The funny thing about television is that once you start to do it

In the words of Kevin Sorbo, who once spoke, “The funny thing about television is that once you start to do it you never get time to watch it,” there lies a paradox as ancient as labor itself — the truth that creation consumes the creator. This saying, light in tone yet profound in spirit, unveils the irony of mastery: that to serve an art is to surrender one’s ability to simply behold it. What was once enjoyed becomes a duty, and what once inspired becomes a burden of perfection. It is as though the flame that first warms the heart later demands to be tended without rest.

This truth of toil and distance echoes across centuries. The farmer who tills the earth rarely pauses to admire the sunset over his fields; the poet who crafts beauty from words seldom has leisure to read the verses of others; and the actor who brings light to millions may find himself lost in shadow, unable to partake in the very joy he brings forth. So it is with television, that grand illusion of sight and sound — for those who stand within its frame must forsake the simple pleasure of watching it. The mirror that once reflected them becomes a window they cannot gaze through.

This paradox calls to mind the tale of Daedalus, the cunning craftsman of ancient Greece. It was he who fashioned wings of wax and feather, dreaming of freedom beyond mortal reach. Yet in the act of creation, he became bound to his own design, warning his son Icarus not to fly too high. Daedalus had built a marvel that he himself could not safely enjoy — and so too does Sorbo’s saying remind us that in the pursuit of mastery, one often loses the innocence of wonder. To create is to trade leisure for labor, delight for devotion.

But take heart — for this is not a lament, but a song of reverence. To lose the time to watch is to have become one with the fire of doing. The craftsman who no longer admires the wheel but drives it forward has entered the deeper realm of purpose. Kevin Sorbo, who once played heroes before the eyes of the world, understood that to live the work is a higher calling than to simply observe it. To walk upon the stage is to accept the sacred exhaustion that comes with creation — the cost of breathing life into dreams for others to see.

Yet, the wisdom of balance whispers through his humor. For though work ennobles, life demands pause. The one who forgets to look upon what he has built risks losing the soul within the structure. Even the gods, it was said, rested after the forging of the heavens. The lesson is not to forsake the craft, but to remember to dwell among its blessings — to occasionally sit and watch, as a child might, what your own hands have made. The creator who reclaims wonder becomes both master and sage.

Consider the story of Walt Disney, the visionary who reshaped imagination into empire. In his later years, he rarely had time to stroll through Disneyland, that kingdom born of his dreams. Others enjoyed what he had created, while he pressed onward to build the next horizon. He once stood amid the joyful crowds and whispered to a friend, “I only hope that we never lose sight of one thing — that it was all started by a mouse.” In that moment, Disney remembered what Sorbo too had known — that creation should not blind us to the joy of what we create.

So let this be your guiding star: labor with passion, but never let labor consume the light of why you began. When your work becomes your world, step back and behold the sky it was meant to color. Watch your own story unfold, even for a moment, and find peace in knowing you are both artist and audience, doer and dreamer.

Thus, the teaching of Kevin Sorbo stands eternal — that the funny thing about life, not just television, is this: once you begin to build your destiny, you may forget to look at it. So take time, dear listener, to watch the show of your own making. Sit with your creation. Laugh. Rest. And remember — even the stars, though they burn, still shine to be seen.