I remember when I was in elementary school and I was in the “advanced” reading groups. My books were yellow. My friends’ books were green. I would finish the reading assignment before the rest of the group and then I would start talking to my friends. The teachers used to discipline me for distracting my friends by giving me more book reports to do. I would fly through the book reports. So much so that I started making up my own books, authors and stories. The teachers would always tell my mother this in every grade, every year. They told her I should write. So I started to write. More stories. More books. More creative writing. I did it because it was an escape from my life. From what I was going through in real life. On paper I could be anyone. I could be any character. Live any place I wanted. I could be the good guy or the bad guy. So I wrote. All the time.
As I got older, I stayed with the creative writing but I also got into fact based writing. AKA journalism. I did ok with the journalism. Wrote for the school newspaper. Wrote for two local newspapers. Received a journalism scholarship for an international arts program the Summer before my senior year in high school. Went into college as a journalism major with 3 years’ worth of scholarship money. But I didn’t like it. I didn’t like writing about other people’s problems. I had my own. So I took my love for movies and started to write them. Creative writing was my first love. Journalism was the rebound girlfriend that I hated. Screenwriting became my wife and T-blawg became my mistress. I write here to tell my real-life stories. I write scripts to tell made up stories. I love both equally. Words on paper or words on the screen, I love seeing my words. They aren’t always the best words, but they are MY words. The words I write here I give away for free. The words I write in my scripts I hope to take care of my entire family with one day. Both serve a purpose. I write from my heart every time. I can’t explain what it is like to pour your heart into something the way a writer pours his/her heart into something they are writing. The words leave your heart, sometimes they stop at your brain for a moment, and then you watch them appear onscreen as your hands move on their own. It’s a process, yes. It’s passion, yes. It’s an art, yes. I don’t claim to be a writer most of the time. Sometimes I do. But mostly I claim to be a storyteller. A damn good storyteller. Pound for pound, I have the best stories around. I will always say that because no one has lived the crazy life I have lived. I will always say that because no one knows movies like the way I know them. I even know them better than all those rich Hollywood types. That I promise. I’m writing a book because it is just another way for me to get my stories out and grow my writing repertoire. A true writer can write anything but a storyteller always has a story to tell. And this is also why I haven’t missed one single T-pisode in 250 straight Mondays. This is why I write.
I write for my friends and family who even though they have heard the story a thousand times, they get to read it one more time and still laugh. I write for the fans I have EARNED around the world in 80 different countries the last 5 years. I write for the future audiences that are going to pay to see my movies with their hard-earned money just to escape from their everyday realities for 2 hours. I write for the people who never heard of T-blawg but may pull my book off the shelf or download it just because they thought “Wow. This kid has been through some shit and he still has his sense of humor.” while looking for something to read on their commute home. I write for every single guy who has used the #wouldwife hashtag on the pic of a beautiful woman they admire because of me. I write for every other “writer” who has stolen a “Bro Code” chapter and passed it off as his own. I write for every single person who has tucked their hat low as an intentional or unintentional salute to everything my words have created here. I write for every person who once told me that I would never be anything in life and I proved so wrong. But most importantly, I write for me.
PS….thank you for caring about why I write the last 250 Mondays. I am honored and humbled beyond words.
Until next time. Always take it there.