POSTSCRIPT: THE LOS ANGELES TIMES WEIGHS IN
Thus far, I've been consistently absent at
weigh-in.
The fantastic Elvis Costello Home
Page has a link to the L.A.
Times review of the show by somebody named Natalie Nichols. It's
credited "Special to the Times," which makes her a freelancer, methinks. Whose
review is better? Admittedly -- and obviously -- I wrote mine from the
perspective of a hard-core fan, but even so . . .
I haven't seriously tried to freelance anywhere in a couple of years. Trying to get published in a paper, magazine, or site I would actually read ain't easy. Editors at dailies don't have a lot of time on their hands; the last thing that want is to deal with unproven stranger. And I remember from my days trying to get the Washington, D.C. CityPaper to return my calls what a self-impressed bunch of snobs they were. Perhaps the alterna-weeklies out here are different. My experiences with the Reporter here in town have all been good ones, but they've gone through at least one regime change since I last wrote for them.
It's more than obvious to me -- and to everyone who cares about me -- that I need to be working at least part-time as a journalist. I ask myself every day what's stopping me. I never have an answer. My job is comfortable, tedious, and completely meaningless to me. It's suicide via minute incisions. Rollins has a great line about how people who waste his time are murdering him by increments; stabbing him with little knives. But I'm doing it to myself. For how much longer? I could die tomorrow, after all.
I bought Stephen Pressfield's The War of Art on McKee's recommendation when I took his seminar last November. When I got the book, I found it was a collection of writings too short to be called essays, all about overcoming Resistance (the capitalization is Pressfield's) and pursuing one's ambitions, be they artistic, charitable, entrepreneurial, or whatever. Surprise; it has a forward by Robert McKee. Despite the brevity of the observations -- it's almost like one of those stupid little palm-sized books of quotations or aphorisms they sell in gift stores -- the truth of what Pressfield writes is undeniable, like that of so many cliches. So perhaps I can be forgiven for remarking that it's like Pressfield is speaking right to me when he writes about what separates the pros from the amateurs:
"[Professionals] recognize that we are not our job descriptions. The amateur, on the other hand, overidentifies with his avocation, his artistic inspiration. He defines himself by it. He is a musician, a painter, a playwright. Resistance loves this. Resistance nowns that the amateur composer will never write his symphony becaouse he is overly invested in its success and overterrified of its failure. The amateur takes it so seiously it paralyzes him."
Golly. Does that sound like anybody you know?
I haven't seriously tried to freelance anywhere in a couple of years. Trying to get published in a paper, magazine, or site I would actually read ain't easy. Editors at dailies don't have a lot of time on their hands; the last thing that want is to deal with unproven stranger. And I remember from my days trying to get the Washington, D.C. CityPaper to return my calls what a self-impressed bunch of snobs they were. Perhaps the alterna-weeklies out here are different. My experiences with the Reporter here in town have all been good ones, but they've gone through at least one regime change since I last wrote for them.
It's more than obvious to me -- and to everyone who cares about me -- that I need to be working at least part-time as a journalist. I ask myself every day what's stopping me. I never have an answer. My job is comfortable, tedious, and completely meaningless to me. It's suicide via minute incisions. Rollins has a great line about how people who waste his time are murdering him by increments; stabbing him with little knives. But I'm doing it to myself. For how much longer? I could die tomorrow, after all.
I bought Stephen Pressfield's The War of Art on McKee's recommendation when I took his seminar last November. When I got the book, I found it was a collection of writings too short to be called essays, all about overcoming Resistance (the capitalization is Pressfield's) and pursuing one's ambitions, be they artistic, charitable, entrepreneurial, or whatever. Surprise; it has a forward by Robert McKee. Despite the brevity of the observations -- it's almost like one of those stupid little palm-sized books of quotations or aphorisms they sell in gift stores -- the truth of what Pressfield writes is undeniable, like that of so many cliches. So perhaps I can be forgiven for remarking that it's like Pressfield is speaking right to me when he writes about what separates the pros from the amateurs:
"[Professionals] recognize that we are not our job descriptions. The amateur, on the other hand, overidentifies with his avocation, his artistic inspiration. He defines himself by it. He is a musician, a painter, a playwright. Resistance loves this. Resistance nowns that the amateur composer will never write his symphony becaouse he is overly invested in its success and overterrified of its failure. The amateur takes it so seiously it paralyzes him."
Golly. Does that sound like anybody you know?
Posted: Tue - March 9, 2004 at 12:29 PM
Quick Links
Calendar
| Sun | Mon | Tue | Wed | Thu | Fri | Sat |
Categories
Archives
XML/RSS Feed
Statistics
Total entries in this blog:
Total entries in this category:
Published On: Oct 05, 2004 12:29 PM
Total entries in this category:
Published On: Oct 05, 2004 12:29 PM