A New Sense Of Space

Every writer knows how crucial it is to have his/her own space. We need to be able to get away for a bit to where it's just us and our characters. Any small intrusion on that space during times of creation can prove disastrous for our characters and our worlds. The experience can quite jarring, like being woken up at the climax of a great dream. I've gotten better at having my space molested by the sub-creatives of society, but there was a time when it would make me feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

Back home one of my daily assignments was to make the salad for dinner. I know, it's a pretty lame chore. (FYI, 8 years ago “lame” would have been “gay”. I'm glad I've outgrown that.) Anyway, it would end up working out that I would be doing some of the best writing of my younger years shortly before dinner. I can't count how many times my soldiers have been ready to charge the enemy, or my unsuspecting villain has been in the crosshairs of a rifle, or my likable but expendable character is about to say his last words when all of a sudden my mom shouts across the house, “Make the salad!” “Dude, are you serious?” says my expandable character as he laughs at me from the page.

So here I am in New York, things working out pretty good at a glance. I find myself staying either at my brother's or my girlfriend's, but whereas I've always had some space to call my own, I now find myself to be the awkward molester of other people's space. I have experienced some of my worst writing droughts during this time. The solution isn't as simple as being alone, as I thought it would be. Being alone certainly helps, but there's something about having a location that you are completely familiar with, a location in which you are aware of every creak and slope and shadow, that incubates the creative mind.

My next big goal is obvious. I have to find my own space. And when I do I will certainly have a new found appreciation for it, because I've learned something about myself. I can make it in New York City (and probably any other city) without a space to call my own, but I can never be a writer of any kind until I find my home.

Thanksgiving Aftermath

Happy belated Thanksgiving, everyone!

I'll tell you, it's been hectic these past few weeks. We haven't gotten much new writing done recently, but we've been pushing one another to get re-writes of earlier things done. It's actually been quite helpful for me. There's a project I've really enjoyed working on in the past (and is the thing I've spent the most time on, over a year and a half).

Still, it's not something that I felt I was ready to jump back into yet. I believe I posted back in March about having listened to a particular song, which put me in the mood to attack this script again (if I didn't write that, then I felt it nonetheless). Despite that motivation, I never got back to the script.

However, Onyx and others pushed me back into it. I wouldn't say that I was reluctant, but it wasn't first on my mind. They put it there, and I have to say, I'm very grateful to them for that. I'm pleased with the end result (as much as I can call it the "end" for now) and am still psyched up about it.

Sometimes, I guess others know what's best when you're stuck. I'm not saying that's something we should go by all the time, or that I plan to do that. But I wasn't sure what I was going to write; The League suggested strongly that I work on this particular thing, and I think it turned out well.

...Oh, and enjoy the comic.

Good Question

I was reading an article on CNN.com yesterday about movie theme songs. The article was basically pointing out the fact that movies used to have theme songs: "Titanic" had "My Heart Will Go On," "Top Gun" had "Take my Breath Away." Now, the article claims, filmmakers tend to select old, tried and true songs to heighten emotion rather than seeking out new songs, which would be eligible for the "Best New Song" Oscar and gain radio play.

But that's not what I'm concerned with here. What caught me about the article was the following sentence:

"'What movies used to do,' [Jesse Harris, the Grammy-winning songwriter of Norah Jones' hit "Don't Know Why,"] said, is 'create a nostalgia that was specific to the film itself, and the only way to do that is to use original music.'"

I really liked this quotation. Not so much the notion of using original music to achieve the goal he talked about -experiencing something in the context of the fil alone and not on a larger pop culture scale- though that is important, but the sense of a "nostalgia...specific to the film itself." (I had to use the exact phrasing again because I thought it so poignant.)

Think about that, defining your film in terms of emotions and sentiments belonging entirely to itself. That, to me, seems to be the ultimate goal when creating a film. Yes, you want it to be part of Hollywood legend, perhaps. You want it to be an essential part of the box set that bears your name years from now.

But you want it to stand alone.

At least I do. I don't really want to write "just another action flick." I want to write something that can be compared to others in its genre, but also has such a life and feel of its own that it can last apart from the crowd. To me, "Last of the Mohicans" stands apart. It has a look, a feel, and yes, a sound to it that no other film does. It affects me in a way, stays with me in a way that no other film does.

I hope, when my career is passed, people will look back and say of me, he "create[d] a nostalgia that was specific to [each] film itself."

Strike!

I'm sure you're wondering--I like to think we have readers who think about our opinions on things--what we think of the strike.

Frankly, we find it complicated. At least I do.

The Guild is an incredibly valuable union for writers. It is nearly essential for people who plan on making their living doing what we want to do.

But, there are so many regulations and stipulations that I cannot even begin to explain or fully understand that the issue, for someone in my situation, is difficult to completely and honestly wrap one's head around.

I support the Guild, of course. I support anything that gives writers more of what they're due, anything that reminds people how important writers are.

As a non-member, it is difficult to figure out exactly where I fall or how I am affected, if at all. I do not want to cross the picket lines or work against the Guild. However, the logistics of it all are such that I would have to sit and think much longer (and at an earlier hour) to be able to formulate a more concrete position on and understanding of the matter.

So until then, the picture holds a thousand words...

