START

The problems, issues and/or challenges remain the same, they will not change. Until we do. I was innocently asked last night how the current project was coming along. About half way through my glowing self-congratulatory report of the status of the latest video, I was interrupted with a not THAT project, the screenplay. 

Oh, yes.

Well, ahem, I think I am ready to start. START? I thought you were about to hire an agent and rent a place on the beach in SoCal.

Not quite. 

I am now conversationally doing what is known as the cover up. A cheap and tacky ploy that provides the listener with a litany of reasons (some of them legit) why progress is not as advertised. As I meander through the soliloquy, illustrating with bravado the limitless research, the fact checking, historical references, the footprints of time, the connection of actual versus hypothetical dots, the objective and the subjective, and the development of the storyline and its several plot twists, it becomes apparent that I have inadvertently stepped into a trap. I have been snared. The irony is that I subsidized the construction, placement and baiting of the trap. 

It is the trap of self doubt. The rabbit-hole into which I helplessly flail ever deeper into an artificial pit of fear. I can see this as I fall. I am making excuses and assigning blame to extrinsic factors all leading to the reality that there is only one reason why I am not waiting for a return call from an agent or realtor. I am petrified. 

What if I can’t do this? What if, although the outline and treatment are done, I suddenly come down with a case of writer’s block, amnesia or, worse, simply cannot properly, adequately or professionally, re-create the story that has consumed by consciousness for over a year? What a blow to my delicate and wounded ego to be unable to transcribe this tale from brain, to outline and then to the required format of twelve point courier with two inch round-head brass page fasteners.

What then?

I feel myself sinking into the blackness as the humiliation of my confession piles dirt over me by the shovelful. I am digging my own hole. I take another sip of the delicious Chianti and stare into the fire, deep into thoughts of a solution. NOT ANOTHER EXCUSE. A solution, an answer, an actionable call to arms.

I look at my dear friend and she is looking at me with the answer in her eyes, a compassionate and obvious look of wisdom and support.

I lower my head with self-mocking acknowledgement, a snort of admission to the truth.

Regardless of my fear of failure, at this point there is only one thing to do.

I look at her. She looks at me. In spontaneous two-part harmony we sing. 

Start.