Over the last few days, I've returned my attention (MainFictionThing required a period of percolation) to a script that I've long been noodling with: something wild and crazy and fun, a love letter to the cinematic and cultural influences of my study-in-contrast grandfathers mixed through the lens of a challenge to myself because someone far more capable (and inspirational) than I admitted to me that it was the one thing they couldn't crack, my "accessible look" - to steal a term from MAKING THE CUT - divergent convergence and/or convergent divergence from the inaccessible "literary shit" of MainFictionThing (I admitted to myself long ago that I will never be considered mainstream or accessible and I'm great with that) but I'm at something of a crossroads: is it worth my while to continue working on something that will require someone(s) else to see to fruition? Do I want to continue to allow myself this dream, this inevitable heartbreak of incompletion and total lack of eventual consumptive form? Or do I say fuck it and roll with enjoying myself, writing something for the sake of writing it because I want it to exist and worry about the rest of it later?

Clearly, I've landed on the latter: I don't know what the future will bring and, honestly, in these sacred hours of The Work, I don't particularly care – if it becomes more than a script, great; if it remains that, fine: I don't need to pander (not that I ever did: that was the vulnerability exploited by media social in a decade of "joblessness" when what I was really doing was exploring my calling and moving forward with life on my terms) and I don't need to prove myself to anyone but myself.

And with what I'm working on now, I've finally embraced that.