I Don’t Care.

Bullshit. You do care. The fact that you’d even think that means that you care.

The problem with I don’t care is that it implies that you’ve given up. You’ve thrown your hands up, and you don’t want to do it anymore. Well why not? What caused you to throw them up in the first place? Was it something they said? Something they did? Were you pushed too hard? Too fast? Too long? Did you get to the point where you just realized that it would never go your way?

You see, I don’t believe you. At the end of this, you’ll have an opinion, one way or the other. Maybe you won’t show it. Maybe you’ll shrug your shoulders. But late at night, when you think no one’s watching, your mind will turn back to the moment where you could have done something about it. You could have made a different choice.

Creatives aren’t in the business of not caring. You don’t care means you’re just uninspired. Means you giving half of what you could. Means you’re giving McDonald’s, when the occasion’s calling for Morton’s. Writers, designers, story tellers, musicians. We’re not McDonald’s. We chose the life of baring our souls, for good or bad, and taking the beating that comes from it. We’re in the business of being naked in front of our mortal enemies, and asking them for understanding, patience, laughter. We’re asking for gentle kindness, and we’re expecting the stones. This is what we’ve chosen.

Of course you care. You’ve just been beaten down so hard for so long that you don’t have the nuts to stand up and pull the sword from the rocks. And the kicker- nobody’s going to help you. There are no easy days. No easy battles. There are no fields of green grass, only soldier-filled canyons, riddled with bullets and blood. You want to give up? Fine. Then move aside and let someone younger, dumber, and with a pair take your place. Because the moment you say “I don’t care” is the moment you’re done. And if that’s what you want- if you really look inside- then be my guest. But when you’re lying in your warm bed after the sun has gone, and your mind starts wondering about what you could have done, and what you would have done, and what you would have said- just remember that it was your choice. You pulled yourself out, put your clothes on, and unloaded your weapon.

I can’t change your mind. I can’t convince you. It’s up to you. Here’s your choice. Go be a lawyer. A doctor. A banker. Be whatever you want to be but get the hell out of my battle field. Or take off your jacket, pick up your pen, and fight.

It’s up to you.

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