The weekend has come and gone, and
on the way out the door, it absconded with my excuse not to be writing. It’s
not that I mind dedicating a little of my worthless time toward improving my
craft, but I find that so very little happens to inspire me on a day-to-day
basis. I think of my talent for storytelling as the spice that complements the entrées
of life. You wouldn’t eat a whole canister of black pepper for dinner (unless
you just really love pepper), but it
sure goes great on a steak and mashed potatoes. I need something to happen in
order to work my magic. Huntington rates somewhere just above “midnight at the
retirement home” on the excitement scale, and people with the power to inspire
me seem to be in exceedingly short supply around here.
There is something good coming up
over the horizon, though! I’m in the process of outlining a story that is
(loosely) based on my time as a stock boy in a grocery store, but considerably
more… spiced-up for entertainment value. I whipped myself up into such an
excited frenzy while brainstorming that I want to actually take my time and not
slap this together as hastily as I have pretty much everything else I work on.
Expect to see some tasty bits tossed up here in the near future!
I worry a little bit about my
possible future in film. Focus has never been one of my strengths, and the
frequency with which my inspiration comes and goes is alarming. Maybe it’s just
being back home (a place which I thoroughly hate), but I am finding it
increasingly difficult to produce anything creative, let alone anything of
value. I understand that I might not always be on the creative side of the
entertainment industry, but it would be a little disappointing to spend a
couple years in film school just to end up holding the boom mic and moving
lights around, wouldn’t it?
I’ve been trying a few things here
and there to set myself right again. I figured that it might be worth a shot to
turn my focus to more physical efforts for a while. A little yin and yang,
yeah? I tried running, but in addition to being a terrible runner, I found that
the miserably muggy heat is a strong deterrent from doing anything outside, and
persevering has no rewards outside of dehydration and the view of a muddy,
toxic river and an ivy-choked hillbilly village.
My secondary attempt at clearing my
mind is proving to be slightly more fruitful: archery. As it turns out, I might
have a bit of a knack for launching arrows at old shoe boxes. Trying to focus
on aim and technique is proving to be good for the occasional bout of
distraction, but as with any game of skill, it’s easy to lose your mojo when
crushed under a heavy mental burden. Failing to let go of everything that’s on
your mind leads to poor shooting, which in turn grows more aggravating, which
is quite counterproductive when used as a means of relaxation. Plus, I get
these weird calluses on my fingers, and a raw spot on my forearm from the
string. Chicks dig scars, right? What about those unique afflictions?
Even as my mental anguish is pressing
the assault, boring psychotic ulcers into my soul, I’m trying to keep my chin
up. At least two generations of Ruggles men have proven themselves to be
nigh-immortal supermen, so I am confident that all the trouble in the world won’t
kill me, and I’m too much of a mean, stubborn bastard to let it drive me into
becoming a slavering mad hermit who inspires Moth Man/Sasquatch stories. I may
have my base camp set up on one of the top layers of Hell, but in two weeks or
so, I’ll be on my way to Florida. My time in California taught me that
everything is easier to deal with when everyone and everything around you is
beautiful.
Plus, I’m way too cool to be freaking out like this, anyway.
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