What Papa said

Who's up for a really passive aggressive blogpost? I knew you'd say that. Here we go.

I'm going to have to disagree with my pal Rich Siegel, wedding coordinator to the stars and proprietor of the infamous Round Seventeen blog. In one of his more recent posts, A Celebration of Birth, he makes a rather large, revealing statement near the end that sums up the difference between his approach to writing and mine.

I quote: "The thing is, I like to write."

The thing is, I do not.

Now, just so I don't sound ungrateful or unprofessional (and I may be too late already), let me clarify something right up front: I love writing for a living. You know, the kind that's creatively challenging, let's me dress like a fifteen-year old every day, surrounds me with wildly creative, funny people and pays the bills. When I say I don't like it, I'm talking more about the idea of sitting down to write as much as the actual act itself.

And of course, one man's essay is another man's agony. Rich likes it. I treat every assignment like I'm going to my execution.

I understand the best writers make it look easy. But by its nature, it's one of the most difficult of the arts.

In fact after juggling, crowd estimating and balloon animals, maybe the most difficult.

I suppose like most writers, if it came easier I'd enjoy it more. But that's Hemingway's point (I'm in no way comparing myself to Hemingway—my sentences are much longer). If you're going to reveal your true self in words, you have to be willing to go to the deepest, truest and most painful place.

I don't like going to those places. I prefer New York or Las Vegas.

If you've followed this blog for any amount of time—and really, you're never going to get those minutes back—then you know there are a few posts on here where, instead of going for the snarky laugh or easy shots, I've actually shined a light, dull though it may be, on my true self, my real life and my inner thoughts.

Not that anyone was asking for that. I know for a fact no one was paying for it.

The reason that kind of writing causes me nothing but anxiety and apprehension is because of this almost crippling fear I'll have nothing to say. In fact, a lot of people think I have over 900 posts to prove that.

My former office wife Janice MacLeod, who's written four maybe five books (who can keep count) including the fabulous Paris Letters, always told me two things. First, that venom was my best medium. I still don't believe that to be true, although that's just what someone whose best medium was venom would say. The other thing she said was just sit down, stare at the blank screen and eventually an idea for something to write about will come to me.

Again, 900 posts prove that may not always be the case.

My close, personal friend Cameron Young is always just completing or just starting a new screenplay. His enthusiasm for original ideas, story structure and writing is inspiring. Apparently not inspiring enough for me to put down the potato chips and the remote, stop bingeing Breaking Bad (again) and write a screenplay of my own. But, you know, inspiring nonetheless.

In spite of my unwavering resistance, all three of these talented, imaginative, disciplined writers are incorrigible encouragers, supporters and advocates of my writing. It is appreciated to a degree I'll never be fully able to express.

Certainly not in words.

I have another problem with opening up as a writer. And I say this with love—frankly, it's none of your business. As an only child, I've always felt the idea of sharing was just crazy talk. But I do recognize that sometimes it makes for good reading. So, you know, anything (almost) for my art.

What am I saying? That Hemingway was right. And if you think by reading my blog you somehow can glean the joy and sense of fulfillment from my words that writing brings me, I only have one thing to say.

You're reading the wrong blog.