I’m the kind of person who’s all over the place. Screenwriting, poker, racquetball, tea, novels, computer stuff, that’s me. That’s how I’ve always been. I’m not a natural blogger and can’t help but sound a little boring and nerdy when posting. Every now and then I tap into a rant that gets my juices flowing, but usually I’m reflective, pedestrian, and quiet.
I tend not to write too much about myself. I like thinking of myself as this super open, generous autobiographer who loves the naval-gaze as much as any other narcissist, and yet whenever I write anything that goes beyond the surface, I either delete it or redirect the thought to something less personal. When I’m talking with someone one-on-one I can go deep and bare my soul, but not so much when I’m writing. I used to write letters all the time in the 80s. I was crazy back then without knowing it. I know I’m crazy now and that has made for a wonderfully calming effect.
Actually, I’m not technically crazy, just the poster boy for adult children of alcoholics. I’m that guy, the overly controlling, terribly insecure, don’t-tell-me-what-to-do extremist who acts normal most of the time, but can become unraveled in a heartbeat. There’s something truly liberating about acknowledging the state of my internal brokenness. There are things I’ll never get over, ever, and yet when I acknowledge this, I’m in a way sort of done with it.