Thanks for the Memories

Heart heavy with the news, I mourn the passing of yet another influence I never met face to face but welcomed into my home on a regular basis, the incomparable Robin Williams.

It's no secret, really, that I have a certain affinity for pop culture, especially surrounding all things on both the big and small screens.  We idolize these performers, these actors, the emotions they stir, the heroes and villains they portray.  They help us bring a fictional, fantasy element to our lives that spurs conversations, debates, addictions and obsessions.

However, the world we live in makes it easy to forget that they are people too.

For me pop culture wasn't just about knowing who was in what, but knowing more about the person - facts that made them just like anyone else, just with the idealistic job of playing pretend for a living.

Robin Williams was born in Chicago on July 21, 1951.  He went to Julliard.  He got his start in 1974 from a bit part in an episode of Happy Days.  He was a fan of both Dr. Who and Star Trek.  He had kids.

He was so much more than Mrs. Doubtfire.

The passing of a celebrity is a mixture of emotions for a number of reasons.

First of all, it's not your loss, it's the true loved ones that will feel the hole left behind the most.

Second, sometimes it is your loss too.

As a public figure, the job description comes with a lack of privacy, both literally and figuratively.  From the characters they play to the rare occasion when they can be themselves, these people open themselves up to be judged, loved and hated.  Their job is to make us feel, and if they've accomplished their goal, not only will they be missed, but they'll be remembered fondly - as a member of the family.

There's a number of greats over the years that have effected me strongly when they passed, and it's because the fictional lives they lived out upon the screen were something ever present in my life.

The first was Lucille Ball.  Despite being only seven, I have the image in my head clear as day: her portrait on the screen, carrot top hair and ruby red lips, with the dates August 6, 1911 -  April 26, 1989.

John Ritter was another biggie for me.  It was six in the morning and I heard it on the radio in the car.  So stunned, I ran a red light.  Shortly after I learned Johnny Cash had died that same day.  September 11, 2003.  It was a sad day all around.

With too many others to mention, to pay honor to, to give mention... with no disrespect, I fast forward to today.  To another person who has for as long as I can remember been a part of my life no longer being here.

I feel the collective loss of a man who could make an audience both laugh and cry in the same breath.  A man who as a child had few friends, and created voices to keep himself company.  A man who battled demons like everyone else, but unfortunately lost the battle.

I was lucky enough to grow up in a generation who had no choice but to know who Robin Williams was, what talent he was capable of and the legacy he had built with every role he played and every stereotype of himself that was defined.

He will always be remembered.

I read something recently that said Robin was once asked by actor James Lipton about what he would like God to say when he arrives in heaven.

Robin answered that "There is a seat in the front," in the concert of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Elvis Presley.

Rock on Robin, I'm sure it's the concert of a lifetime.

My Fictional Self

The blinking cursor on a blank page is an obvious taunt.

It sits there, mocking, announcing it's readiness repeatedly as you stare dumbly at the screen uttering an internal  monologue of "uh... um... er..."

I've been missing my escape lately, consumed by that pesky thing called reality (i.e. work in one form or another) and I just haven't been able to throw myself into the story, even if only for a few minutes.  For the last two weeks or so, every time I switch over to the current story I'm working on, that damned cursor starts blinking at me and I get distracted - realize I have something else to do, something else to dominate my time, my attention.

Even now as I dedicate just a few minutes to rant, rave and ramble about my neglected pastime, I can think of at least four other things that I could be doing, should be doing.

But I have to have some "me" time, right?  You know what they say about all work and no play... right?

New York City - 3/9/2013

Time versus inspiration: at the moment, I'm only lacking one.  For me, when I'm working on a story, inspiration isn't really hard to come by - it all stems from what got me into writing in the first place.

Have you ever watched a movie or a television show, or even reading a book, and wished a twist had turned a different way?  Wished that something else would happen, that another outcome would occur - that a different hero would prevail?

Without a doubt, I have a vivid imagination.  I'm an only child and I was raised to read, raised to think.  Add that mentality to the digital age, an over consumption of information, communication, and interpretation at my fingertips... and I became the neurotic over-thinker you see before you today.

I end up getting a story, a scenario, a scene, a moment stuck in my head - one that I can change, twist, and turn into whatever I want... so... why don't I?

In an interview I saw years ago, a soap opera actress once said that it wasn't necessarily the stories that were compelling, but the people within those stories, their reactions, responses, the way it resonates - because each person is different and will respond to the same situation differently.

The concept stuck with me.

Whenever I'm facing that writer plague that will not be named (cough-writer's-block-cough), all I have to do is re-read a scene I've already written.  Before long, I realize these people - this world I've created - needs to continue in this direction or that, something needs to happen - no, that's not quite right - something has already happened, I just need to put it down on the page.  The fodder is there, I just need to figure out where it leads me.

It's frustrating at times, but I don't write in a straight line.

That would be boring.

While my fictional self is rearing to go - pawing at the ground in impatient anticipation while I just can't get the rest of me to commit.  It's a spattering of an ongoing assault to plastic keyboard keys in the pursuit of surreal excellence, and I miss it.  (Can you tell?)  In the meantime, I hold secure to a few solid truths.

I don't have to write the next great American novel.  Above anything else, all I have to do is let a story play out.  The people, the emotions, the resonance will follow, because everyone is different, even if the situation is the same.

Now...  if only I could wrap up everything else I have to do in a neat little bow so I could let my inner fiction writer out of her cage to play.

She's getting restless I tell ya, who knows what the fallout will be.