I’m not particularly good at waiting.
I don’t ‘do’ waiting very well.
That’s not to say I don’t know how to kill time, or spend time, or waste time, or invest time. I can do that.
I’m just no good at waiting.
To my mind, there are two kinds of waiting. One, the type I’m good at, or at least have some facility for, is filling in the time between. Imagine you’re waiting for the train to arrive, or the test results to come in. There is an assigned “end point” for your waiting. Be it in two hours, or next Thursday. You know (as much as such things can be known) that the end of your wait will come at that point in time. In such cases, it’s easy to fill the time with other chores, busy work, idle amusements, and peaceful contemplation. Even if you’re awaiting possible dire news – it’s still some comfort to know that by “Next Friday” – you’ll have your answer. There will come a time when you will “know”.
This sort of waiting, I can handle.
It’s the waiting for the unknown that drives me bug nutty. Waiting for someone else to control your destiny by making a choice on their own time is maddening.
“We’ll get back to you…” “We’ll let you know…” “Things will happen, as soon as THEY make a decision…”
My life is full of the later point right now.
I’m waiting for someone to make a decision on funding the script I’ve optioned. “Hopefully we’ll know soon.”
I expect more rewrites will be needed. Someone once said the script isn’t finished until the movie premiers. And even then, the “Director’s cut” will be included on the DVD. (Unless the director IS the screenwriter, there’s never a ‘writers cut’.) Knowing that this particular script might require my complete and undivided attention – likely with a deadline attached, I am loath to invest any creativity into writing a new script. And yes, I do have ideas for new scripts.
When I was young and hitchhiking across America and Canada – I used to sit on the side of the road with my back pack and thumb out. I could only sit a short while, before I’d pick up my pack, and carry it down the road on my back. Sure, maybe I’d only get a mile or two closer to wherever I was going. But at least it’s movement.
And so I’m writing this little essay, while I wait. At least, I’m writing.