So I watched American Idol last night. I know, I know, I'm an addict, I confess. But I love viewing the raw talent and watching the growth and development throughout the elimination weeks, seeing who has the savvy, who doesn't. Who can read through the lines, sift through the crap, and find what it is in commercialism that works. Doesn't matter if it is singing, or writing, it's all the same.
I loved Sanjaya because he had a presence. Yet on the same hand, I wanted him to be eliminated because he wasn't quite cutting it. He couldn't sing, damn it. Geez, he's as tone deaf as I am, but that kid has something and it might be sheer determination, I'm not sure. He touched me on some inner level. He's a fighter.
He made me ask that awful question: "Am I the Sanjaya of writing?"
What if I can't write, but people are humoring me to continue to perform? What if I'm an embarassment to the writing community? Sanjaya cried in public, in front of millions of viewers, and I cried with him. I felt and understood his pain. His loss of the dream touched me at my inner core and I wanted to hug him, tell him he was brave, and wonderful, for trying and to never give up or give in. Many don't. Many have the idea, the glimmer, I coulda, shoulda, didn't. Sanjaya did. For getting out there, for putting his stuff up for everyone to take potshots at, I admire him. And the thing is he's a kid, just a kid with a dream, he's not some old jaded fart like me, someone who's been around the block a time or two. I hope he takes voice lessons and uses that amazing charisma and works his charm and his art and becomes the greatest thing since sliced bread.
Me, I think I'm toast.