I fed the dogs. Called back the vet to see if my eldest, Kilgore Trout, is anemic. Which means he might have cancer, or liver disease, or something worse. Which means he’s going to die soon. I can’t think of many people whose life I wouldn’t trade for Kilgore’s.
I opened up the New York Times Arts section and glanced at the movie reviews. The Friday Times is one of only three things in my life which keep me grounded as to what day of the week it is. Otherwise I wouldn’t have a clue.
I’m 49 years old, going through a never-ending mid-life crisis. Paul Westerberg (about to turn 49) hit it on the nose on a song on his new album 49: something in my life is missing. My therapist tells me it’s because I take my fantasy world, my fictional worlds, if you will, more seriously than I do the real world.
I’m a writer. I’m a filmmaker. Why wouldn’t I?
So I sit down and write this. Perhaps if I write about the real world it’ll seem less fuzzy. More real, if you will. Perhaps I’ll just turn the real world into fiction, and then really be happy.
Perhaps this is just a big waste of time.
Who the fuck knows?
My name is Gorman Bechard. I’ve written a bunch of novels, five of which have been published. I’ve made seven feature films, three of which I’m proud of. I’m basically a guy who types. A guy with a typewriter.
And this is my blog…
P.S. Still waiting on the call back from the vet.