I am the perfect combination of someone who appears to be doing everything, but in actuality is doing nothing. Even better, exactly the opposite is true as well. When I did a stint as a caterer for The Bashful Butler in Los Angeles, I worked blindingly fast and got everything done so that I could stand around and space out. Of course, all my superiors saw was me spacing out, so many talks were had with my uncle (the owner) and my mom, all that shit.
So at the next gig, I finished my job early as usual, then picked up a rag and wiped random surfaces as I spaced out. The following day, there was all this talk about how I’d “really shaped up” and had a “new attitude.”
I began to carry this rag around the job at all times, wiping rails, parts of trees, backs of chairs, the steering wheel of the catering truck, anything I could get my hands on. All the while staring blankly into space. By the time I left, I was one of the most requested workers. I wiped the fuck out of that place.
Now that I don’t have to lug hot-boxes around Pasadena anymore, I’m not sure if I’m doing it right. I seem to have accomplished a fair amount of stuff: I’m twice-published (one actually sold a few copies), I’ve written a novel, three screenplays, and countless magazine articles. I’ve arranged more than fifty music pieces for McGraw-Hill currently being played in schools around America. I wrote all the songs for a Shakespeare musical, I’ve written trailers for 25 or so blockbuster movies, and I just wrote and co-directed an entire independent film.
And yet it doesn’t look like I’m doing anything. And getting work can be harrowing, especially in the writing business. I have trouble getting calls returned, and I’m basically a charming dude. Perhaps this blog is that rag, the one I used while catering, a way to polish random surfaces so I can look busy to myself, until I figure out what I was supposed to be doing.