As Michelle knows painfully well, for a guy obsessed with memory, I forget a lot of stuff. Not the necessary day-to-day stuff, like mailing the bills, don’t forget to buy the milk, etc. I do fine with stuff like that. What I tend to forget is the profound, “meaning of life” stuff. There are major, years-in-the-making, earth-shattering revelations in life that I come to, then talk about to no end, and then inevitably forget about because I have to clear them out of my mind to make room for remembering to mail the bills and buy the milk. So I have to learn and re-learn them over and over again.
Like this one: I love writing. It is better than crack. I am in love with it and have been for a long, long time, longer than I can remember. And yet I forget this pretty regularly and then stop writing. As you can probably tell by now, I re-learned this today. Again. Every day of my life that I don’t write is a waste. Really. I hope I can remember that this time.
I didn’t write much today – 5 pages or so of Psycho Ex – but that’s not the point. Actually, 5 pages ain’t bad, especially when it is a legit 5 pages like it was today and not 2 pages bloated out to 5 pages like it usually is. I told a friend several years ago – when it was becoming obvious that I was not going to have a TV staff writing job in my 30s, and therefore probably ever – that if I wrote a script a year for the rest of my life, even if nobody ever bought one, even if they were crap, I would be happy. It was true, and it still is. I just forgot it was true. Today I remembered.