The Most Important Reader

Happy new year!

My dad and sister drove out to LA over the holidays and brought a huge box of my old journals with them from Ohio. I spent the past week going through them for the first time in fifteen years, and it reinforced my belief that journaling might be the single most important thing I ever did for myself, both as a writer and a human being.

My very first actual journal (that wasn’t a yellow legal pad or a composition notebook) is from my junior year of college, in 1993. I was nineteen years old. I bought it because it was purple and paisley. I’ll give you one guess as to why.

That’s the year I started scratching around on paper, writing snippets of dialogue and jotting down ideas for short plays. This journal is the primordial soup of my writing career. Dozens and dozens of terrible pages, one after the other, many of them about girls. I can see how badly I wanted to sound sophisticated and profound. Self-consciously “poetic.” There’s a bunch of Tarantino knockoff scenes and monologues, because it was shortly after I saw RESERVOIR DOGS.

It’s interesting to see how much of it is just me free-writing, or starting to riff on something where it’s clear I have absolutely no idea where it’s going. No forethought, just going by stream of consciousness. I’d write 3-4 pages of a scene, or run of scenes, or a long monologue, and follow where it led, one word after another. This is all mixed in with journal entries about my day to day life at school, my worries and frustrations, bad poetry about girls I had crushes on, petty jealousies, to do lists, and more.

I think the most important part of this era was just carving out time to write. Getting in touch with intuition and inspiration. Trying to get used to writing dialogue. I wasn’t a writer, yet. I was a musical theater major who had a compulsion to write.

Six years later, in the spring of 1999, I was living in New York and working at The Blue Note jazz club in the gift shop and coat check. That was my day job. The real work was putting up shows and cabarets with my friends, Joshua Kobak and Katy Pfaffl. I also created a one-man show of poems, monologues, and songs, called RANDOM ACTS that I performed at The Duplex, a cabaret space above The Stonewall, down in The Village. By this point, my journal was an indispensable tool.

I want to share two back to back entries with you. One of them was written in the upstairs bar while I was waiting to do my show. The second was written in the bar immediately after the show. I’ve written a lot about my self-talk, and how I use my journals to work through bouts of depression, self-doubt, insecurity, and negativity. This is a pretty good example of that process, especially as it relates to my creativity and artistic ambitions:

March 15th, 1999

“I’m sitting in my favorite gay bar right now. Just hanging out. Actually, I’m waiting for the other show to let out so I can do RANDOM ACTS again. Round 2. Again, all I’m nervous about is the same shit as last time. I just hope some people come. And, that they laugh.

I’ve hung out more in this bar in the last couple of months than any bar I’ve ever been to, because of the shows. It’s cool, you know. There’s a pool table, jukebox, cool bartender. You come in and you see a bunch of guys hanging out. Then you realize that everybody’s flirting with each other and the jukebox inevitably plays “I Will Survive.” Then, I realize that nobody’s flirting with me and that fucks me up. I already have to deal with the fact that girls don’t flirt with me.

Do I even want to do this show again? I guess I’ll know after next Thursday. Oh, well.

Fuck, these people are running late. Which is okay. It’s not like I have a line out the door. So far, it’s just me. Yep. Just me. Just gonna be me, the bartender, and Kimo*. I can’t even write sensibly, I’m so nervous. Might as well do something a little more constructive. More later.”

“A vision’s just a vision if it’s only in your head,

If no one gets to see it it’s as good as dead.” **

(*Kimo was the tech director.)

(** This is a lyric From Sunday in the Park With George, by Stephen Sondheim)

Later that night:

“All that anxiety for nothing. No, really. For nothing. Not one person showed up. Not one single person out of the 70 that I called could make it. So, I lost $50 and got a small purple bruise on my ego. By Saturday, it will probably turn to green. By Monday, it will be gone.

On thinking it over, I’m guessing it’s some sort of karmic retribution for something I’ve done. Maybe just not putting all the heart into it that I should have. I really didn’t bust my ass on it like I should have. All the busy work like getting the script together, getting the tapes redone. Now I can just focus on getting some people there next week.

I can rehearse the show once a day from now until then. And, really try to get somebody from SNL there. All of the things I was planning on doing last week. All the things I planned to do but never did, because I was too busy seeing movies and fucking around. God, why am I such a fucking moron sometimes? There’s no reason I shouldn’t have had people in that place, tonight. It’s not like there was a big blizzard or anything. It’s just stupid. I’m stupid. Fuck!

