A great excuse adopted through being a writer, actor, artist, creator is justifying spending unlimited amounts of time watching movies, listening to music, reading graphic novels-fiction-nonfiction-everything, and daydreaming into a crowd. Stories are to be collected everywhere, and simply by storing them in my hopper I have them to consciously or unconsciously draw upon. I’ll be stuck on a passage when writing, and to jump start things I’ll brainstorm entertainment I’ve collected. For example, when blocked with how to get a heroine out of a jam concerning, say, atomic ground chunks (my term for ground hogs), I’ll toss out thoughts from my brain collection such as MMA, French cooking show, or an old 80s music video and I can usually draw up something that, on the surface, shows no traces of its original inspiration, but provides a fresh idea that spring boards me into breaking through my block. This philosophy also allows for a good deal of never growing up, always discovering and exploring things many adults have long since abandoned as being childish. Watch, read, listen. (“Write my name,” one of my twins just requested. Here you go: Roark.). Repeat. For life.
I’m currently reading this biography, and thus far it’s proven to be a direct telling about a remarkable man. Jones spent a good deal of time with Mr. Henson, enough to understand how the man would have liked his story to be told: honestly, catching the important details of what made him who he is, and leaving flowery prose aside. Mr. Henson was a man whose vision was his own, and he was able to do that which so many cannot – follow that vision sincerely, inspiring millions along the way. One of those millions being me.