First off, I have to apologize for not updating this. Personally, it’s been a rotten year. From a distance, it wouldn’t look like it - I’ve probably made more money this year than in previous years since I went back to work as well as receiving a pension. Because of that, I’ve been a bit more head-above-water than in previous years, although inflation puts the sting in most everything.
But personally? I’ve never suffered from more self-doubt than I have in 2023. Going back to work may have been good in the wallet, but self-esteem-wise it was a carpet bombing. I stopped writing. My day job takes a lot of my creative energy, even though it doesn’t feel particularly creative. The website I write reviews for, Vital Thrills, is in something of a transition period (can’t get into more detail than that) and the result of that is that I couldn’t post paid reviews anymore, at least for the time being. Market and internet forces can be thanked for that. Writing skills may seem like a marketable skill, but I guess it doesn’t compare with having straight teeth and vapid viewpoints and a decent halo light-slash-camera. Sound bitter? Yeah, maybe.
I’m still doing the podcast and enjoying it, - actually, this year I feel like we’ve hit a real rhythm that I dig. But I suck at self-promotion and while Craig and I have been at it for more than 7 years now, it’s never really taken off to a level that I would like. Craig busts his ass, so I think that onus is on me. But I think we put on a good show - funny, insightful, and just geeky enough but not so much as to turn normies off. Some of my favorite episodes are from this year - check out our ROAD HOUSE episode with Annie Bulloch. That one’s a lot of fun.
I’ve also watched friends find success and while I am incredibly happy for them, knowing they put in the work, it makes me loathe myself even more. Regret is a house, full of rooms, with many doors and hallways, winding staircases and secret passages, but it’s a house that you only went through the front and out the back. I know writers often feel this way about their own skills and talents. I know that. But I can’t seem to work through it. Writer’s block is literally a weight that needs to be lifted - it’s not for lack of ideas, it’s the fact that there’s this huge fucking boulder in my path and I can’t seem to pick it up and toss it aside. It makes me feel like a failure.
It’s weird that the things I love don’t make me happy. Things, not people, you understand. I love the people in my life. But I surround myself with comforts and escapism and none of it brings me anything but momentary joy. My hobbies begin to feel oppressive, and I miss people something fierce but can’t seem to make the personal connections except rarely. I’m not as mobile as I used to be, either - foot and vision issues keep me from doing much visiting with people. I pretty much can’t drive at night anymore. Houston is a terrible place to live when no one you care for is close to you in proximity, because it sucks to go anywhere here that isn’t less than 10 miles away and involves a freeway. People have lives and crises and none of the wheels turn in synchronicity with your own except in passing moments. These past few years have also broken all of us in fundamental ways and relating to people outside of your closest circles can be a challenge.
I miss people, though. I am constantly questioning my place in this world, and I have no idea how I come across to others - am I that weird dude who can only talk about movies? Can I find common ground and relatability with other people that doesn’t involve them? I’m not into much anything else. I don’t talk sports, I avoid political discussions like the plague, and I hate talking about work. Everyone’s struggling, too - I know quite a few people looking for jobs, and all of us are having to rethink our entire lives because only a very few of us actually get to do what we want to do for a living. Everything else is just maintenance, custodial, picking up the trash of our lives and taking it to the curb twice a week.
I get angry, too. I rage. You don’t see it - hell, I don’t even let Tami see it, but I want to burn everything down. I have this weird fantasy that in the post-apocalypse I’ll roam the countryside in a pickup truck with my 4K movies, a projector, a generator, and be the Pied Piper of entertainment. That’s actually a comforting fantasy to me, and it’s a little messed up. A good friend of mine told me I should look into doing some community theater, but I wouldn’t know where to start, and frankly, unless someone literally pushes me out the door or gives me a roadmap it’s probably not something I will actively pursue. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.
They say writing is a muscle, and I can buy that metaphor, but for someone like me averse to even walking past a gym I think writing is more like a car. Some of us have sports cars, and some of us have dinky Toyota Corollas. But if you don’t drive it once in a while, even the nicest car can rust to shit. See, that metaphor sucks. And I don’t know how much love I have for writing when, in the world of A.I. articles and the lowest common denominator monetizing their shitty opinions to the point that they dominate the conversation, it’s a struggle to be given any kind of recognition or even heard.
It’s a cacophony out there, and the wisest course for a lot of us is to pull back, to take in less, to be selective in what we consume and not be afraid to be outside the zeitgeist and just… let shit happen without you. Writing, and expressing yourself, may be a form of release, but it’s also about ego. We all want to be listened to and given weight to our words. We all want to be taken seriously, and we all want people to laugh at our jokes. Whenever someone tells me that I should write for myself, I have to give them a little side-eye because that’s not exactly true. And the longer I do this, the more aware I am that no one’s listening. So it’s hard to find the point of saying anything if the room is empty. I’m just talking to myself.
I don’t know what 2024 will bring. Will I pivot to something else? Will I keep writing? Will I make peace with the fact that it just might not happen with me? There are aspects of my life that I am happy with - my home life feels like a sanctuary to me right now, so that’s something. Maybe that should be enough - for a lot of people that is enough, and more power to them. But I have that… let’s call it creative acid reflux, inside me that makes me never satisfied and always looking for something more. It feels like a burning in the chest and it takes a lot of the joy out of things that in the past have brought me comfort. And, like I said, I’m not in the best shape physically. I ignore a lot of physical warnings. I’m probably a lot like my dad that way - I don’t want to complain. That didn’t turn out so well for him.
I hope, at least, I’ll be able to dust this off and write more for those 4 of you still subscribed to this. I do feel like there’s something stirring in me about this year in movies that I want to write about, but I want to see a few more 2023 releases first before making any big proclamation. Right now it’s a tie between OPPENHEIMER and GODZILLA MINUS ONE, and I have strong feelings about how those films complement each other but it’s been difficult for me to articulate in the way that I feel good about. That might come in a couple of weeks.
Thanks for reading.
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I hope thar you find a way. I could give you a inspired take but I am not as good a writer than you and I sure as hell have never been paid for it, which could be a good thing at times. Please write with passion and use it for good.