There is more than one way of looking at things.
Sorry. That was the first sentence that came out.
Thank you. Where was I?
“’There is more than one way of looking at things.’”
Oh yeah. Okay, so yesterday, I am typing away, pontificating on the subject of how an expanded number of outlets for creators of TV shows to pitch to can actually be detrimental to your advancement, when the majority of people, I readily concede, would see the explosion of available outlets as an enormous upgrade in opportunity. And see me as an idiot. Anything, “Blue Italics Person”?
Nothing I mentioned was, at least potentially, untrue. There is, in fact, the possibility of having more places to pitch to being harmful to creative development. Taking note of this possible happenstance, I leaped up on that counter-intuitive bronco and I rode it mercilessly into the ground.
That was exhilarating, just thinking about it.
Being a natural contrarian – rather than a “pretender” angling for attention – my reflexive imaginings went to an obsessed writer, zealously passionate about their creation. Now, with dozens of available venues to pitch to – rather than three as there used to be – they cling tenaciously to the belief that, although their spectacular idea had been shot down by every channel – and whatever Netflix and Amazon are – they had met with, there remained someplace out there that would excitedly spark to the idea and say “Yes.”
Leaving them stuck inexorably in one spot, unable to move on.
Pitching that one same idea ad infinitum,
Until they die.
And then someone buys it.
No. (I was just messin’ with ya.) Nobody buys it.
It’s dead, and they’re dead.
Swear to Gosh, this really happened. In the midst of writing yesterday’s post, I was surprisingly jolted by that saddening circumstance. Yes, that immobilizing alternative was possible. But what kind of a writer would actually behave that way?
And it occurred to me that I might.
Resolute that there were yet unvisited places to pitch to – The Washing Machine Channel if I made minor adjustments to the storyline and sold “Product Placement” privileges to Tide – and fearful that what everyone had so far rejected was the best idea I would ever come up with… yeah, I could imagine myself being unwilling to let go, incapable of adhering to that venerable talent manager’s imprecation of “Next!”
I’d be immobilized in one spot forever.
In a way, I actually am.
I have written this book entitled… many things, but the most recent title is Saddle Up!, a tribute to classic westerns, wherein surviving participants during that genre’s cinematic heyday – “The Good Guy”, “The Mexican Spitfire”, “The Last Buffalo”, “The First Indian Over the Wall” – reminisce in “First Person” about their memorable experiences.
After considerable effort – and a massive expenditure of stamps – I was unable to find a publisher. Because – and here’s the paralleling component – I believed there was something inherently special and, for me, unsurpassable about this project, I subsequently gave up trying to write books, harboring faint hopes for the publishabilty of “Saddle Up!”
I realized in yesterday’s offering that, without consciously intending to, while referencing a miraculous breakthrough in creative opportunity, I had selected for your enjoyment an oppositional sliver, exposing by that selection a startling strain of astonishing pessimism.
Masquerading as a blog post.
What the heck was I thinking?
I know I’m a pessimist. But I was oblivious to the blanketing pervasiveness of my perspective.
Don’t listen to me. More available outlets is unquestionably better. Yes, there is the possibility of that other scenario happening.
But more in pessimists’ stories than in actual life.
My recent epiphany got me thinking seriously about pessimism. It may well – as I unscientifically believe – be genetic.
But does it have to be inescapable?