There and Back Again

September 16, 2008. That was the last time I posted in this journal.

In the time since that post, a lot has changed. I've been promoted to a desk job. I've finished a novel manuscript. I've battled alcoholism. I've started a second blog. I've fallen out with my father and his new girlfriend. I've helped write a sci-fi TV series in England. I've placed in a screenwriting contest and entered about five others. I've been approached about one of my scripts being produced. I've earned the first pennies from my writing, and three people close to me have passed away.

But am I better? Am I a better person? Am I the "Jeremy White" I set out to become so long ago?

Not by a long shot.

I remember stumbling across a book once written by a Hindu mystic. I couldn't make heads or tails of what the book was about, but on the back he said something along the lines of "man has gone from the caves to the skyscraper, but that is not true progress."

I can't say I've made it to the skyscraper yet. Hell, I've actually downgraded my living situation to something more suitable for my finances and current lifestyle. But I've thrived and grown stronger. I'm writing and drawing and getting back into the things I told myself I would. It's a slow process, but I'm further along than when I started.

Looks like I'll be staying around for a while yet. Besides, I like it here. One day I'll look back at this page and realize how far I've come. But until then, I'll just get comfortable and keep on keeping on.

Too Little, Too Late (The Dying of the Light)

A few months back, my girl took me up to Fort Worth to meet a family friend of hers named George. I'm an aspiring writer (among other things) and since he was a published novelist, she thought he could offer me some pointers.

Sure enough, as soon as I sat down in his living room, he began the Q+A. No nonsense, no-holds-barred. What did I want to write? How much rejection was I willing to face? Can I commit to a project? Have I read the greats of my chosen genre? My pen was flying as I took notes on all the wisdom he had to share with me, and he seemed thrilled to share his years of experience with me. It was a wonderfully informative weekend to say the least.

On our way back, we stopped by the epic Half Price Books in Dallas, picked up the books he recommended, as well as getting our hands on a few of his books. Armed with this new knowledge, we headed back home.

Five weeks ago I got a call: George had died suddenly.

As much as I wanted to, I found it hard to morn for long. I had only met the man once, and while he had instilled his experiences in me, all I really knew of him was a few pages of notes and several books with his name on the spine.

Books which remain, to this day, unopened.

She told me the other night that since George's death, her father had been writing more and more and managed to get through the writer's block that had been stifling his career as a professor. There were tears in her eyes as she wondered if it would take such a tragedy for me to start writing. I reassured her that I wasn't blocked, I was just lazy for the moment, but in the back of my head there was a deep guilt that had been brewing.

She asked me to make George proud.

But I felt I had already failed him, as I had failed others time and time again.

He gave me his books and his wisdom. I had a chance to throw my hat in with a seasoned veteran of the craft to start building my own platform. His books aren't so long, but I just never got around to them. I let the iron go cold and communication fall away, squandering yet another opportunity to make something of myself and break away from the low point I've settled into.

And his books remain on my bookshelf, just like John's paintings remain on my wall.

Perhaps that's why I keep pieces of the dead around: guilt. John is the first one who put a video camera in my hands along with a list of movies to watch. George gave me pointers on the writing craft and some masterworks to learn from. Both John and George have passed, leaving me their legacy and memory to carry on, their lessons and tools to continue their efforts, and I put them in a closet to collect dust like some obsolete relic.

They passed me the torch, and I put it on a shelf and watched it burn out.

"And I wonder where these dreams go,

When the world gets in our way?

What's the point in ever trying?

Nothing's changing anyway." - Goo Goo Dolls.

Rekindling the Flame (One Way Out)

"Like the sun we'll rise again." - Dragonforce

I've had a lot of dark thoughts lately. Feelings of hopelessness and regret for how far I've let myself fall. All the potential, all the opportunities I've wasted over the last five years have come back to haunt me every time I look in the mirror. I feel overwhelmed with shame when I cross paths with old friends or classmates. I don't mention my job.

It's not like me. I'm not like that. I've always said I'm an optimist. I've said things like "there's no shame in honest work," and "everyone has to start somewhere." But lately I've stopped believing myself. I'm not a writer. The truth is starting to set in: I'm not an artist. I'm not in good health. I'm barely making ends meet.

