Still have problems reading quietly on a quiet night in a comfortable chair. Still daydreaming about things that would make you laugh like a loon. (I'm actually writing that play, called "Her Again.") I am not silver haired and sixty-one years old in my fantasies and the avatar only works with fantasy men. And fantasy publishing and fantasy productions. I mean, you got to sit down and write the damned thing, on a quiet night in an office chair; and then you have to take your crippled old ass out to sell it and pray they don’t dismiss you without a reading. It was demographics, I know!
And what is this fascination with me? I have to famous! I have to be rich and win prizes. Me! I deserve it because...because I want it..? I’ve been playing that damned tape for fifty years and it’s so not the era of tape any more. I should at least transfer to an MP3 player...if I could afford one. It has to be earned and you cannot think of the Producers as Assholes and Idiots. You have to find a way to get through to them. That's part of being an Artist, like it or not.
But, what’s wrong with just going outside on a nice Spring day and taking a walk? Why not? Am I depriving the world of my great gift or renewing it? I’ve spent far too much time on line and in Facebook and have the scars to prove it. Blogging every day even though no one reads any of them. Trying to find clever postings and the most interesting news...ENOUGH!
I’ve blown it. Wasted everything in life both personal and professional and yet, giving up is not an option. I know I can’t relive the past. The only day we have is today. But sometimes, I can’t help wondering if the fact that I don’t slow down and relax is one of the reasons I accomplished nothing. That, and ten years of self-pity that ended last year. One more blog. One more posting to Facebook. Read the damned Neruda and learn something, Reinhard.
You’re running out of time.