The Writing Week part 13

Another week, more... progress? Change, for sure.

I feel like I'm echoing LoKor's recent post about departures. I was out of the City over the weekend to attend a going away party for a friend, whom I won't see for 27 months. Then, I came back to the city, only to attend another going-away party tonight. Change seems to be in the air.

I also feel it in my bones. I'm not sure whether I'm deluding myself or not, but I feel like something should and very well might happen soon. I have a number of projects to work on, all in varying degree of completion. I have another that I really feel compelled to start working on soon. I'm not sure whether it's a play or a screenplay, to be honest. It feels like a play, but there's a moment at the end, the moment that the entire project revolves around, that screams film. I don't know how it would be done and truly felt if it was done on stage. It would lose what I feel to be the most important, most meaningful moment of the entire piece.

So, I think I'll try it as a script. Just for a change, though, I won't show it to or discuss it with the rest of The League until it's done. I'm not sure that's wisest, but even I don't really know what it is now, so how can I ask them to? I need to figure it out. I can't be told. But I am intimidate by it. Like many of my ideas, this one is about a character's inner struggle and personality changes. I tend not to me the most successful with drawn out reveals and character arcs. Yet, that's often what I write. Maybe I've been doing big action scripts recently, because I can hide in the explosions. If the character work isn't happening, I can just blow something up. But not in this project. Not at all. I'm scared, but if it works, I'll have reached another peak in my climb to the peak of my writing ability.

As far as the re-write is coming along, well... it is. Things really aren't changing that much. Well, let me rephrase that: they are and they aren't. The changes themselves seem small to me, but their impact rings much louder. It's amazing how a little tweak here and a little thing there can really add meaning - or change it completely. Perhaps the differences really aren't as big as I'm imagining. I'll have to re-read the script to see. But at the moment, I feel as though I can make the much needed corrections and improvements without seriously altering the structure of the script at all. I could be wrong, but if I'm not, I'll have produced a much stronger second draft with nearly 90% of the first draft intact.

Maybe that's impossible.

If I'm wrong, I'll just have to change it again.

Back From Paradise

I've actually been back from my visit to the Bahamas for a while, but this would be my first post since soaking up some rays. I was a little concerned for a moment that all the great food and chill island vibes would melt away the crusty shell of New York determination that I've been building over the past few months. I was wrong. Still writing, and with tan lines to boot. I expect to finish the script for my first ever feel good sports movie this week. One small step forward in my quest to delve into every genre. I don't write off of an outline often, but so far I'm finding that it's probably worthwhile with this script. The sports movie genre always strikes me as one of the simplest, formulaic genres out there, but it's actually been kind of difficult to nail. I'd much rather be writing about ninjas in the Iga province of 14th century Japan, but there's something refreshing about having a fun script that could be made for 100k at it's cheapest. I just threw that number out there. I'm not sure what industry professionals would suggest, but I could probably make the movie for $1000 and a 20 lb bag of rice. Who needs lighting? The techs just make things complicated with all their funny terms. Sound? I just need a kick ass rock soundtrack over all the game action. Actors? I'll just find people who like rice. I got a good feeling about this one.

The Writing Week part 12

Another week bites the dust. It's amazing how quickly time seems to be passing. I remember "just" thinking to myself how February was on the horizon and would most likely fly by. Now, we're almost at April. With nearly a quarter of the year gone already, I feel it's time I evaluate my progress in my resolution to make something happen with my writing this year.

To barely skim the surface, I first look at this past week. After coming off a nearly ten day stretch where I did very little actual writing, I have to take some solace in the fact that I have started re-writing my latest script again. It feels good to sit before a challenge each night. Not that I know the pages I'm re-reading are perfect -- obviously, they're not; I'm re-writing them. But it is always a little difficult for me to make large-scale changes during a rewrite. No matter how flawed a first (or second or third or etc.) draft might be, the fact that it is a full draft intimidates me. By changing any part of a draft, I'm inevitably risking causing the rest of it to crumble. Though I know what reinforcements have to be made to make the structure stronger, there's always that voice reminding me that I could screw up something that, while not perfect, is at least whole.

But I am happy with the changes I've made thus far. Some are larger than others. Some are riskier. Some are more noticeable. But they feel good, and smart.

