Dairy of a Madman

Red has a few sayings that she pulls out all the time. “You have no idea…” is the one that I’m trying to curb; what’s stuck in my headmeat today is, “We all have our things.”

She says this in reference to our quirks and eccentricities — both between the two of us, she and I, and in other people. It’s her way of saying that things that people do that are a little off (my bipolar disorder, for instance [you should see what I define as majorly left-of-center]) are completely forgiveable, because who among us doesn’t have issues?

But I started thinking about “our things” in the context of talents, abilities, gifts. It’s a little bit of hearing Red say that, a little bit of talking to Garth about movies and filmmaking, and a whole lot of hallucinogen residue from my youth.

I don’t know that for sure, to be honest, but odds are on the side of the flashback.

I write. I write a little every day, to stay in practice, to keep my brain cleaned out, to give you guys something new to read while you’re buried in the flourescent light slave-pits of whichever company you’re currently employed by. I don’t write to get better, necessarily; I’ve had a strong grip on the rules and conventions of the English language since high school, so I’m not so concerned about grammar or punctuation, and I’ve always had a large vocabulary. Similarly, I don’t force myself to adhere to strict standards (for instance, note the sentence-ending preposition a few lines above), nor do I agonize over every last word choice and structural gamble. These words that you read, generally speaking, come tumbling out, and then the entire thing gets a final read from me to spot typos. Sometimes. Some entries just get written and turned loose on the world.

I make no aspirations about being a full-time professional writer. I’ve been published in local newspapers and national magazines (check your newsstands this weekend for the May-June 2006 issue of mental_floss), so I don’t need the validation. I get compliments often enough. But my heart’s not entirely in it.

(Note to hiring editors: my heart can be in it for the right price, of course.)
I know a lot of artists, a lot of creative people. Filmmakers, actors, musicians, writers, artists — I’ve surrounded myself with them all my adult life. And they’ve all got talent, in some form or fashion. I’ve been fortunate enough to know some of the very best in their areas: my ex-wife Melissa Bush is a phenomenal actress, as is my friend Mia Frost. Wade is one of the most able writers I’ve ever known. Fellow Exhibit Eric McGinty is easily the most natural musician I’ve ever known.

There are people out there that would argue any or all of these points with me, and that’s fine; these are just opinions (though like my t-shirt says, you can agree with me or be wrong). And that, I think, is why I approach writing, music, filmmaking, etc. with very few expectations of success: said success is based entirely on the whim and interest of the masses. Talent may help you get noticed, and talent can allow you, maybe, to read what the people want, but in the end, it’s not about gifts but about giving them what they want.

Only a select few people have ever been able to find financial and creative success while offering the public something that they didn’t even know they wanted: Steve Vai springs to mind. Chuck Pahlaniuk. I’m sure there are people in all the other creative disciplines so amazingly talented that they could create art on whatever edgy fringe they wished, and a sizeable fan base would seek them out.

But these are a select few, people who are either so frighteningly gifted that a look into their thought process would be the equivalent of waking up next to Cthulu after a night of binging on Rumpleminze and Xanax, or so disciplined that they have been able to shape and mold their natural talents into the absolute pinnacle of what they can be. These people are few and far between, rarer than the savants that can tell you how many M&Ms hit the floor seconds after your bag rips.

Not necessarily as entertaining at parties, though.
Talent — even above average talent, with hard work to go along with it — doesn’t guarantee you shit in the world. I’ve grown so tired of hearing other musicians complain about how they’ve got more musical ability in their pinky fingers than Pink, so why are she and Britney and N’ Sync resting on the beach in Cabo while the rest of us work for tabs and (when we’re lucky) a little extra money?

Because they’re what the people want, and we’re not.

Once in a blue moon, a Van Halen or a Nirvana or a Beatles come along — talented, gifted artists whose creations happen to fill a need in the greater portion of the listening world (transpose your own artists and field for other media). And they — and we — are luckier for it. But for the rest of us to expect that, to feel some sense of entitlement to the same good fortune, is foolish.

Yes, that’s a music story in a diatribe about writing. My talents are too many for a single medium.

Back to the written word:

I’ve never edited my own work. I rarely even reread my own writing — I couldn’t even begin to tell you about the contents of this blog over the past four years, outside of a few entries made under intense cirtcumstances that happened to find the magic that I was hoping for. I’m not disciplined enough to work on applying what gifts I might have to the craft, and I’m not terribly concerned with it. I’ve certainly not made it to the levels that I might have liked to, and may never, but I’ve had more ’success’ than most ever dream of, and that’s enough for me.

To those of you who have read my work — whether this blog, screenplays, short stories, whatever — and let me know that you like it, thank you. To those who continue to read, thank you a little more. It’s for me that I write, to practice, to get some things out, to work through others, but it’s you that give me the rewards, no matter how silent they may be.

We all have our things, and this is one of mine that I’m glad to know other people enjoy sharing.