Okay, so originally, I was planning to post a story about the first time I began to think about a life in comedy. I was a 10 year old fat kid who came home from school everyday and was left alone in his house for three hours to watch TV. It seemed like a good idea at 1:30 this morning. Then, when I sat down to write it, nothing seemed to come out the way I wanted. It was almost as if my talented brain was being distracted by my mediocre eloquence. I chalked it up to the demon of Resistance (a friend of mine recently bought me the book The War Of Art, quite a galvanizing read for intimidated artists and repressed grad students).
Anyway, by the time 3:00 a.m. rolled around last night, I figured it’d be best to call it a night, see what the morning brought. And now, I find myself in the same predicament. Goddammit, I just wanted to bear my soul! Is there something so wrong with trying to appease the 10 year old fat kid inside of me? The one that’s dying for validation and a starting position on the youth baseball team?!? Huh? IS THERE?!?!?!?!?
Okay, maybe I’ve said a little too much. But still, it actually feels good to get that down on paper. Admittedly, I’ve been beating myself up over the last week for nothing. You see, I’m trying to get a career going as a writer – specifically in comedy – and I know that takes time. I also understand that much of my success began with my blog, which I’ve neglected over the last few weeks for a variety of reasons. As a result, I’ve begun worrying about what the hell I’ve been doing with my life. It’s not as if I’m trying to channel negative energy, but I’m a half-Jew – it’s in my nature to worry about my existence and to try to sleep with Jenna Fischer.
For the last week, I’ve been walking around with a lump in my throat about my seeming lack of a career, which I know is mostly a fabrication. I’m worrying about the wrong things: about getting famous, about success, about having all the money in the world to anything that I want. I focus on a lot of this because that goddamn fat kid won’t leave me alone. He makes me do things that my brain shrieks at: he puts me on-stage and makes me do comedy about my personal life, he makes sure my jokes push envelopes, he even had the audacity to say to me:
“Hey, Matt – you should produce a talk show.”
“Really? Okay. What should it be about?”
“I dunno, I’m 10. But make sure your name is in the title of it. In big letters, too.”
“Sure, sure. Is there anything you’d like to see me do?”
“Um, make sure you’re funny. Like really funny. Because that’s what’ll make girls like you. I guess you should sleep with a bunch of beautiful women as a result of producing a talk show. Yeah – that’ll make me happy.”
“Define ‘a bunch’.”
“Um, three hundred?”
I’ve got to stop listening to that little pissant. He truly doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Secondly, I’ve got to stop calling up my local sex dungeon and asking for pro doms dressed as the Pink Ranger to show up at my apartment – but that’s another story.
Part of this life is worrying, I guess; it comes with the territory. A writer friend of mine recently told me “We’re artists, man. Some people are fine working up the ladder; we spend every day looking for a new challenge.” What I’m beginning to understand is that if I’m fearful of a challenge, that probably means I have to move towards it. I bet that chubby little bastard is smiling right now.
So, this is me taking a risk. After weeks of starts and stops and self-doubt, I’m presenting to the world a blog entry that is essentially just me complaining. Because, as I write you this, I can feel that lump in my throat gone and my feet are tingling. I wish you could feel this with me, because I’m recognizing it as relief. This is me bearing my soul right now; all my soul feels like doing is blowing off steam.
Okay, I know this isn’t my best. But forgive me – the fat kid made me do it.