not "sleeping" a "wink." Just read this
and really liked it. Sorry for the long post:
by Bill Lawrence Creator of Ã¢â‚¬Å“ScrubsÃ¢â‚¬Â and Co-Creator of Ã¢â‚¬Å“Spin CityÃ¢â‚¬Â and Ã¢â‚¬Å“Clone High.Ã¢â‚¬Â He finds himself boyishly handsome.
When I was eight I recall my dad red-faced and neck veins bulging screaming at my mom to Ã¢â‚¬Å“Speak only when spoken to dammit!Ã¢â‚¬Â I knew I should probably abide by the same rule lest I wanted to face the rage that jumped into his eyes whenever Mom dared to mention maybe slowing down on the scotch especially if he was going to drive my sister to work later (all the while hating her for having a job when he did not). So that was my home - cold and shadowy and so full of fear that it was blaringly quiet. For me there was only one safe way to express myself: writing.
Now in fairness to my dad none of that is actually true. I donÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t have a sister and my parents were/are lovely and supportive. They remain crazy in love walk the street holding hands and probably even occasionally have sex (it is truly weird and disturbing). The reason I told that badly constructed melodramatic fake story is to tell you this real one: I write because it is the only way to get paid for being full of shit. The implication of course being that I personally am full of shit. I am. Seriously ask any of my friends (acquaintances wonÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t cut it - most of them still find me truthful). When IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m on the phone the writers on my show play a game called Ã¢â‚¬Å“truth/lie/exaggerationÃ¢â‚¬Â categorizing each statement into its proper station. ItÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s not a malicious thing mind you. ItÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s never to screw someone over or further my career. ItÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s always about making the story better.
All the men in my momÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s family are large mouth bass fishing guides on the St. Johns river in rural Florida. I do not enjoy fishing. If you do congrats - youÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ve apparently found a way to enjoy sitting around all day doing nothing. Call me and explain it IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ll finally be able to get close to my uncle and cousins. ItÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s too late for me to bond with my grandfather. He actually passed away out on the river. In my head I always think that he knew something was physically wrong maybe even felt pain in his chest but he was unwilling to boat home because he had a good feeling about catching a Ã¢â‚¬Ëœbig Ã¢â‚¬ËœunÃ¢â‚¬â„¢. Now my grandpa actually died at home in bed (of ParkinsonÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s an annoying player in my life brought back by Mike Fox). The point here is that I donÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t like fishing but man I love fishing stories. I watched my momÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s family tell them hone them add to them - it was a science that ended with a basically true tale that would be told over and over to any listenerÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s delight. I officially became one of these storytellers when I was with my fatherÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s family (much bigger fans of money and Connecticut than fish) and my uncle on that side told me what he thought was a charming anecdote. When he finished I said Ã¢â‚¬Å“that was pretty good but next time you tell it you should say it happened to you and not your friend.Ã¢â‚¬Â When he said Ã¢â‚¬Å“But it did happen to my friendÃ¢â‚¬Â no one had ever uttered something so irrelevant. I knew how to make the story better. I was two years old.
ThatÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s what writing is to me - crafting a beautiful lie (beautiful really? Give me a break IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m being artsy). It has to have some element of human emotional truth or whoever your audience is will turn the metaphorical channel. Anyway back to the original question. Why do I write? As an acknowledged bullshitter I thought IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢d start with some of the lies writers tell. I donÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t write because I couldnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t do anything else. IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m a bright guy I could hold down a number of jobs. I could run a hat shop. I donÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t love writing. Nobody does - itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s worse than fishing. Anyone that tells you that he loves to write has either never written anything or is in fact an alien. Throw water in his face if he is human heÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ll get embarrassed and admit heÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s never written. If heÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s an alien the water will burn his skin and kill him like in the Mel Gibson movie SIGNS.
Now the truths. I write because as horrible as writing is having written something is pure pleasure. I like that my parents have something to talk to strangers about. I like ending the previous sentence with a preposition because IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m an artist. I write to get laid (that cliche about actresses only sexing up directors is just that a cliche). I write to find love (with this one actress I thought I was writing to get laid now nine years later I have three kids and a wife who constantly tells me to hold the wheel at Ã¢â‚¬Å“ten and twoÃ¢â‚¬Â when I drive). I write because I honestly couldnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t do anything else and I love to write (thatÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s a callback from the previous paragraph). I write because parentheticals actually arouse me (they do). I write for money. I write because it makes me feel cool even though I know IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m not. I write for revenge on everyone that ever wronged me. Tim Stenger you know what IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m talking about. I write to heal (myself not the world - IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m not a wizard). I write because IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m lucky; we all know how many elements of success are beyond our control. I write because I secretly believe luck had nothing to do with it. I write because IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m arrogant because IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m insecure because IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m depressed angry joyous drunk boredÃ¢â‚¬Â¦ But most of all I write because IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m full of shit.