DEEP THOUGHTS

Bunk

On the bullshit we tell ourselves, and each other

It’s the end of the year and I’m going to my dark place. The place where I beat the crap out of myself for being what I consider, a failure. Not as a human being, per se, but as someone who had so many dreams for my “creative bent,” and somehow, fucked them all up.

Fifteen or so years ago, when the screenwriting bug bit me, something I’d actually been thinking about for much longer, I wondered why I didn’t embark on that journey, sooner. Why did it take me so long to get to the point where I actually scripted the TV pilot which had been rattling around in my brain for eons?

I can’t help but think that perhaps if I’d begun writing scripts thirty years ago, or forty that today, I might actually be a “working screenwriter,” instead of someone still beating her head against Hollywood’s door. You know, the place where producers, agents, and managers think their shit doesn’t stink.

“Well, let me tell you guys, it does.”

Now, I’m apparently too aged to be taken seriously. Yes, I am admittedly sensitive about the year I was born, but not without good reason. Other people’s dimwitted assumptions about a number on a piece of paper and how it supposedly defines us, have held me back.

Held me back from making a decent living at a time when I need it the most. Held me back from becoming a working screenwriter because how can someone, who is 69 years old, crank out more than one script? It’s one-and-done, for people like me, folks. There’s no longevity in that, aka, no money, not for the long term, anyway.

When I used to remark, no, whine, to friends and/or coworkers about how filled with regret I was that I hadn’t started writing screenplays sooner, I’d get this in response:

“Well, you probably had to come to a point in your life when you could tell those stories.”

And, in turn, I would nod vigorously. Yes! Yes, that must be it! I wasn’t ready! It wasn’t me that fucked up! It was…life!

Bullshit. I just never thought about it. In fact, there are long stretches in my life where I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Does that make any sense? And, can you relate?

Instead, after stints in public relations and journalism, I became a copywriter, which I imagined to be a really cool gig.

It was lucrative. I’ll give it that, and I’m thankful, but after it was over, when I was involuntarily retired in 2018, I was left with an emptiness. Like Peggy Lee sang, “Is that all there is?” Or, was?

And then I landed here and now, after four years of trying to make my mark, I’m looking at this platform as my attempt to “journal.” I’ve never actually purchased a notebook for that purpose or even given it serious consideration but I’ve come to realize that journaling is exactly what I’m doing on Medium. There’s no making a living at it, of course, not for me. But, it keeps me writing when I just feel like saying “fuck all.”

So, there is that.

Here’s more bullshit we tell ourselves and others. The Big One: “Money can’t buy happiness.”

Okay. Hearts and flowers aside, do you actually buy that? (Pun firmly intended.) Let’s break down some ways that having a bulging bottom line can indeed make one a happier individual.

First, say the home you’ve lived in for thirty or forty years needs a serious upgrade. The kitchen is dated, the bathrooms outmoded, you know what I’m talking about. And, every time you look around, your heart sinks because you’re overwhelmed by everything that needs “doing.”

Now, if you have money, and a goodly amount of it, you can make all sorts of phone calls to all sorts of manufacturers and contractors who will gladly assist you in bringing your castle into the twenty-first century.

Can anyone tell me that this wouldn’t make you a little bit happier? At the very least?

Moving on, imagine two people who have been blindsided by a cancer diagnosis, muscular dystrophy, Parkinson’s Disease, or any number of life-altering conditions.

One person has access to whatever form of treatment their insurance will cover, while the other has the means and resources to scout out the most innovative and forward-thinking healthcare professionals…worldwide. Specialists known for their prowess in integrating alternative and conventional therapies.

If not “happiness,” certainly the ability to entrust one’s care to those experts in their field, without worrying about the financial hit, could result in enhanced peace of mind, especially vital as stress impedes the body’s ability to heal.

Here are less dire scenarios: What if you’ve always been unhappy with the shape of your nose? Or your already-spoiled kid is badgering you for a pair of Nike “Air Force” shoes at well over a grand a pop? Or, as a perfume addict, you’d be in fragrance heaven if you could just get your hands on a bottle of Baccarat Rouge 540, at a mere four hundred or so, bucks.

If you had the dough, you could sport a new schnoz with confidence, shut your brat up, at least for a little while, or intoxicate yourself with the smell of money in a glass bottle.

Sure, that’s some petty shit right there, but here’s how I look at the money-happiness connection. A healthy bank balance helps us to prepare for life’s catastrophes, both big and small. And we know that, especially these days, they’re around every corner, yeah? To have that level of peace of mind to know, for example, that you were able to avoid Hurricane Shitkicker by packing up your family and fleeing to your second home, now that is no small comfort.

Finally, I even take umbrage with The Beatles’ iconic “Can’t Buy Me Love.” Here’s why: You can get off your ass and drive to your local animal shelter, pony up the dough for the donation fee for a needy dog or cat who needs a forever home, and in return, receive more love than you ever thought possible.

But, only if you’re a good person with a kind heart. If you’re an asshole, forget that last bit.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.