Nothing is written.
I’m an artist by trade. My mom was a fashion illustrator. My dad was a Hollywood actor/stuntman. I developed a love for both art and movies and storytelling really seemed to be in my blood.
I made my career as an artist, but I kept bringing my screenplays to my dad. I needed his approval for some reason. We’re all hard-wired to our parents, I guess. But, that was the roadblock. I believe my Dad’s fear of being overshadowed by his boys, kept my brother and me down - so obvious now in hindsight for so many reasons.
The pandemic, the above realization, and the support from my wife, Kim, and good friends, have allowed me the time and permission to write again. I had such a great time. It was way too much fun. I drenched myself in Masterclasses and allowed my story the time to bake in the oven. The process was magical - I can’t say enough good about it. A feature horror film screenplay now exists, and it’s completely exhilarating for me. I feel like I just emerged from a bunker.
But it’s surprising to me how, in the eyes of a few, doing something different like this, doesn’t seem to be okay. “Why?” I ask, thinking, is it written that I can only be an artist? Hell, no. Maybe it’s a telling reflection of what those people couldn’t achieve themselves? I’m no therapist, but if that’s true, it’s sad.
Here, I want to share my excitement, and instead, I’m either told to dial it back or not to be taken seriously. Talk about dealing with the forces of negativity, man. Maybe the Universe is trying to tell me something. Thank God for professional industry screenplay coverage tossing me out a few positive tidbits.
The bottom line; I’m left not knowing my own worth as a writer. So I entered some competitions and I wait. I wait for validation. Or humiliation. One or the other is coming, but nothing is written.
