I don't know what triggered the memory, but the other day I was suddenly overcome with a wash of humiliation. Sometime in my early twenties, at that point in the wilderness years where I was so deep in the woods that I couldn't remember which way I came in and couldn't possibly see a way out, I decided that the most logical way to fix things was to . . . wait for it: join the French Foreign Legion.
Calm down. Trust yourself. You've just met the girl of your dreams and you know it. Be your best. Let's not screw this one up. OK?That means you need to finally finish college. You keep dancing around the finale because you don't know what you want to do with the rest of your life. You say that's the purist in you talking, but it's fear.
I started this blog by writing a lengthy and mean-spirited rant about the cancer known as club soccer. . . . In the name of positivity, and with full realization that my mental health is affected by this ongoing frustration far more than those I ridiculed, I hit delete. . . . Surprisingly, all of this started as a warmhearted story about my own befuddlement.
My wife is a professor at a local university. She recently shared a video with me about cognitive thinking that struck a nerve. The speaker was an authority on behavioral research — I can't remember his name off the top of my head, but he had me spellbound for the length of the video. In essence, his viewpoint is that we control the outcome of a situation by determining how we choose to view it.
I've been working on a new script that has somehow delved into that gray area of family issues. It's weird to find what has been swept under the subconscious rug, and how it comes out through the writing process. When characters start speaking for themselves and revealing disturbing truths — and all writing is a search for truth, otherwise the reader won't fully believe the story — it's a little discomfiting.
