I haven't blogged in over two months.
Guess I've been busy. Doing what, exactly who knows? But there's been a birthday (hello, 35), play readings and preparing for shows in New Jersey, New York and D.C. There's been a steady day job (money is always nice) and lots of dog-sitting in Astoria, Queens (nothing puts your life in check like scooping up steamy dog crap on a cold winter's day.) There have been dates, excessive drinking (mostly on the dates--how else are you supposed to make a boring person tolerable; an unattractive person less repulsive, a douche-bag seem like less of a douche--well, actually, I don't think all the booze in the world can cure that, right Mr. Trump?)
The thing is: all of this is good stuff, fun stuff, normal stuff. And yet, I actually feel guilty for not writing more. That's what writers do, in case you weren't aware. Sure, we always tell the best stories and come up with the best jokes and wear the skinniest jeans and rattiest sweaters, but we're also brooding, self-absorbed souls who believe that every breath should be devoted to the written word. And when we go to parties instead of finishing that chapter, or spend too much time naked skyping with HotCowBoy98 instead of starting that screenplay--we'll feel bad about it later.
I don't feel bad about telling you this, though. Because blogs are amazingly open (read: self-serving) nowadays, and I think it's important for people to know that I enjoy spending time with them (unless you force me to eat weird shit, like an avocado) regardless of how I might feel about myself afterward.
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Mark Jason Williams
I find trouble wherever I go