In today’s installment, I am going to jump on the ‘share the Roger Ebert Esquire story with the world’ bandwagon. I know I am at least a couple of days late, if not more. Ah well. I will start out by saying that I do not read Roger Ebert. I do not really watch movies that often anymore, and so I care even less about one particular man’s opinion of them. I never watched his television shows with Gene Siskel or Richard Roeper. I have, however and oddly enough, linked to Ebert’s material on two previous occasions: his deeply personal write-up (and what I called at the time, on twitter or something, probably his most important review) of Alcoholics Anonymous, and my favorite film critique of all time, his evisceration of the movie North. So I suppose I hold some affection for the man, or at least his writing, even though I can hardly claim to keep up with him (I did not, for example, have any idea of how sick he had been until I read the Esquire piece).
Anyhow… yes, Chris Jones’s article is touching. It is sad in places – in the places where such stories are supposed to be sad. And it is inspirational in its description of Roger’s perseverance and courage and prolificacy in the wake of his life’s recent misfortunes. But the feeling I came away with was an overwhelming sense of shame.
Here is where I am posting the link to the Esquire article. Click it. Read it.
How dare I complain about a lack of inspiration? How dare I wax quasi-poetical on the modern rat-race world’s intrusion on my personal creativity? How dare I make excuses for why I do not write?
Here is a man for whom writing is all that is left. He cannot speak, eat or drink. He is disfigured (though not horribly, I must point out… I enjoyed Jones’s observation and description of Roger’s permanent smile). He struggles to walk. He has endured numerous surgeries – mostly, it seems, failed attempts to restore some of the more basic faculties that we, the unafflicted, take for granted. He must write to communicate with his family, his friends, and the world. For him, every word counts. Each is important. To write is to live.
That is an oversimplification, of course. By all accounts I’m sure he still enjoys movies. He enjoys the companionship of his wife. So on. Etcetera. Still, even though he has always been a writer, now he writes not simply by choice, but out of necessity. Meanwhile I am content on most nights to procrastinate – to put off writing until tomorrow. Until there is time. Until it is convenient. Until my muse inspires me once more. What a crock.
I understand why so many people feel moved by the story. It is uplifting and inspirational and absolutely should be read by everyone. Take those words as ones with real gravity – as they come from someone who carries a hearty disdain for celebrity profiles and pop culture pieces.