The Universe is so weird . . .
I absolutely love the creative experience I have as a writer. I love observing things and recreating them for people who weren’t there. I love it when something very small happens, and I play the “what if . . .” game until I’ve got several hundred words in front of me. I love it when people who have read my books or my blog or Games of our Lives tell me that something I’ve created has touched them in some way (some profound, others merely entertaining, but touched nevertheless.)
When I was in Las Vegas for the World Series of Poker, I was in some weird sort of zone that I don’t entirely know how to explain. I remember that I told a friend of mine, “Yesterday afternoon, The Writer woke up, and I’m just trying to stay out of his way until he says everything he needs to say.” Even though I was mostly writing about poker while I was out there, I still feel that it’s some of the best stuff I’ve written, as far as observing things and recreating them for people who weren’t there go.
But when I got home, The Writer went into hibernation, and it’s been frustrating me. I don’t feel motivated, and when I sit down to write, I’m bored within a few minutes, just about everything I write is forced, and I end up throwing most of it out.
I’ve spent several sleepless nights the last week, thinking about this, tossing and turning, and pacing around the house while I try to figure out what it is that I’m missing. What’s wrong? Why do I feel so . . . listless?
A couple of days ago, it came to me: I miss acting. As much as I love writing, and as much as I hate the bullshit grind of auditioning and all the stupid shit that goes along with it, I miss the joy of performing. Even though I hate the drive down to ACME, and I hate not having free time on Saturday nights, I miss the joy of giving up teh funnay, and I miss being part of that team of great performers. I miss the familiar feeling of eating lunch off the catering truck, having bagels and coffee and breakfast burritos each morning . . . I miss that esprit de corps that I always feel when I’m on the set.
Yeah, as much as I like being a writer . . . I really miss being an actor.
So last night, I sat on my patio, had a cigar, and visualized myself walking onto a set, sides in my hand, kleenex around my collar, make-up on my face, ready to go to work. I saw myself reading scripts and bringing amazing characters to life. When I went to bed, I repeated to myself, “I am a working actor,” until I fell asleep. Whatever. That hippie bullshit is fine, but shit in one hand and visualize in the other, right?
That’s what I thought, too, until this afternoon, when my manager called me with a job offer for a video game. They wanted me to work tomorrow, but I have to go out of town tomorrow morning, so they juggled their schedule and I start recording in two hours. He also had an offer for a movie that shoots next year, and interest from a producer on still another project. Then, about thirty minutes ago, I got a call from an associate of a friend of mine who is a casting director. She offered me a small (one day) role on a movie that works next month!
I did a little dance when I hung up the phone. This just became a very good day.