Another day, another headache.
I’ve got a good amount of work to do for this week, yet I do not feel motivated to finish any of it. I’m so close to just collapsing on the floor and staying there – I’m really fighting off the urge.I don’t get why I feel like this at times. I so very much want to cut off all contact with family, friends (the few that I have), and the world in general. It’s not hatred or dislike; I just feel overwhelmed by it all. I never used to be like this.
I’ve mentioned several times on this site (well, before I started removing the posts) that I have an interest in Star Wars. I didn’t as a child, at least not for the subject matter, per se; I wanted to be a filmmaker and the team behind Star Wars was very good at sharing some of that information with the general public. I bought scripts and art books by the dozens at one point. I used to have the various books based on the production of the various Star Wars films, and was quite proud of that. This opened the door to other published screenplays and film-notebooks, and again, I collected these with a passion. A rare, and really interesting set that I once owned were the notebooks of Spike Lee, who documented his films from their genesis to post-production; those were not only a wealth of information, but a veritable film school in each volume. Lee published one for each film until 1992, but I had them all and enjoyed them. I’ve long since lost my Star Wars books (they were literally stolen from me and destroyed), and like an idiot, I gave away all but one of my Spike Lee books because I needed to prune my shelves and thought that those had outlived their usefulness. I still kick myself over losing those collections.
I didn’t go into film production because I didn’t believe that I’d be any good at it. And if I couldn’t sell the idea to myself, I certainly couldn’t sell it to my father, and that would have been the one to convince. My father only wanted what was best, and I appreciated that. He would have pointed out all of the pitfalls to film work – notably, how so many people enter a profession with so few actual jobs – and he’d have annoyed the crap out of me about it. That’s no lie, either. Dad would have researched the topic thoroughly and pointed out every pitfall and obstruction the field contained, and done his best to discourage me. Again, this was out of love, not malice; he didn’t want me to spend a fortune on school with no real-world prospects. And truthfully, he was right.
About two years ago, I was approached by a bonafide Hollywood producer. He wanted to make a movie from a book that I’d written. He couldn’t reach me, so he called the university office, where they took the message and eventually got it to me. I was dumbfounded, and in my excitement, I contacted him from my home the next day. I called, expecting that he’d remember who I was (I mean, he started this), but it took him a minute or two to remember that he’d called for me, first. With my ego slightly bruised, he told me to call him back in ten minutes – he was trying to arrange financing for his next film with a client in Portugal.
Our conversation was short and sweet – he liked the idea of making a movie based upon my book, but wanted me to write the screenplay and send him a copy. Then, he’d have “his people” (a term that I didn’t believe they actually used in Hollywood) spice it up if necessary. “All a movie is,” he said, “is a collection of scenes. Write a scene, then another, and then another. It’s easy.” I told him that I’d start and hung up. We’ve never said another word to each other, but he reawakened that dream I’d once held rather dearly. I bought a book to help me write this screenplay but Real Life™ arrived and put an end to it all. I wonder what my father would have thought of all of this. He wouldn’t have said, “I told you so;” he would have been tickled by the prospect of me becoming a “Hollywood type,” though. Actually, he would have been pretty proud by the phone call alone. My mother, on the other hand, would have started looking for a dress to wear to the Oscars®.
I don’t know where all of this is coming from, other than the fact that I have a headache and I’ve been inexplicably mulling over the past. I think that I’m feeling sorry for myself, but I don’t know why; I really don’t need to do so because I’ve a good life. Maybe I’ll just go back to bed. The work I have to accomplish will be there, whether I chip away at it today or not.