I am a Crazy Person

The title says it all.

There are different kinds of crazy. There’s “shoot up a school” crazy or “overdose on pills” crazy, or—and this is one of my favorites—“have sex with people because I have no self-worth” crazy. There’s lots of flavors of insanity to choose from. I think everyone has one, no one is spared, and we are a race—a species—of crazy rituals and customs. Burying people (wasting space) instead of cremation, or imposing our personal religious beliefs on others because we believe that we are in the “right”, when if we are in the right, it wouldn't matter in the first place. Speed dating. Playing on your cell phone with the television on IN THE BACKGROUND. We’re all crazy, some of us, yes, crazier than others.  And some people, yes again, are better at hiding it.

I will hide no longer. I expose you to my crazy. I hope you enjoy it—or, at least, feel better about your own brand of voodoo.

It’s 5 am and I can’t stop myself. Two hours ago my fingers were flying across the keys, now, a peck here a peck there, my fingers lethargic and I’m starting to see my text underlined in red every other word. I’m tired. I know I should go to bed, but I keep pecking, keep pushing, keep yawning, and keep taking internet porn breaks to keep from getting up from this chair. Getting up is admitting defeat. Getting up is the end. Getting up means I don’t love what I’m doing—and I do love what I’m doing, don’t I?

As of right now, not-so-much.

I told myself (and anyone who would listen) that this would be the year that I would write the best screenplay of my 15 year career. And I meant it. I did. But more and more I feel like that was hilarious bravado of embarrassing proportions. The best? What does that even mean anyway? Will I never write anything as good ever again? And what’s more, the hyperbole is freaking me out. Is it the best? It certainly doesn't feel like that. When it’s working it’s working, when it isn't—when it’s cliché—and I’m hating it—HATING IT—UGH! Why are you writing like this? You’re better than that

Aren't you?
Aren't you…

This isn't just one night. This is NIGHTS, months and months going from hating myself to raging egomania—sometimes in a matter of minutes. Reading inspirational quotes from other, much more successful writers—as if I have anything in common with them—and often discouraging rather than encouraging. My most successful tool in inspiring myself is to consume the words of others: last year when I wrote my book, I read almost 20 books over the course of 4 & 1/2 months, which may not sound impressive until you consider that I was also working at least 40 hours a week, with three kids (with constant soccer practice), and a marriage to the most loving, understanding woman I've ever known.

300 pages later, we were celebrating with our first night out to the movies in almost 6 months. But during our drive over I saw something that made a story click—I swear, you can almost hear it, like tumblers in a lock—and by the time we were standing in line waiting to see James Bond I was faraway, wrapped up in the tumultuous lives of imaginary people. . My wife smiled—that sad smile that always reminds me of who I am—and says,

“ I've lost you again, haven’t I?”