What’s the point of doing it if no one is going to come see it? It makes me feed bad because I guess people just aren’t as curious as I am to see what my peers are up to. I always try to see other peoples’ work. But the people I’ve seen all came last week. Like Coulter, and Bridget. It’s making me wonder why aren’t these other people coming? Did I do something to them? Did I fuck up with someone? Or, do they just think it will suck? What’s the deal?

Fuck it. Enough negative self-directed venom. This was not a defeat. It was a call to action. Tomorrow, you get yourself a new game plan and attack it. And rehears the goddamn show! If these people show up, you better have something to show them. Fly, little bird!”

I’ve read through four or five of these early journals now, and I can see how much I was struggling with not just the kind of artist I wanted to be (Actor? Writer? Director? Theater? Film? All the above?), but also the kind of person I wanted to be. All of my missteps and mistakes and ways that I messed up with friends and loved ones are there. All of the bad habits and self-sabotage I engaged in. All of the things I felt like other people expected of me that were in conflict with my goals. I learned, course corrected, relapsed, tried again. And all the while I kept writing in my journals.

Looking back now, it’s clear that I was charting the course to exactly where I am today. In so many ways, I am the kind of person I hoped I’d be, and living the kind of life I hoped I would get to live. It’s not as grandiose as most of my entries imagined. I didn’t have quite the level of success I dreamed about then. But I’m still here, almost thirty years later, sitting in a coffee shop, scribbling in a notebook. The big difference is that I don’t have a day job checking coats or selling shot glasses. This is my job.

It’s also a reminder that so much of what I felt then (and feel now) is cyclical. The business, inspiration, creativity, my health, none of it stays consistently positive or negative. That’s just a life in the arts. I’m STILL writing about some of the same things today. The bouts of depression and insecurity still happen all the time. I’m just better at dealing with them, thanks to young me who started this process of working it out on paper so many years ago. Reading through these pages, I love young me so much for that.

I used to say (including in the very first issue of this newsletter) that if I’d never found any “success” as a writer, I’d still be living this kind of life. I’m even more certain and dedicated to the practice after this week. All that time, I thought I was writing for the privilege of working in front of an audience. But first and foremost, always and forever, the most important reader was going to be Future Me. Young Me gave Future Me a gift.

My journal isn’t just a tool. It’s a lifeline. A memory palace. A time machine. For the past few days, I’ve been transported back in time to the mid to late 90’s, dropped into the day to day life of a young, insecure and overly confident, deeply ambitious, and deeply flawed protagonist named Mickey Fisher.

Maybe a lot of you are already engaged in the practice of keeping a journal. If you’re not, I can’t recommend it enough. And it’s not just for writers. I think it’s good for anybody who wishes they could close their eyes and freeze a moment in time forever. Do it for Future You who will read it twenty-five years from now.

The Notebook: A History of Thinking on Paper

Shortly after writing that last section about my journaling habit, I picked up The Notebook: A History of Thinking on Paper, by Roland Allen, about the enormous impact that the invention of the notebook had on human creativity. Allen gives us a fascinating look into the notebooks of ordinary people and folks like Charles Darwin, Sir Isaac Newton, and Leonardo Da Vinci. I’ve never felt so close to Da Vinci as when I read that, disgusted with his distractibility and perceived lack of progress, he wrote, “Alas, this will never get anything done,” in several his notebooks. Same, Leo!

I just finished the chapter on how a number of famous authors used their journals and was delighted to find that Agatha Christie used hers much in the same way I use mine these days. There are bits and pieces of ideas, stray observations, and reflections, short bullet point style explorations of set ups, and then — just like I described in my last newsletter — she writes in conversation with herself. “How about this?” “A good idea would be…” “Yes, better if dentist is dead.” Another fun bit I learned is that, “Surprisingly, she often changed the murderer halfway through the outline,” letting the story guide her along the way.

The Traveler's Notebooks have been my daily notebooks for the past two years, and I love them. I have a leather cover with a clear plastic pouch and two notebook inserts at a time. Not only can I replace the notebook inserts once they’re full, I can also carry around a few Field Notes notebooks in the pouch. And I always have a pen attached.

