J. Ignatius "Iggy" Ling

Boy acting's hard.

I just spent four hours at the local coffee shop memorizing lines...and I'm not done yet.  I guess memorizing is never actually done, but I've got at least another half act to memorize.  Play's only an hour or so but I still have a little less than half the lines in it.  Which, of course, is good for raising-of-profile purposes.  Bad for the actual memorizing of.  Good thing I'm a quick study...even though I've had the script for going on two weeks (Hey, I kinda got thrown into the process.  Give me a break). 

Though I can pat myself on the back for the work I've accomplished, I can punch myself in the face repeatedly for the things to do.  Laurel resting was never my forte (pronounced "fort," not "four-tay."  Then of course, I sound like the idiot when I say it right).  I've already done a "shit I gotta do list" this week, so I'll refrain from doing that again for fear of your "close-window" clicking potential.

But, I haven't done 'em.  I just...I get really tired. 

Okay, I'm not really paying attention to this post right now.  Gotta be honest.  I'm pretty scatterbrained at the moment...I think I should let the five of you reading this right now know that you're all essentially the guinea pigs of my world at the moment.  I started this blog because I am trying to write.  At least, to pretend I am anyway.  I'm trying to figure out how to power through my laziness level and put words to page, and consistently posting and updating a blog seems like the best way to do it.

I do have ideas, you know.  I have plays I want to write, novels to lay out.  I just...maybe undiagnosed ADD?  Sure.  I should be so lucky for an excuse.  

You know that 82% of Americans dream of writing a book one day?  82%.  I wonder if the same amount actually thinks they can put together two to three hundred pages of text about one subject, let alone a fiction piece, let alone that it would be coherent enough for anyone to actually read the damn thing, let alone that anyone would actually publish it...after all of that, I'd say less than 5% could actually do it.  And I'm including all book genres, fiction and non-fiction.  And I'm not necessarily including myself in that 5%, but I gotta be in the 80th percentile or better.  

Gar...I think that I'm having an identity crisis about just being an actor.  I've always felt slightly devalued in the artistic realm because what I do is so fleeting, so intangible.  Dancers might feel the same way, but they have their physical training to show their aptitude.  Writers have books; painters have paintings.  I'm trying to show you how I feel for a living.  And you're supposed to pay me.

I've definitely romanticized about being a writer of some kind most of all...

My Top 5 Romanticized Professions (That I don't necessarily have a desire to do):

1. Journalist

2. Fiction Author

3. University Department Chairman

4. Choreographer

5. Shop Owner

I think I fancy myself some kind of ambulance-driving, lion-hunting, Key West-dwelling, self-pointing shotgun-wielding neo-Hemingway or something.  It's quite easy to forget, however, that he was also pretty good at writing.  I always picture journalists and writers flying all over the world and...I don't now...doing stuff.  For...writing.  

The work I do is so private most of the time.  The hour or so of stage time I happen to get has about 10 hours of rehearsal and memorization behind it.  I won't lie...it's rewarding when I get the chuckle or the big laugh or the big gasp.  But the idea that it's just talent is pervasive and often belittling.  Just because you can't see my brushstrokes doesn't mean I haven't put them on the painting.  

What the hell am I getting at...I'm trying to write because I'm a creative soul and I want to create as much as I possibly can.  But...the respect end has to come too.  I can look over this entire post and pick at my grammatical and hyperbolic trends (too many parenthetical asides, ellipses, and a penchant for hyphenation not withstanding).  I can't just look at it as a blog.

The character in the play I'm working on seems preoccupied with the idea that "there has to be something else."  I empathize...he's a lot like me.  Probably why I was cast.  Anyway, I feel like this has to be something else, and so do I.  I said it already; I'm not a laurel-rester.  I work best with a full plate.  So I have to keep doing what I'm doing until I figure out why it's not working and fix it.  

And nobody can clean a full plate like this guy.