I thought I would do this in conjunction with my regular writing. This will be nothing more than my thoughts on life and writing. This has become more than just a job writing about football, this has become a rediscovered muse.
I wrote a little over a year ago about the disoriented muse and how that had sapped much of my creative drive to write. Last fall, that drive returned with a vengeance and I am taking the muse as seriously as ever. Writers, well, we are narcissistic by nature. We have this weird, strange feeling that our thoughts and words are somehow worthy of being read. And, even if they are not read by many, we feel as if this is still something so critical to get into the world that we simply force our way into a consciousness that really does not want much to do with us, and yet we continue.
I have been watching Californication. And, aside from the fact that Hank Moody somehow gets more ass than a one-hit author should deserve, and he drinks like he is Hemingway and Faulkner wrapped into a better looking package, I find his disorientation somewhat familiar and somewhat pathetic all at once.
the only thing I really dislike is the incessant need the producers have to make a happy ending at the conclusion of each season. Not every love story has a happy ending. Not every person lives in a nice neighborhood where crime never happens. Sometimes when you don’t use a condom, you get diseases.
And sometimes when you write, no one listens.