As the vertical cursor blinks against the plain white screen of whatever word-processing program I happen to have open at the time, the same thought keeps coming to me as I stare into the abyss of possibility that is a blank document. I like to type out it out, just to see how it looks. There is something about the physicality of words that gives thought a sense of legitimacy. To me anyway.
I usually put it in quotes and precede it with an ellipsis. It has a quality of being being spoken after a long, full pause.
"...so where do we go from here?"
I don't really know what it means. Who is "we?" Where is "here?" I have no idea, but it's become reflective a crossroads, a blank state, a sense of disarray. There's a short story in my head, one that begins with a young man waking up and smoking a cigarette out the window of his Parisian hotel room while a beautiful, naked woman steals a few more moments of rest. There is one major decision about my protagonist's backstory that's holding me back from diving into a second draft of my screenplay. There's another one that I've been wanting to begin since January, but haven't quite worked out the details. None of this includes a few collaborations, and while I don't think there's too much on my plate, I do suspect that it's all so damn distracting.
With so many directions, can things be said about me when I make a choice to commit the time to one or another or all? Can I afford to put things on the back burner, perhaps to never resurface for months? Where does it go, indeed.
There may be something deeper, as there usually is, but in going through this plenty of times, it almost always works out that when I'm writing, everything else feels infinitely better.
***
I guess I should throw in my two-cents about Spider-Man 3, although what hasn't been said? I could certainly pinpoint why, but suffice it to say that while I had a great time seeing the first two installments of the franchise, I actually did not enjoy myself watching Spider-Man 3. Maybe the assholes sitting behind me that didn't stop talking/snickering the entire film played a part in it. Maybe it was because I had to go to the bathroom for the first half of the film (the minute Peter Parker sat down at the piano, I literally clapped my hands, turned to Megan and said, "Well, I'm going to the bathroom."). I just wasn't engaged. The pacing was off, the writing was to coincidental and formulaic, and I was really surprised to see Tobey Maguire give what must have been his worst acting performance in years. He's too talented to sit back and rely on his big baby-blues and readily accessible tears. It came off as showy, a mailed-in performance, totally lacking the true emotional depth that he's showed before.
It didn't suck, but I do have to take back just about everything I said on Friday about the NY Times review. It turned out to be pretty dead-on.
(I won't, however, forgive Manohla Dargis for her Superman Returns review. Ever.)
Write on....
P.S. With Cake Man graduating this week, don't hold your breath waiting on a comic. We'll be back up and running at full speed next week.
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