The Thinking Is The Hardest Part
The hardest part about producing this little corner of a growing digital world is in finding inspiration. “Where do you get your ideas from?” many readers have asked me. As I dig through my mail bag, this is hands down the most oft-repeated question. In an effort to be as elusive and cryptic as possible let me just say that I don’t go out and “get” my ideas. It isn’t like purchasing a soda or hiring a flunky to read all my mail for me. The ideas have to come to me on a divine wind. The flotsam and jetsam of vast cultural shipwrecks lost amid the high seas of entertainment must run aground on my mental shores. As I jog these ephemeral beaches with my trusty terrier, Alhambre, I eventually trip over some driftwood and fall solidly into the surf. My epiphanies come as waves wash over me like a baptism and trusty Alhambre nips frantically at my heels, as if to tell me I better get back to work, and pronto.
Oh, Alhambre. You scamp.
That is how I always imagine it. The reality is that I wince through never ending cycles of viral marketing campaigns, YouTube clips, and self-serving blogs all attempting to lure me to their wares. But what to choose? Do I give time to the romantic comedy or the super-hero action extravaganza? Do I go with the serious drama vying for an Oscar, or the quirky independent? Maybe I should try that crime-thriller, if not for the fact that this week’s horror movie is promising bigger chills than last week’s. Anything political is bound to be a kick to the head in some form. And since I don’t download because it is illegal and just plain wrong, kids, I just pay my hard-earned dollars for things other folks nick for free. What kind of choice can I make when I have no choice at all?
It is a familiar lament, I realize. Inspiration is still avoiding me like an old girlfriend these days. Since the summer movie season doesn’t officially kick off until May I will have to bide my time and make this up as I go. Then I will suffer an embarrassment of riches ranging from the new Indiana Jones to Batman to a couple of expensive comedies and a few animated kid flicks. My hopes are ripe for the crushing.
Maybe this lack of inspiration is simply a result of laziness. I could revisit my review of “Rambo” for you. But really, even if you haven’t seen “Rambo”, you’ve seen it. You don’t need me to get all deep and philosophical about stuff blowing up. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, I guess. Just immolate it with an exploding tip arrowhead.
I seem to be in a film funk and nothing sounds any good. No matter what is out there, I can’t help thinking there is just something a little wrong here. I am Charlton Heston once the light bulb goes off. Soylent Film is made of PEOPLE! PEEEEEE-POLLLLLL!
And the thinking is the hardest part.
I am once again jogging along the Beach of Muses, the salty air beading my brow and giving the illusion of effort. My trusty terrier, Alhambre, is barking at the gulls of creativity hovering just out of reach. They are taunting him with their cries, as if to say “we are here for you, if only you could catch us!” Suddenly I see a beached whale in the distance. There is a growing crowd gathered around it, all abuzz at its enormity. As we approach, Alhambre halts and begins growling.
“Easy, boy,” I say. “This has the potential to be interesting.”
We reach the crowd, all atwitter and eager to view the bloated and lifeless shell. A man appears selling tickets at $10 a pop, telling me this is the biggest whale to ever get beached in the history of beached whales and that I simply must see it to believe it! Only it isn’t a beached whale at all. It is a mountain of discarded ideas. It is the refuse of focus groups and box-office data and audience indifference gussied up to look like a beached whale.
“Looks like a big pile of garbage to me,” I say. “Come on, Alhambre. Let’s go chase some of those gulls over there. Maybe we can catch one today. I even brought the Alka Seltzer.”
Alhambre barks in agreement and runs off back down the beach. I follow, hopeful that if inspiration isn’t found today, then perhaps tomorrow.
The second most asked question in my mailbag is: What really happens if you feed Alka Seltzer to a gull? The answer, of course, is nothing.
Thanks for all your letters!
Oh, Alhambre. You scamp.
That is how I always imagine it. The reality is that I wince through never ending cycles of viral marketing campaigns, YouTube clips, and self-serving blogs all attempting to lure me to their wares. But what to choose? Do I give time to the romantic comedy or the super-hero action extravaganza? Do I go with the serious drama vying for an Oscar, or the quirky independent? Maybe I should try that crime-thriller, if not for the fact that this week’s horror movie is promising bigger chills than last week’s. Anything political is bound to be a kick to the head in some form. And since I don’t download because it is illegal and just plain wrong, kids, I just pay my hard-earned dollars for things other folks nick for free. What kind of choice can I make when I have no choice at all?
It is a familiar lament, I realize. Inspiration is still avoiding me like an old girlfriend these days. Since the summer movie season doesn’t officially kick off until May I will have to bide my time and make this up as I go. Then I will suffer an embarrassment of riches ranging from the new Indiana Jones to Batman to a couple of expensive comedies and a few animated kid flicks. My hopes are ripe for the crushing.
Maybe this lack of inspiration is simply a result of laziness. I could revisit my review of “Rambo” for you. But really, even if you haven’t seen “Rambo”, you’ve seen it. You don’t need me to get all deep and philosophical about stuff blowing up. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, I guess. Just immolate it with an exploding tip arrowhead.
I seem to be in a film funk and nothing sounds any good. No matter what is out there, I can’t help thinking there is just something a little wrong here. I am Charlton Heston once the light bulb goes off. Soylent Film is made of PEOPLE! PEEEEEE-POLLLLLL!
And the thinking is the hardest part.
I am once again jogging along the Beach of Muses, the salty air beading my brow and giving the illusion of effort. My trusty terrier, Alhambre, is barking at the gulls of creativity hovering just out of reach. They are taunting him with their cries, as if to say “we are here for you, if only you could catch us!” Suddenly I see a beached whale in the distance. There is a growing crowd gathered around it, all abuzz at its enormity. As we approach, Alhambre halts and begins growling.
“Easy, boy,” I say. “This has the potential to be interesting.”
We reach the crowd, all atwitter and eager to view the bloated and lifeless shell. A man appears selling tickets at $10 a pop, telling me this is the biggest whale to ever get beached in the history of beached whales and that I simply must see it to believe it! Only it isn’t a beached whale at all. It is a mountain of discarded ideas. It is the refuse of focus groups and box-office data and audience indifference gussied up to look like a beached whale.
“Looks like a big pile of garbage to me,” I say. “Come on, Alhambre. Let’s go chase some of those gulls over there. Maybe we can catch one today. I even brought the Alka Seltzer.”
Alhambre barks in agreement and runs off back down the beach. I follow, hopeful that if inspiration isn’t found today, then perhaps tomorrow.
The second most asked question in my mailbag is: What really happens if you feed Alka Seltzer to a gull? The answer, of course, is nothing.
Thanks for all your letters!