No More Words

Last night's episode of House didn't do much for me. Once again, I refer you to Polite Dissent (link at right) for the medical stuff. I am afraid that this episode shows that the series' formula is stretched to its limit. In previous episodes, the emphasis has been on the medical mystery, with a hefty dose of characterization (masterfully performed by Hugh Laurie but also very well done by the supporting cast). The medical mysteries involve some bizarre malady or series of maladies that take some intellectual legerdemain to conjure up and then solve. I am cool with that; I don't think I am interested in a series that focuses on stomach flu and the common cold - even if Mr. Laurie put on his famously rubbery, vacant smile and wore a Prince Regent outfit while he treated said sickness. But last night's disease du jour was odd even by the standards set in previous episodes.

And there was way too much of the personal stuff. I don't have a problem with a show focusing on Dr. Chase but I don't like how his story detracted from the medical mystery he was supposed to solve. I didn't appreciate the ham-fisted way the episode forced its theme (relationships between fathers and sons) into every aspect of the story. Dr. House even played the wise curmudgeon, prodding the sons and fathers into dealing with each other in a meaningful way. This is totally out of character for him (even if it does prompt some questions about his character - why would he be interested at all? - that are more interesting for being unanswered). In short, this episode did not live up to the standards set in previous episodes.

Am I giving up on the show? Not at all. Everyone is entitled to slip up now and again. Heaven knows there are few television shows that are worth one's time and House is one of them.

I realized last night that I am no longer a writer. It is a funny thing. In my head, I think of myself as a writer. I imagine being a writer, I think about writing. But few words fill the paper anymore. And the rubber hits the road only when a writer writes. My current job is very demanding intellectually and (it turns out) emotionally. I find myself too tired to give my writing the time and attention it deserves (if I want to get any better at it, anyway). Although I receive virtually no satisfaction from my job, it pays the bills. Something had to give, I suppose. I suppose I find sufficient creative outlet in games (and criticizing other people's work, see above), which do not require the mental investment that creating something from scratch demands. But I no longer write. That rather sucks, actually. But I realized last night that until other things in my life calm down, I must focus on other things.