Hitting the Century Mark

On Saturday, Cake Man posted the 100th post on the site. On behalf of the League, I'd like to say thank you to all our readers. It's been fun so far, and we're only getting warmed up.

Personal Statement/Statement of Purpose

One of the things I've found incredibly difficult about applying for graduate school is composing the personal statement and statement of purpose for my six applications, respectively. The differences aren't supposed to be as subtle as their similar names might suggest. The personal statement is, for the most part, supposed to be open ended, with Brown going so far as saying that it can include my "hopes, fears, and dreams." Meanwhile, the statement of purpose is supposed to be more scholarly, really exploring why I want to pursue a Master's degree, the research I'm interested in doing, and, to some extent, how all that plays into the bigger picture of my career aspirations.

It almost seems silly that it's been so difficult. I know why I want to be a writer, I know why I want to pursue a MFA, and I know how all these things play into my past and future, mostly because I've been experiencing it all my life. I don't remember what on earth I wrote for my essays on my undergrad apps, but I don't remember feeling like getting into college was somehow larger than just myself. I feel that way now. I feel like there are avenues in my history that have led me to this moment, and I'm certain, with more tangible certainty than I had seven years ago, that when all this is over my life will be set on a course that will be so radically different from what it has been. There's a certain sense of permanence, of promise. I'm standing at the threshold of my adulthood, and I'm mature enough to understand that. A year ago I was considering applying to grad school just for the sake of it, but now it's something totally different. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm ready for my life to change for the better. The swirling gases of my interests and ideas are taking on physical shape and the things I want out of my life are finally dangling in front of me. I'm ready to reach for them, and at moments it's scary.

But compared to what I was doing two years ago? I was waiting tables and drinking way too much chardonnay after my shifts ended and I was auditioning because I was in New York and that's what I'd somehow convinced myself that's what I wanted to do. I was wasting away, not challenging myself, flailing in every direction. I don't want to take anything away from those times because I couldn't make it to wherever here is without them, but I had no clue what I wanted, not out of my life, not out of myself, not out of my relationships. It was a meaningless existence, and so I wonder, what is this personal statement? How I rebounded from that?

How do you put into words that you're a writer? Can any of us pinpoint it? I remember writing a scene in the first playwriting class I ever took. I wrote this very quiet, very sweet scene and when it was read aloud in class, the scene itself jumped from the page. It was like I could feel the breeze and the headlights on the highway (all part of the setting, mind you). It was more real and more true than anything I'd ever done in my entire life, and that power shook me, and I've been hooked ever since. I can't not write. I am not myself if I've gone too long without putting something down on paper. My brain clouds up, my mood dampens. I'm just awful to be around, but when I'm creating something, all is right with the world because everything that is so bad is seen through the filter of possibility granted to every writer brave enough to view the world through the filter of his imagination.

I love The League. I love how we've forced each other to write despite our day jobs. I love the one to two pages I've been able to write per night, even if I don't always see my ideas through before scratching the itch of a new one. However, I've been at this pace for almost three years, and I know that if I can't retreat away from this city, from my job, from just about everything and devote two to three years to just writing, I'm only going to get so good, and I feel like my ceiling is rapidly approaching. It's not a fair statement, really. I would eventually break through, but slowly, painfully, and I have too many stories to tell to waste so much time.

I was talking to my mother about a month back and she, more or less, speculated aloud whether writing wasn't just some pipe dream, my flavor of the month. I was at a loss for words because my parents have never been anything but supportive of me. With most of everything I could possibly say stuck in my throat at the time, I told her that writing is the only thing I can do. It took me a minute to spit it out, and the words were said so exhaustively that they just had to be true.

I wouldn't say I'm in a hurry to get on with some grand next phase of my life, but I've always been someone that doesn't like to meander. I like to pick a direction and go, to keep moving, to learn along the way. I observe people out of train windows and at stop lights while sitting in the back of a cab. I piddled and rambled for enough time to realize what it is I need to do with this time I've been given. So when I write these statements to these admissions boards, could I be this candid? Can I say all this? Does anyone care?

This entry is proof that you can write a forever about something that feels so emotionally obvious but is so ironically difficult to corral with words.

I Renounce Thee

Recently, there've been a few actors who have renounced their earlier work. Brad Pitt even went so far as to apologize to critics for his work in such films as Seven Years in Tibet and Meet Joe Black. My questions is... why?

Even when I was in school, I developed a mentality that I wasn't going to write anything that I wasn't gung-ho about. Sure, I started out writing just because it was an assignment. But I quickly changed my ways.

As writers, so much of our struggle is getting that first sale and, afterwards, continuing our careers. Sure, you sell a few, you're in demand for about five minutes. I don't thin it's really any different for actors.

Unlike actors, though, people don't see our faces. Like, ever. Sometimes, we're not even credited on something we write/re-write. But an actor will always be publicly preserved in any film he or she is in. There's no denying that they did that.

Bottom line: when you're starting out, whether you're an actor or a writer or a director, you have to focus on starting your career. Ideally, you like what you're working on. You learn as you age in the industry. You stop taking certain roles or writing certain scripts, or if you really need the money, you do so under a fake name. You gain leverage. But none of that can come about unless you break in. Unless you start your career.

But would I ever renounce anything I wrote? I certainly hope I never feel a need to.