28 December 2008


I gots it.

That mood or state of mind where you metaphysically just sit in a puddle of tepid gutter water and make half-hearted splashing slaps as you blow a long lazy raspberry,


I have stuff I could be working on -- should be working on -- but right now I am just flat-lining on the old give-a-shit meter.

I'm sufficiently self-aware to understand the seasonal nature of this problem -- I always tend to get the blahs around Christmas time (nothing new there) -- but increasingly there's the issue of the movie biz mostly rolling up the sidewalks from Thanksgiving until Groundhog's Day, the threat of another damned strike, and the inevitable trough between wavepeaks of furious self-motivation and momentum.

On the bright side, I know this dark phase will end, and I have a sneaking suspicion that it will end sooner and more abruptly than some might suspect, as there is... well, "a lurking potentiality" out there which is so absurd that it defies specific mention at this stage. Let's just say "sometimes, a miracle is exactly what the doctor ordered."

So, 'til then, we stay the course, dig deep, and muster what final reserves of strength we have available. Help is possibly on the way. And if not, then to hell with it anyway.

Hopelessness remains our best hope.


Christina said...

Have you ever read the book "The War of Art" by Steven Pressfield I've re-read it a couple times during the past month -- whenever I feel contemplate giving up on the 6th draft of the my 8th script. There's a great chapter called, "Resistance is Most Powerful at the Finish Line." I suspect you are close to the finish line.

Eddie M said...

I certainly can't think of anything to say that you haven't already heard a dozen times before. The muse has its own mind and way. All the honest greats have these periods.

Looking forward to viewing one of your movies someday... when you get around to it. Good luck in '09.

E.C. Henry said...

Unlike Eddie, I can think of something you've haven't heard. Go see a GREAT movie that inspires you. Go see "Slumdog Millionare." Go see it right now! Best movie of '08. Only show I can think of that right after seeing it, I wanted to see it again!

Also if your current batch of stories doesn't inspire you start brainstormin new ones! If I were you I'd get out a pad of paper and start drawing. Doodle enough and stories WILL come.

Another trick,


(Sorry, couldn't resist) comes curteosy of my aunt. Go to your Christmass tree, pick an ormament and try to make-up a story which explains it. My aunt had the gall to say she could do that, so I being the obnoxious Sweede I am, I called her on it. She did it, can you?

- E.C. Henry from Bonney Lake, WA

aggiebrett said...

Heh, not only have I read Pressman's book (four times), I've had to buy multiple copies to replace those that I have loaned out to friends and never seen again. In fact, just yesterday I was advising someone that they needed to find a copy ASAP as it might be the medicine they needed.

It's not a question of The Muse, as I have plenty of ideas and desire to act upon those ideas. It's just that right now... well, there are matters of practicality which preclude me from finding much useful time/space in which to make much progress, and there are a load of emotional distractions tugging in different directions (multiple family issues). This too shall pass, but for now I am just kinda bored and tired of having to hack so many weeds just to find a few steps of room for forward progress. Call it a indulgent short break for self pity.

I've that general bit of advice numerous times, and that specific bit (re SLUMDOG) as well. Meanwhile, pretty much all my stories inspire me -- I don;t waste time in thinking about writing stuff that DOESN'T inspire me. It's not a lack of inspiration or ideas. It's a lack of "give a shit." It's a seasonal affliction, and I know from long experience that it will lift in a day or three. For now, though, it's real, and it's annoying.

Ryan Rasmussen said...

Wait without hope
For hope would be for the wrong thing

- T.S. Eliot