This wasn’t the best week. I got sick. Beyond that, I hit a wall in my script. With the midpoint came a wall that seemed impassible. I think, knock on wood, that I hit back at it last night, finally, and maybe Sunday a bit, too. I’ve been working on another very small project for some friends for this weekend, so I’ve devoted part of my nightly writing to that, as well. Therefore, I haven’t even spent my entire hour each night working on the script.
Nonetheless, the hour seemed to stretch on indefinitely some nights. I was at a point in my script where there was just a gap of twenty pages ahead of me. I knew what was to come after them, but I had no way of getting there without infusing the script with scenes that didn’t help, didn’t further the story, and didn’t even interest me. As I said, though, Sunday night was the first time I felt things beginning to click, and last night I wrote a scene I’d been looking forward to for a while. I feel I still have about fourteen or fifteen pages that I’m not sure about (though there is another long bit coming up that I think will be fun). But it’s been stressful. It just goes to show that no matter where you are in your script, though it’s more common in the dreaded second act, I think, a wall can pop up and shoot you down on every attempt you make to pass it.
Maybe all I need is some time away from it, though now that I’ve got my legs back under me, I’m not sure that’s the best idea. (I will be away from it from Friday through Sunday this weekend due to a trip, so maybe I’ll come back refreshed on Monday).
On the other hand, something else happened this week. Well, it’s been happening for a while now. I’ve been getting restless. This week, more than last, more than the one before, I’ve wanted a change. I was standing along the East River in New York, blocks from my apartment in Queens. I looked up at the grey, midday Winter sky, and couldn’t help but wish that I was looking at a similar sky from the middle of the country, where rather than on a sidewalk, I would be standing in the middle of a large, frozen field. I found myself staring into the water, fantasizing about an old prairie house with acres of land around it and a river running through the back yard, a house that would be mine.
How could I get to that place? When could it be mine? The thing about writing, I concluded, is that it can open the doors for me that would take me the places I want to go. But in order to have that happen, I have to be the one to initiate everything. I’m not going to sit around and wait patiently anymore. I’ve given myself a timeframe. Maybe it’s unrealistic, but if anything, I think that helps. I want to write, to sell something, and to start my career. That’s not going to happen if I don’t work for it every day. The need for change ought to be motivation enough.
Nonetheless, the hour seemed to stretch on indefinitely some nights. I was at a point in my script where there was just a gap of twenty pages ahead of me. I knew what was to come after them, but I had no way of getting there without infusing the script with scenes that didn’t help, didn’t further the story, and didn’t even interest me. As I said, though, Sunday night was the first time I felt things beginning to click, and last night I wrote a scene I’d been looking forward to for a while. I feel I still have about fourteen or fifteen pages that I’m not sure about (though there is another long bit coming up that I think will be fun). But it’s been stressful. It just goes to show that no matter where you are in your script, though it’s more common in the dreaded second act, I think, a wall can pop up and shoot you down on every attempt you make to pass it.
Maybe all I need is some time away from it, though now that I’ve got my legs back under me, I’m not sure that’s the best idea. (I will be away from it from Friday through Sunday this weekend due to a trip, so maybe I’ll come back refreshed on Monday).
On the other hand, something else happened this week. Well, it’s been happening for a while now. I’ve been getting restless. This week, more than last, more than the one before, I’ve wanted a change. I was standing along the East River in New York, blocks from my apartment in Queens. I looked up at the grey, midday Winter sky, and couldn’t help but wish that I was looking at a similar sky from the middle of the country, where rather than on a sidewalk, I would be standing in the middle of a large, frozen field. I found myself staring into the water, fantasizing about an old prairie house with acres of land around it and a river running through the back yard, a house that would be mine.
How could I get to that place? When could it be mine? The thing about writing, I concluded, is that it can open the doors for me that would take me the places I want to go. But in order to have that happen, I have to be the one to initiate everything. I’m not going to sit around and wait patiently anymore. I’ve given myself a timeframe. Maybe it’s unrealistic, but if anything, I think that helps. I want to write, to sell something, and to start my career. That’s not going to happen if I don’t work for it every day. The need for change ought to be motivation enough.
