeed, you MUST write EVERY DAY. Hogwash. Writing a bunch of daily garbage for the sake of writing isn't a formula for success. It's an exercise routine, nothing more.
The last time I posted on this blog was December 14, 2012, the day of the Newtown massacre. After that, I just didn't really feel like I had anything to say. Certainly nothing in the spirit of Kaptain Kvetch, which I created to complain about life's trivialities, which, after the horrors of that day, seemed, well...trivial.
The ensuing months of 2013 have been difficult for me. I've been perpetually frustrated by the screenwriting trade, one disappointment after the next leaving me wondering if I have what it takes to succeed in this business. Lurking behind those doubts is the question of what else I could possibly do with my life to gain fulfillment and money - or at least just to kill the next few decades until I can call it a life.
The answer to that question is a great unknown, and it's burdened me with an unsettling feeling that grows weightier by the day. I used to think I wouldn't trade places with anyone I knew, all those friends with the boring day jobs whose lives are so predictable. Now, more often than not, I find myself feeling like I'd happily switch places with almost any of them (almost).
This past weekend, another senseless act of random violence occurred on the Venice boardwalk, a few blocks from where I used to live. These horrific episodes seem to be happening in greater frequency. I'm not sure why that is. I'm tempted to say this country is going to hell in a handbasket, but that's the sort of cliche old people have been spouting since the dawn of countries and handbaskets. And I'm not THAT old. Yet.
I am getting older, though. That's a reality I've become more aware and fearful of this year than any other, which is a trend I suspect will continue. And just like Newtown jarred me into a bout of depressive abstinence from writing silly blog posts, the tragedy in Venice may have contributed to flipping another switch in my head.
Maybe I'm not as good a writer as I fancied myself. Or maybe I am. Maybe my dreams of writing screenplays that actually turn into movies won't ever be realized. Or maybe it'll happen ten or twenty years from now. I don't know. Man, there's so much I don't know. About myself, my future, and everything else.
But I know when not to write.
The last time I posted on this blog was December 14, 2012, the day of the Newtown massacre. After that, I just didn't really feel like I had anything to say. Certainly nothing in the spirit of Kaptain Kvetch, which I created to complain about life's trivialities, which, after the horrors of that day, seemed, well...trivial.
The ensuing months of 2013 have been difficult for me. I've been perpetually frustrated by the screenwriting trade, one disappointment after the next leaving me wondering if I have what it takes to succeed in this business. Lurking behind those doubts is the question of what else I could possibly do with my life to gain fulfillment and money - or at least just to kill the next few decades until I can call it a life.
The answer to that question is a great unknown, and it's burdened me with an unsettling feeling that grows weightier by the day. I used to think I wouldn't trade places with anyone I knew, all those friends with the boring day jobs whose lives are so predictable. Now, more often than not, I find myself feeling like I'd happily switch places with almost any of them (almost).
This past weekend, another senseless act of random violence occurred on the Venice boardwalk, a few blocks from where I used to live. These horrific episodes seem to be happening in greater frequency. I'm not sure why that is. I'm tempted to say this country is going to hell in a handbasket, but that's the sort of cliche old people have been spouting since the dawn of countries and handbaskets. And I'm not THAT old. Yet.
I am getting older, though. That's a reality I've become more aware and fearful of this year than any other, which is a trend I suspect will continue. And just like Newtown jarred me into a bout of depressive abstinence from writing silly blog posts, the tragedy in Venice may have contributed to flipping another switch in my head.
Maybe I'm not as good a writer as I fancied myself. Or maybe I am. Maybe my dreams of writing screenplays that actually turn into movies won't ever be realized. Or maybe it'll happen ten or twenty years from now. I don't know. Man, there's so much I don't know. About myself, my future, and everything else.
But I know when not to write.
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