Dr. T

I want to share one more entry from that 1999 journal with you, a monologue from RANDOM ACTS. It was based on a real guy and a real event that happened to me and my friends in Washington Square Park one night when we were hanging out, getting high, and singing along with a guitar. One of the guys who was living in the park at the time joined us and told us a story that I’ve never forgotten. I went home and turned it into a monologue. It’s got its problems and it’s problematic in some ways, but whatever, I’m going to share it with you, (largely) unedited from the night I worked it out in my journal, because otherwise, it’s just lost to time.

DR. T:

(Enters, singing)

“I read the news today, oh boy…”

(He notices the “audience.”)

How y’all doing tonight? You having a party? Beautiful. You mind if I join you? Oh, shit. Thanks. Any of you know what time it is? Time for my medicine.

(He pulls out a bottle, takes a sip)

It’s a beautiful night. Look at that. You can even see the stars. Don’t happen too often in this city, but man, when it does…

People tell you all the time you can’t see the stars in New York. Bullshit. Just two days. Ago, I saw Dan Akroyd. I started yelling, “Elwood! Elwood!” He didn’t even turn around.

That’s a beautiful guitar. I used to play, myself. Long time ago. I’ll tell you, I been in this park a long time. I seen everybody come through here. Bob Dylan, in the sixties. Bob Dylan used to bring his guitar down here to play for all the junkies. I never did none a that. No. I just drank like a fish. Drink so much I forget where I was, who I was with. I used to say, “I never went to bed with an ugly woman. But Lord, I sure woke up with a few.”

Used to be, we had this scam going with all the drunks around. When we’d get really wasted snd didn’t have any place to sleep and it was too cold for the park, we’d call 911 and tell them we were having a heart attack, something. Ambulance would pick you up, take you to the hospital, wheel you in to someplace warm. They’d check you out, feed you, give you a bed. You know, it’s like a gurney in a hallway, but it’s better than the dog run.

I’ll tell you, most fucked up thing I ever saw, I saw in the hospital on one of them nights. I got so wasted I couldn’t stand up. Called the ambulance. They took me in, got me laid out in the hallway. Man, I passed out so fast. Like a light. All of a sudden, there’s people screaming all around me, running back and forth, cops all over the place. I got up to run cause I thought they were onto my scam, you know? Then I see em running the gurney down the hall, coming right toward me, fast as they could. And, whoever it was, they’re covered in blood. And, the cops with him are covered in blood.

And, the gurney gets right next to me and I see who it is. And I can’t believe it. I make eye contact with him and I just start bawling. And he’s looking at me, too, man. Right at me. Nurses are crying. Cops are crying. The cops who brought him in, they were first on the scene, right after he got shot. They didn’t want to wait on the ambulance so they put him in the cop car and took him right to the hospital. They were all shaken up.

I mean, this was the guy who wrote, “All You Need is Love.” And, “Give Peace a Chance.” Guy who fought against violence and war and spread the word about loving one another. This was a guy, we’d all been listening to him for years. Lotta these people grew up listening to him. There he was, the light in his eyes going out right in front of us.

I remember, they had a candlelight vigil in front of the apartment where he got shot. I walked all the way up there to see it. Thousands of people. Holding candles. Holding hands. Singing, “Give Peace a Chance.”

It’s so fucked up that it takes those kind a things to bring us together. When do you see that? When we lose somebody like him. Or Martin Luther King, or JFK. I don’t know, man. I guess you gotta thank God that they lived at all. Gave us the gifts that they did. Man, did he give us a lot of gifts.

Here, let me see that thing. Don’t worry, I Iain’t gonna hurt it. I know, touching another man’s guitar is like touching his woman. Return it like you found it, and don’t leave no fingerprints. Let me see if I can remember this one. This one’s for John.

(Takes the guitar, strums a few chords, and sings…)

“Imagine there’s no Heaven… it’s easy if you try…”

(Lights fade on Dr. T as he sings.)

Like I said — it’s got its problems, but I can see the difference of six years of steady practice from that first journal in 1993.

This is a long game.

I am still a work in progress.

If you’re reading this, you made it to another year. The days are a little longer. The sun shines a little brighter. The great “circling back” has begun. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, I hope you feel healthy and creative, and ready to take on the world. Or, maybe you’re still in winter hibernation mode, resting and reflecting. That’s cool, too. You do you, boo.

Me? I’m back in the saddle, working on a number of pitches in the hopes of taking them on the road starting next month. I’ll drop a line soon to let you know how it’s all going.

Take care!