As far as the year goes, that is a little less easy to judge. Yes, along with the majority of the rest of the League, I have screenplays in two competitions at the moment. The waiting game is actually not as bad as it could be, considering we have over four whole months before we hear a single peep out of either competition. Beyond those two, though, I feel like there's not much I'm doing. The dreams, the notion that something might be creeping up over the horizon are starting to reach me, but when I try to process that logically, I am inevitably forced to ask myself the obvious: where would they be coming from?

One opportunity we as a group had sort of fizzled out, though through no fault of our own. In truth, that was not to be our break. We have accepted that and moved on from it. But I cannot just wait for a break. I must seek it out. I must rope it in and drag it to me. More than anything, I know I will have to fight my way into this industry if I truly want to make my mark in it -- and I do. I have to roll up my sleeves and barge into melees fists up. Query letters, calls to contacts, a whole new slew of competition entries; these must be my weapons. I have to build my arsenal of material, finish drafts, attack the rewrites, and be ready at a moment's notice to charge.

I can no longer be Mister Nice Guy. Not if I want this to work.

The Writing Week part 11

As far as weeks go, this one has been relatively uneventful - writing wise - and relatively eventful - non-writing wise. For one, this was probably the longest week I have worked since I've been employed by the company I am at now. Over the course of six days, I wound up working nearly 60 hours. I know there are a lot of people out there who do that on a regular basis, so I'm not asking for any sympathy on that front. But, I am unused to that, and found that my more hectic than usual work schedule, in addition to other things I had going on, made writing difficult this week. Top that off with a case of food poisoning on my only day off, and I didn't get much down on the page this week.

However, that's not to say that nothing was accomplished. For one, I thought long and hard about the graphic novel I want to start writing, and got some good, tangible ideas down on the page. Now, I know in the past we've been somewhat hard (if not in this blog, then I assure you, we have been in person) on people who merely talk about writing and talk about their ideas and never put anything to paper. But, sometimes, it will hold that in order for an idea to breath, it must first be developed off of the page. My idea was really boundless at first; it had no direction, no walls, no real notion of where it was going. But this week, I was able to tell myself: this is what it is about; these are the (kinds of) characters that will be in it; these are the scenarios that will be explored; this is my idea. Though no black ink was laid to rest upon white paper, I am light years ahead of where I had been in terms of this idea when the week began.

Likewise, I did start writing something else, a short story, believe it or not. I've attempted short stories in the past, mainly because, as I'm sure you can tell from some of my entries here, I like using words. Short stories allow me the freedom to use more words than perhaps my ideas entitle me to.

I had begun to feel that drought, that antsyness that comes with not writing; only this time, my head was filled with ideas, with wants and desires. I had a lot to put to page; I just wasn't doing it. The short story was the temporary fix; I could write a bit here or a bit there, claim to have written that night (since in fact, I had), and still have stayed away from my script. Mind you: I'm not afraid of the pages I have to re-write. On the contrary, I'm eager to get to them. Sometimes, thought, I feel the need - whether consciously or not - to step back from them for a time. This is one of those times. By this time next week, I hope to be back in the swing of them. But for now, I'll allow my other ideas the time they need to ferment, to bubble, to pop.

Is every writing week a writing week? Perhaps not. Some might disagree with me and claim that one must, and under no circumstances stray from this, write every day. I feel it is important. But, I also think it can be beneficial to let ideas materialize first. I am at a point where I want to continue with the project I finished in the past ten weeks, but at the same time, I want to build upon a second project that I can work on at the same time. I know that in a previous entry I wrote about hoe important it was for me to keep writing. Perhaps I've failed that. Then again, perhaps I've seen that not all writing has to be of a pen to the page, or fingers to a keyboard. Writing is a muscle, and there are many ways to strengthen it.

Stark Realizations

I won't rob long time readers of a proper reflection, but for the here and now, be it known that the grad school application process is just about wrapped up. To date, I applied to six schools for a MFA in creative writing, received four official rejections, one unofficial rejection, and am waiting on my last, long shot, school.

This happens to people, and I'm not unrealistic about my writing ability, especially in prose, but I don't think I can go through this process again. Next December I'll turn 26. I have no marketable skills, no career prospects, and a writing ability that is strong but unfocused from the years I've spent dabbling in so many different mediums (cyberspace, I guess, included).

At one point in my life, if there was something I wanted to do, no matter how unlikely it was, it happened. It could have been any number of things, but through a combination of determination, talent, work, and what was probably quite a bit of luck, things just worked out for me. I think it's easy to fly high while in the confines of college and walls and rules and it is a wonderful, wonderful thing.

