David McElroy

It was May 13, 2011 when this site went live for the first time. I didn’t know what I wanted it to be — and I sometimes still don’t know — but I want to thank everybody who’s read and contributed at any point along the way. You know who you are. I appreciate you.

In those 24 months, I’ve had visitors from 182 countries. I’ve had more than a quarter of a million unique visitors. I really do appreciate all of them. I’ve been surprised — well, shocked is a more appropriate word — that this kind of traffic is possible for one random guy with some decidedly out-of-the-mainstream opinions.

I’ve enjoyed spending time with you, and I look forward to spending more time with you in the future. Maybe I’ll eventually even start making the monkeys work again. You never know.

Thanks for being here, everybody. And a special thanks for the few who leave comments. Whether we agree or not, I appreciate a crowd that’s more likely to think and discuss than to shout and scream.

I hate Mother’s Day and I hate Father’s Day. For many people, they’re sweet and nostalgic days to remember and appreciate parents who meant a lot to them. For me, they’re nothing but emotional turmoil and regret.

If you look in the dictionary next to the phrase “dysfunctional family,” there’s a picture of my family. There were five of us. In addition to my parents, I had two younger sisters. We were born just two years apart, so we were like three little stair steps. (That’s me with my mother around the time of my second birthday.)

My mother was very intelligent, artistic, funny and sensitive. She was a free spirit who didn’t even hear the drumbeat of the rest of the world as she marched to her own. She was oblivious to anything except following her own heart. In college, she had been selected as one of the “beauties” for the yearbook — back in the days when they used to do that — at the teachers’ college where she and my father both went to school. She was wildly popular and widely loved.

My mother was too sensitive to be married to my father. I didn’t understand it at the time, but his strict and controlling nature drove her to a mental breakdown. They were nothing alike in temperament or habits or much of anything else, but he insisted that his way was right about everything. He pushed and manipulated and controlled and cajoled to force her to be exactly what he was.

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Eight years ago, I made a short film. I had been saying for years that I wanted to make movies, but I hadn’t done anything about it. I was scared and I found every excuse under the sun not to do anything other than talk about it.

Then I met a woman. She was interested in film. She was interested in me. I was intensely interested in her and I wanted her to fall in love with me. I wanted to impress her and I wanted her to be proud of me.

So I put aside my fear and my insecurity and my ignorance. I made a film. It wasn’t a perfect film, but it was good enough to get into 20 smaller film festivals and win five awards.

The woman and I did fall in love. In a very real sense, my film was a love letter to her. It never would have been made without her in my life.

I think about this a lot lately when I think about why I haven’t made any more films and why I’m not turning out the kind of art I’d like to be making. I have several scripts in various stages of pre-production. I have a documentary that I’m working with a producer to try to bring to life. I even wrote half of a book last year that I ended up deleting in despair because I didn’t love it enough.

But I’m not finishing things. I don’t have enough enthusiasm for anything. I’m not using the talent that I know I have. Why not?

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