About The Things We Do For Love
It’s really fun to love something. A particularly obvious observation, even for me, but I mean it. I count myself lucky to have interests that I love. You ever see people that just seem out of love with everything in the world? I’ve met them. Even sort of studied them. What a drag.
Loving stuff is a drag too, though. Nothing pisses you off more than something or someone you love. For me, it’s words and stories. When I was a kid I was in all the sports and did well at school, but I remember every night before bed, I needed to get my read on. It got to the point where it was one or two of those little Hardy Boys books a day. When I was nine or ten, I moved up to Tom Clancy and the other airport literature. Couldn’t get enough. It had me. I really enjoyed all the other stuff in my world, but escaping into someone else’s was always just a little too enticing to pass up.
But I said something about being pissed off, didn’t I? The problem comes when you love writing (or whatever) so much that you want to do it yourself. There’s a serious cost to this decision. Going from aficionado to a producer is a big leap. It requires tenacity—love—patience—love—mental insanity—love—myopia—love—and—more love.
There’s a price to be paid. Love is really hard, and sometimes it has little to do with fun or pleasure. Sometimes it’s just the opposite. But there’s a substrate the things you love sits upon; a foundation that means the wind and the storms won’t allow it to be squelched or moved.
I hope you know the pain and passion. The stifling misery and the surprising glories. Sure, I’m dramatic, but what do you expect? I sat around my misspent youth filling my brain with a deluge of other people’s thoughts.
So I’m crazy. But I love it.
See you after.