There are a lot of talented people out there, and I honestly do think that I'm among them, but I don't think I want "it" enough. I don't want crappy jobs while I write mediocre things and chip away at a block of talent until it becomes a polished, godly tool of literary destruction because I don't have faith or confidence in the fact that after all the work has been done there will be something there worth toting. I am only twenty-five now, but what happens if in ten years I'm still struggling to make ends meet and I realize that maybe this writing thing isn't taking me anywhere? Then I'm thirty-five. There's a chance I'll pull through and be the working, influential writer that I aspire to be, but the numbers indicate - just like the grad schools that receive 835 applications for 25 slots - that it just won't happen.

At 16, while in the midst of a pretty serious depression, I made the choice to drop everything and study my ass off so I could get into schools outside Kentucky, my home state. I didn't know just then what I wanted to be (I would gravitate toward acting a year later), but I knew where I didn't want to be, and I knew my brain was the ticket out of it.

For as much as I love writing, I don't know if it's what I want to do with my life, but I sure as hell know that in ten years, I don't want to have screwed myself out of more opportunities by following a pipe dream. It frightens me, and whether or not you believe fear is something that should dictate action, well, sometimes, I think that it's perfectly okay.

I don't want to say I'm hanging it up because I'm not. Writers write, and no matter what you do for a living, no matter how old you get, no one can ever take that away from you. But there are a lot of other things that I'm interested in, roads down which I need to travel. If a letter shows up on my doorstep from the University of Virginia and says I'm in for creative writing, this will be moot and silly and completely ridiculous, but for now, and for a long time, there are other things I need to take care of.

I hate that I can't take myself seriously. I hate feeling like I have no control over my life and that I don't have the power to affect change in this world.

So that's what I'm going to do.

And no one is more surprised to hear me talk this way than I am.

--LoKor out

Bye, Onyx

BYE, ONYX!

See you in a few days!

And so was invented the reverse post-card, where, upon going on vacation, travelers receive picturesque well-wishes from those back at home.

The Random Thoughts of a Rambling Writer Trying to Clear His Head Before Sitting Down to Write

Every time I read that someone is leaving New York, it makes me consider the concept of lateral motion. And how I'm lacking it. Why am I so bummed? Why is my mind so cloudy? What do I want, and how do I get it? I don't know what I'm working toward. I write these stories, these little stories, and now, for example, I've finished one and am utterly terrified by the thought of trying to go back and clean it up. Why? Because it's definitely very dirty. It's a mess. It's drafts away from being finished. But why does this frighten me? Because it could take a while for it to be finished. It will be hard work. And maybe I'm lazy. I don't like to commit to things for extended periods of time because I miss out on other things and maybe because after all that time what if I still fail? What if?

Whenever someone I know leaves New York, I get simultaneously motivated and dejected. I think, well damnit, this place keeps breaking people. It's time to get working! Meanwhile, I can't help but acknowledge a feeling of sheer, unbridled envy, the kind that ruins people and cripples nations, and causes any number of crazy biblical shit. I wonder where I would go if I left. I wonder if I had made choices a bit differently earlier in life if things would make more sense now. I'm all for discovering the answers, but why do I get the sense that the questions are becoming more vague the more I search?

I don't believe that I'm "searching" in light of experience, that I can't function because I'm so wrapped up in making sense of things. But thoughts are thoughts and time is time and one takes the other (though not vice versa, I think).

Oddly enough, writing, even this - this little excursion into the subconscious (which is a joke, considering how precisely chosen 80% of these words happen to be) - brings about that clarity and I get to a point where I'd like to do this for an extended period of time, where it can be something I can focus on, where it can be the only thing I have to worry about.

But then where is the balance? The embeddedness that I feel in my job and in my life consume so much time and energy (the later of which frightens me most), and if I was to, say, get another job, would that make me more confident in my ability to write stories? I wonder, even then, where is this all going? Would I find it acceptable if in ten years I write from time to time, story to story until...what? Plays, scripts...can we write for years and submit to festivals and find companies and directors and publications to get our work published and if we don't make anything off of it, is that okay? If a tree falls in a forest...

Chicken or egg? Did we write and then love it? Or did we love it and then write?

And what does it matter, if anything?

Questions, questions, questions. I'd like to say I don't stress out about these things, but the acne on my forehead (at 25?!) would quickly give me away as a liar. And I have no idea why I'm sharing these thoughts with the public.