I’m not sure I can read another “branded” article by an “influencer.”
At this point in my life I’m not even sure what I’ve done all my life, it’s so different to what I see other people call “writing.”
I would prefer a child’s fairy tale or silly story to some of the things promoted as “fine fiction.”
There’s little better acting on video or in films now than there was in 50s monster movies or overheated live TV dramas. It’s the same or worse, just with better special effects.
Even though everyone is so heartily sick of influencers, ads, and marketers, it seems as though all of this is turbocharged, blasted in our faces 24–7.
And it all just feels so thin, unoriginal, dull, and empty.
I watched two of my mother’s cartoons on You Tube the other day. Gerald McBoing-Boing (she wasn’t credited on it but I have copies of her Academy Awards and Gail Kubik, my college music instructor, was credited for the score) and When Magoo Flew. Very funny to see that I’d always thought like a child that the title meant when Magoo flew — like a bird. No, on an airplane, and it turned out my mother and the others at UPA were a little dubious about the cops.
“I’m a cop!” says the cop to the phlegmatic attendant, who promptly misleads him and refuses to collaborate.
What is it, I wonder. What did I think I was doing all these years? I’ve written millions of words about other people. Written them for other people. Written them for pay, written them to influence others to benefit others, written them to entertain.
Did I make anything truly beautiful?
Maybe.
I saw someone comment about prescription medication for depression: “Here, take this, it will make you gain a lot of weight and make it impossible for you to have an orgasm.”
There’s some relief for ya!
