Weekends are no big deal to me, usually. I mean I have no set schedule for work, I work pretty much every day, doing what I want, when I want, how much I want, etc. Writers get to do that. The work is there, always there, so it's just a matter of spreading it out. I haven't had a 9-5 job in almost 15 years, and to be honest, I love it that way.
So the whole TGIF thing is lost on me. Thank God it's Friday may as well be Thank God it's quarter to four on a Wednesday morning. Really doesn't matter. I do work every day, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. The days all blend together.
But with the bum hoof leaving me homebound now for the fifth straight day, I'm more aware of the delineation of days, probably because I'm living every one, every 24 hour period of every day, here, right here, on the couch, my desk, the futon, bouncing between all of them on crutches. I know when it's Thursday because I can't wait for Friday because then it'll be Saturday which turns into Sunday and then Monday's gonna be soon and....so forth.
I have started every day with all good intentions of doing not just the usual work i do for the Globe and RI Monthly and other places, but finally getting started on a play I always wanted to write, or that book on my high-flying life as a flight attendant in the free-wheeling '70s. Every day, I tell myself, OK, this is Brain Dump Day, just gonna sit down and let stuff spill out, not worrying about context or spelling or comprehensibility, but just letting the thoughts that have been in my head forever take SOME shape on paper, or rather, screen.
Haven't done that yet. Always, I find an excuse, not so much verbally or even consciously, but just there, in my head, oh, well, I had this to do first, then that, then something else.
it's crap, of course, there's no excuse. This guy I met in the hospital, Ernie, the IT guy for Pawtucket schools, wants to write a book, he'd always wanted to be a writer, and said from talking to me, he's inspired to finally get going on one, maybe start down a new path in life. I'd told him to just do it, no excuses, just fire stuff out, write it down, don't think about the long-term consequences, just purge yourself, do the stream-of-consciousness thing and it'll take shape as the universe intends it to take shape.
And yes, it's a case of physician, heal thyself inasmuch as I GIVE great advice but can't take my own. But I will. I have to, too much going on inside my head driving me nuts, must get it out, get it down, tell the story even if no one else reads it.
I mean what the hell am I waiting for, what am I afraid of? Success? Failure? Little of both? Not sure. I should be afraid of not making the effort to succeed or fail. Someone once said the worst day of your life is the day you wake up and realize you never even TRIED to realize your potential. True that. I mean, I do a lot of stuff I LOVE doing, stuff I'm good at, I've realized my potential in chunks, some here, some there. But the bigger things, the overall things, the more encompassing things, the things that come with the tagline "projects," not so much. Writing a play is a project. Writing a book is a project. Not at least trying to do that is a sin against self. It hurts no one but me. And since I've often been accused of it always being about me (I'm not arguing that point, just stating it), gotta stop hurting me and set about starting - and finishing - a project.
Get busy living, or get busy dying. Man, I love great movie lines, and that's a good one. So are book lines, and I'm now reading "The Way of the Peaceful Warrior," by Dan Milman, which they made into a Nick Nolte movie, which I'll watch after I finish the book. One thought in that was it's not sad when someone dies. It's sad if they haven't lived.
Pretty deep thoughts for a weekend.
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