I'm a cashier at a grocery store. Nothing more. Absolutely nothing more.

I can't pretend anymore. I can't live this lie any longer. Every time I say I am going to turn my life around, I always fall back into my self-neglect within days, sometimes only hours. I'd say that I've tried everything, but I haven't really tied anything because I don't have the disciple to make any progress. I seem to almost consciously spending so much time undermining myself that I ensure nothing will change.

I've considered some very drastic measures. I've thought that there was no way to get out of this shattered lifestyle other than signing my life off to the military or somehow just forsaking everything and hurling myself into an alien life. I can't think of any other way out.

But there is a way out, and I can't believe I didn't see it sooner.

A Visit from the Seer

Two nights ago, I saw a play called "The Brats of Clarence" at a small theater here in town with my girlfriend.

In the play, which was an incredibly intelligent satire of Shakespearian plays, there was a character called "Wu No Tings," a over-the-top Chinese seer. The character ends up bringing about the happy ending of the play, despite his incredibly ethnic approach to things.

Today I think I might have been visited by him.

I was doing my job, checking out and bagging groceries yet again, when a gentleman came through my line. He was an Asian guy, probably no more than 30, who's English was good but not great. I chatted with him as I bagged up his food.

Now the one and really only redeeming aspect of my job is I get to joke with people. What started as me thinking I heard a bird in the store became a pretty long gag that the gentleman enjoyed greatly. When I finished ringing up everything and handing him his receipt, he said something very interesting to me.

"You know, you have many great ideas. You would have great talent as a writer."

I know it might have been said in passing, but his tone and gaze were different. His demeanor seemed to have a very deep honesty about it, and while I had not mentioned my writing or film degree to him, the conversation we had had led him to conclude that I would be a great writer.

Not an actor.

Not a comedian.

A writer.

The very thing I have been pretending to be for a very, very long time now.

It stuck with me the rest of the day. My father taught me that nothing is coincidence, and that the Yad Hashem would push you in ways you'll never understand until it has long passed. Perhaps this man, this random customer to a grocery who by chance chose my line to come through, might have finally been the little push I needed to finally become what I have always desired to be.

Then again, the seer in the play also said that England would become world renowned for it's culinary excellence and warm, sunny climate.

Internet Porn and the Art of Avoidance

I was about to head to the bookstore.

I had my keys in my hand. I was thinking about what else I would need while I was out. Some dinner, maybe a smoothie or something to hold me over until I got home. Maybe I could stop by my friend's place and see if they were around. Maybe I should bring a title or two to look for, but then again I sort of have an idea as to what I want, and at Half Price books titles do you little good. Coffee. That's what I should get. A nice big cup of...

Then I realized what I was doing. I had no reason to leave. I didn't need any of that stuff, and I CERTAINLY didn't need to be going out and spending any more money. I had a list of stuff I wanted to get done. Why was I going anywhere?

Looking back over the past few hours, my entire day had been like this! Going about, doing things that I really didn't need to do and that didn't really contribute to anything at all. I mean, working on something to the side is one thing, but flushing time down the drain in buckets is something else!

I was avoiding things. Everything really. I have spent all day (and all week for that matter) avoiding absolutely everything.

My girlfriend was the first one to really bring it up, and she was talking about herself. She told me that she'd get tired as a way of avoiding things. If she had a report to write, or had to go to work, she'd find that she was getting very tired without reason. If she could push past it and actually start working, then she'd feel better almost instantly. Sleep was her method of avoidance.

I guess my method of avoidance is everything from computer games to sleep to the title of this post.

But what baffles me is that she was avoiding things she didn't want to do. I'm avoiding things I actually DO want to do! I want to finish these writings. I want to clean up my place. I want to draw these comics. But I can't bring myself to. Why would I avoid doing things that I really want to do?

I know there's no easy answer to this, but I can't imagine what it might be. My father thinks it's fear of success. My mother thinks it's depression I might have inhereted from her. My siblings don't really care. And I think it might be a deep ingrained reliance on the forces around me to force decisions for me.

How do you go about doing the things you want to do when there's no reason you shouldn't be doing them already?