I can’t be sure if it’s my medical problems, lack of inspiration or pure laziness that’s caused me to stop writing, but the end result is the same. I just can’t seem to write more than a few paragraphs before I lose steam and do something else. I’d like to believe that I’m the type of writer that can just soldier on and write, despite motivation, but in reality, I guess I’m not. Besides, what kind of product am I gonna turn out if it’s created without passion? Movie producers reading this blog right now are thinking, “Hm, this guy isn’t the kind of screenwriter we want. He needs passion. Pheh.” That’s OK. I can understand that. The Industry doesn’t have time for “artists” anymore. They need craftsmen. Hopefully, in the future, my passionless writing will be as good as my current passionate writing and I’ll be viable in Hollywood. Here’s to hoping.

Anyway, I’ve been taking advantage of my health insurance and visiting the doctor’s office to take care of some long overdue health concerns. Nothing major, but annoying just the same. While I was waiting in the office yesterday, a young girl – maybe early 20’s – came out with a look on her face that said she wasn’t happy with the news she got. I sat down on one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs and she left the office. A few minutes later, she came back in and sat across from me and got on her cell phone to share her misery with people concerned.

She called her Dad and told him that the doctor heard a heart murmur. I don’t know what that means in terms of health, but I assumed the worse. I also couldn’t hear what her Dad said in reply, but assumed the best.

“Dad, he’s a trained doctor. I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about,” the girl retorted. I couldn’t help but laugh. The girl saw me laughing and gave me a curious smile. Caught, I gave her a quick shake of my head and frantically waved my hand in a “no, no, no” gesture to let her know that my reaction wasn’t malicious. It was just heartwarming to see a father immediately come to his child’s comfort in the face of bad news.

Call Waiting beeped and she answered. Her Mom was on the other line and I could hear her plainly. The girl had probably called her first, because Mom was ready with practical responses. She started off by reading the definition of a heart murmur to the girl, which mentioned something about being a child, but all in all seemed like something that was natural. The girl, of course, wasn’t receptive to the information and countered with, “But I’m not a child. I’m an adult.” So Mom went to Plan B and assessed the girl’s current history, covering school, finals and other projects as having overwhelmed her and causing her current health issue.

“Did you talk to your Dad?” Mom asked.

“Yeah. He says the doctor doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” The girl started to cry. “I’m so scared.”

All I could think was I’m glad I’m not like that. You know, afraid of death. In fact, I think I’ve spent most of my life not minding death. I hate being committed to anything; that includes living. I learned early on that everything – relationships, careers, dreams – all go South sooner or later. Why would you want to be stuck in that situation? This probably all stems from not having a happy childhood…or any kind of childhood for that matter. And yes, my teenage and adult life have not been particularly fulfilling either. When you literally have nothing to live for, I guess these are the thoughts you have. So that’s why the thought of an early checkout never bothered me.

On the other hand, just the other night I was laying in bed, imagining that I was dying from a terminal disease and that I would only have a month to live. I thought about all of the great stories I’d never tell and how sad my Mother would be, having outlived her child. Everyone who knew me would eventually forget about me and no one would study my writing in English classes. I would be insignificant.

I cried.

Realizing that I had a little more in common with the girl than I thought, I fished out my handkerchief from my pocket, inspected it for grime and walked over to hand it to her.

“I think it’s clean,” I whispered.

“I’m OK, really,” she replied, so I sat back down and minded my own business.