So yes, I’m aware that I left the same crap entry up for like four days. But I have reasons!

Friday I saw Capote. I have to mention that because it was, far and away, the best movie I’ve seen all year. It may even be my new favorite, which is saying a lot. It’d be a tough call against Breakfast at Tiffany’s, though, which I guess isn’t that surprising. So, you know I don’t do this much, but I’m insisting you see it!

Saturday was Amanda’s Bon Voyage/Birthday party. That involved a few bars in Chinatown, a Saturday Night Fever dance floor, a homeless guy having a vocabulary square-off with me, and seeing several old faces (most of which I hadn’t run into in over 10 years). No one fell.

Then there was Sunday. Sunday, I had an epiphany.


I was standing on the balcony outside a friend’s apartment, looking off into the midnight blue, and thinking about this freelance artist who was working in our office doing sketches last week. I thought to myself, how great would that be, to perform a creative task (drawing for him, writing for me) and to complete the work undisturbed for the most part, be really devoted to it? How great would that be, to write all day? It doesn’t have to be a story, or a script, or a poem. I’d be happy writing whatever silly old thing someone needed. I’d be happy writing. I’d like to be a writer.

What?

I’d like to be a writer.

First time in two and a half years I’ve thought, or said, that I’d like to do or be anything. Granted, this “epiphany” was something I already knew. I wanted to be a writer all my life. But then it stopped. When things got real, and it was time to go toe to toe with the possibility of failure or success…I balked. I didn’t want that, I didn’t want anything. I started floating down a stream, here and there bumping into chances that put me where I am today.

Now I just have to figure out how, and go do it.

Somehow, that seems easy. The hard part for me is not developing or carrying out a plan…it’s deciding what I want, and deciding that I deserve it. Before, I held myself back by feeling like I could never do anything well enough to ask someone to pay me for it. And now, I guess I just don’t care as much about all that. I’d much prefer having to say I Failed, rather than I Never Tried.

Only in the last year have words started trickling out, a few at a time. I’ve found a couple of muses. Although sometimes I don’t know if poetry is worth the misery they put me through.

In the last several weeks, though, I feel something different happening. Something big is moving inside me, an enormous gear that has been quiet and still, slowly creaking back into motion.