I texted "I hate my brain" to my wife, Kim, a little while ago, which caused her unnecessary anxiety, until I clarified.
You see, as I've touched on here, most recently in My gilded cage, Kim and I have been making plans, or working at making plans, regarding how we will move forward with our life together. It's not set in stone at this point, but there are a number of points we've become solid on.
One of those points has been me working on my writing, as a prose writer.
It's easy to write Me moviemaker when you're single and childless, even coming off a heart-wrenching failure of your own ability to get the job done.
Now, with a wife and growing boy, and an ever-growing tendency toward being a complete hermit, it feels utterly foolish. Sitting in my private space, spending no money, requiring few personal interactions, giving me all the freedom I need to work with Kim and Conan's schedules. It's really the perfect solution to all of our desires.
In no way do I even dream of being Steven Spielberg or Bryan Fuller or Stephen King, or even guys at quarter - or a hundredth, fercrissake! - of those guys's stature. They not only sound unrealistic to be, but completely undesirable. But being a guy whose novel writing hobby pays for itself, or even makes a couple extra bucks at it, seems plausible in a way that being a guy who does movie projects with the same result can't even approach.
And yet, every time I start on a really good creative tear, it's all about making a movie, in some form or another. It's a combination of image, motion, sound. It's something realized with collaborators. There's more to it than that, too, but those will do, things that would make some of them particularly special.
Working on prose is always a process of translating that into the other medium, and so far, the result have been, for me, entirely unsatisfying. I suppose that's the challenge I need to keep fighting until I get somewhere, but I haven't gotten anywhere close at this point.