February (Dot, dot, dot)


And I'm back. I needed to kick start myself into writing mode and somehow my blog crept into my brain.

So here I am.

It has been awhile, hasn't, online diary?

Here's a quick update: I have finished up a third draft of my full length play Solace. I had another reading in December and it went well. I appreciate the people that participated and the feedback that they gave. As it stands now, the play has been submitted to at least three places and I should be hearing back about at least one of those places in the very near future.

I am currently reading "Tropic of Cancer" by Henry Miller and listening to Ben Harper's "Waiting on an Angel" on ye old itunes.

You've been updated.

I set out to say a lot more, but the words did not feel right. I was going to delve deep down into the psyche that is my life, but somehow this medium is all wrong for that. Over the past few years of this blog, I have been on a journey and I have not yet accomplished my ultimate goal. I've spoken of plays, of mustaches, of bars, of lost loves, of deaths, of sports, and of pop culture in general. And yet, the struggling continues. (Of which I've also talked about.) I've missed the past, been scared of the future, and lived day to day. My eye is continually on the future, but my heart lives in the past. My brain is somewhere in between; trying to comprehend what it all means. At what point in life do I settle in and become what society wants me to be? A job, a house, a wife... Of course, those are all things that I do want, but there are things I want to accomplish and places I want to go before that can happen. By all means, things are good in my life, but in the end, I guess I do want what everyone else wants. I want a job doing what I love, I want a house of my own, and a woman that supports me in my decisions/career and I her. So in a way, I do want what society says I should have. I'm just taking my time and seizing each day as it comes along.

As it is, I know I am good person and a decent writer. I'm not going to bullshit about that. I'm not egotistical, it's just a quiet confidence I have. At some point, the work and the dedication to everything in my life (family, friends, writing, etc...) will be rewarded with the answers I seek. In the end, I am glad to be surrounded by the people I DO have, because they are my rocks, my inspiration, and my foundation. Without them, I know, my writing would suffer, as would my well being. And I thank you.

This turned out to be a little different than I'd expected. It's what's on my mind, I suppose.

James McClure passed away last week. He was the author of the very first play I acted in, Private Wars. I was also in his play Lonestar, which was one of my favorite times on stage. I can only aspire to write like he wrote. May he rest in peace.

Until the next time...



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