It Was Never About The Hills

I came to a major decision over the past weekend.

First, I'll set up the scene.

I was moving pretty quickly through the first act of my zombie movie's fourth draft, ruthlessly cutting line after line of text. And it suddenly hit me: I was bored doing this. Not procrastination-bored as in "I really feel like doing something else." Not dramatically-bored as in "this story is dull and not interesting me at all." But bored as in "I'm sitting here in front of my laptop, actively editing and re-arranging characters, dialogue and action, and I'm bored with the whole thing. Bored with dreams of being a screenwriter. No longer interested in visioning the movie as it might someday play on the screen. Tired of thinking I'll someday be able to look up my name on IMDB."

So I did the only thing I could do at that moment. I stopped writing. And I spent the next hour or so really looking at this "dream" of mine, which I've carried since I was a kid. And I could see that, while I've changed in those forty or so years, the dream itself has not. It's been been years of dreaming about attention (getting it), ego (building it), and rescue (as in "money.") The dream hasn't grown, hasn't morphed, and hasn't done anything but lay there and demand my attention when I'm trying to do just about anything else.

Now the dream has become a whiny, nagging partner, using fear tactics to keep my attention. "You'll die a mediocre person," it intimates. "You'll be totally uninteresting if you stop."

So, I'll be uninteresting, and I'll die mediocre, I told it. I decided that I would no longer write screenplays.

Suddenly, the whiny annoying voice of my "dream" had nowhere to gain traction. It kind of just layed there, powerless. And I felt... calm.