Spent. That’s how I feel. Spent. And the mindless tedium of the ol’ day-job isn’t helping me any. On nights of difficult sleep, like last night, my mind races with ideas and accomplishes things left and right. Around 3:30 a.m., I resolved my casting woes, and finished a top-notch script. By 4:00 a.m., I had started work on my next project.
In my head.
But today, right now, my day is filled with pushing papers, installing office equipment, answering idiotic questions, and solving everyone else’s problems but my own.
I had hoped to take a decent lunch break so I could do some more editing on my script, in preparation for my meeting later this week with my co-writer. Lunch break didn’t quite work out that way, because, you know, the copier was jammed or the printer didn’t arrive or something.
I sit here and I dream about taking some serious time off work—stay at home, write this script and plan my production. And then do other things, like find some fresh audition material and work up some new monologues, so that the next time a good opportunity arises, as one did recently, I’m ready to kick butt instead of kicking myself in the ass for not being prepared.
I have to do it in bits and pieces and fits and starts, because
making art ≠ making money to pay the bills
and
creativity ≠ health insurance.
Don’t get me wrong—this isn’t a new realization.
It’s just a tough Monday playing it out for me.
The Man In The Yellow Hat Lives Here 