If you've been following The Circular Journey, you know I've wholeheartedly embraced the life of a writer. My brain, functioning like a finely tuned large language model AI chatbot, can't get enough of it.
I find the writing community in Wilmawood to be truly special. I see writers bustling in large groups around every movie set I visit. Their excited gossip about the actors makes it impossible to mistake them for anything other than freelance writers for the local media.
At places like Wrightsville Beach, I have to watch where I step to avoid stepping on toes. The demand for authors in this online, information-driven world is exhausting. My phone constantly buzzes with messages from writing recruiters on LinkedIn.
Just the other day at Coastal Grounds Cafe, I sat near a man who appeared to be a science fiction writer. When I pulled my spiral-bound notebook from my messenger bag, his eyes lit up like a child discovering an unattended cookie on the counter.
"Where did you find the loose-leaf notebook?" he asked excitedly. "Those things have gotten pricey now that everyone's gone digital."
"I know," I replied, thinking this guy might be worth the risk of starting a conversation. "I was jotting some notes in this one yesterday when a guy approached me with a wrinkled forehead and said, "I remember people doing what you're doing; what's it called again?'"
My new friend didn't laugh or smile. Instead, he wrinkled his forehead just like the man I was describing.
"He was joking," I said to ease his brow.
"Oh," he responded. "Well, everything is getting more expensive all the time. Notebooks like that cost at least five dollars at Walmart."
"I get these at the Dollar Store," I said, hoping the mention of the store would convey that he should do some bargain hunting. But my work was in vain. He continued to lament the rising cost of everything and drowned out my words.
Once he got his economic grievances out of his system, he predictably asked if I'd like to read something he was writing for a local periodical—a movie review. I won't mention the title of the film to protect the reputation of the writer and director.
He described the movie as "a powerful drama about life as it's experienced by the Taylor-crazed, caffeine-fueled younger generation whose hollow laughter masks an aching heart." If that wasn't enough to question a review meant for local publication, the movie wasn't filmed anywhere near the Carolinas.
"What do you think?" he asked.
When writers corner me and beg for my thoughts on their prose, I use inflection to suggest I'm complimenting their work. It's a sort of 'fake to the right' technique I learned from watching professional basketball. It generally baffles the simple-minded.
"It certainly leaves no doubt," I said, emphasizing the vowels, "there's a strong hint of a good story in it. I look forward to seeing what you do with it."
The man then launched into a breathless reverie: "You would love Hollywood, you know. Everybody does. Surrounded by the everlasting hills, bathed in eternal sunshine."
He paused for a moment, deep in thought. I was about to respond in a way that would make my excuses and then leave, but before I spoke, he continued.
"And if you aren't getting divorced yourself, there's always one of your friends who is, providing plenty to chat in the coffee cabarets. It isn't as crazy a place as they make it out to be, you know. I know a couple of writers there who are relatively sane."
His comment resonated with me. I once romanticized the idea of going to Hollywood, but that was then. Now, I prefer my quiet days in the Brunswick savannah. Life is wonderful there. I've never experienced such a frenzy of composition. As time goes on, I find that all I need is Ms. Wonder, a few true friends, a steady supply of books, and the choice of one or more cats or dogs.
Though I must admit, I recently reviewed and recommended a book I haven't read at the author's request, and the results were positive. It just goes to show that no matter how good life is, there's always something else to consider.
No comments:
Post a Comment