Enough About Me

Have you heard? I’m writing a book. The whole thing is just exhausting. Yesterday I had a realization that two central characters don’t interact much, and I worried if that was a problem. And if that is a problem, I should probably write more scenes where they do talk, but that seems like a lot of work. The problem with writing a book is that I have to do the whole thing myself. Philip Roth isn’t going to come in and pinch hit a character description for me. This week I’ve been reading The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. No offense to her, but I’m not into Jewish Magical Realism. I mean, isn’t the state of Israel enough? I kid! Even though I didn’t like it, it still made me feel inadequate because my book is pretty boring. Or straightforward. Either way! This struggling creative process often leaves me feeling narcissistic. I mean, who cares but me? Last week, I was having a series of self-involved moments and then I saw Breaking Upwards. It’s written, directed, produced by and based on the failing relationship of this one guy.