I've been tooling with "Bourgeois Punk" this week and not really getting anywhere with it. I couldn't really keep it going after the first twenty or so pages of screenplay, so I thought I might try it in some other mediums. Found some success doing it as a comic -- jumping from scene to scene, and leaving out a lot of annoying exposition is satisfying, and I never really felt like I was writing anything just because I had to. Something's not quite clicking though, and I might take another run at it as straightforward prose.
The only thing I'm really worried about there is losing some of the more cinematic elements that cropped up in just the few pages I've written, a common trade-off for the added character perspective that a more novelistic approach provides. I don't want to let any of that go, but [in theory], there's something very appealing about using that medium to better convey the almost casual contempt my protagonist has for the world he's in. Which isn't exactly difficult to add, as a great deal of my revision time is spent taking out the judgmental prickishness that sometimes shines through when I'm writing about my characters or the world they inhabit.
In the context of film, this is a big no-no. If someone has a vague sense of douchebaggery about them, you don't just write that in the script -- you show them acting like a dick, treating people badly, doing the things that make me, as the author, look down on them, in such a way that the audience also get that. The simple term is "showing, not telling," letting the audience figure out for themselves that this character is a bad guy/girl, and not have them think that just because that's what the author thinks.
Perfectly valid. And while I'd never say that "showing, not telling" wasn't a great rule to have when writing a short story or a comic book, what's sort of appealing about those types of writing is that, in their own way, you get to show and tell, and if I want to have some of that contemptuousness shine through, I can. Certainly not always, and certainly not if the subject matter doesn't call for it [it probably says a lot about me that I can't think of an example of something that doesn't deserve a little contempt], but in the case of "Bourgeois Punk," which deals with a bunch of Mercedes Marxists and country club socialists, I think my natural inclination to go a bit negative could add a little flare to a relatively quiet protagonist.
The funny thing about this negative bit -- while I knew I was never Mary-Fucking-Sunshine, I never thought that it came through as bad as it did, until early on in a Steven Bach screenwriting class, when he went through my short page after page and asked me why I was being so hard on my characters. Hilariously, I never noticed I was being so judgmental about the characters I was writing, and even more hilariously [and one of the reasons I feel fortunate to have had Steven Bach as a teacher], Steven didn't discourage this habit, but instead, suggested I point it, and again, let the audience come to the same conclusion I had about the characters in the story. And though he didn't suggest this, I sort of decided right then and there that if I couldn't convey my contempt in a manner that was at least clever and useful, that I was going to do my best to take it out of the narrative.
I guess I'm hoping this is the door to key I keep trying.
I'm also mulling over doing some more shorts pieces. The few I did after Dad died were worthwhile, and I'm pretty sure I only stopped after things got so intense with getting "Nova" just perfect. I'd like to do some in the vein of what I used to write so often, just two or three characters on the screen, having conversations in front of a straight-shot stationary camera, "Clerks"-style. Kyle mentioned that if I did more of these, we might be able to take a weekend here or there to film them, and I think that would be beneficial, if not a lot of fun.
Of course, I just decided I'd like to get back to these, and even though it's only been a week or two since I got the idea in my head, my lack of progress is already annoying me. It's really hard to get any sort of rhythm going in my head, and worse yet, a lot of the deep talk disguised as guy talk or small talk just isn't coming to me like it used to. I'm going to sit down with a few indie films in the next couple of days, and maybe dig through some of my older notes, to see if something doesn't shake loose in the process.
Anything in that vein I finish [using the word loosely] I'll probably post here.
Haven't been sleeping terribly well again [shocker]. Upside is I've actually been getting some rest, though it's mostly been in the evening hours. I've seen more mornings than I have in a while, and frankly, I don't see what all the fuss is about.
I bought a vintage winter coat today on eBay. I think the biggest shocker to most people will be that it's not black. Sort of a rockabilly look to it, and apparently came from someone's estate sale. I've gotten one from a dumpster, and one from the military -- I guess it's way past time that I add a dead man's coat to that list.
Thanksgiving's almost here. Last year I got pretty maudlin about spending it on my own [and hey, I still could], but thinking realistically about how tenuous family has been, right now I'm pretty okay with the idea of an underwhelming dinner at some restaurant with my grandmother and her friends. It's not glamorous, but as tenuous as my family situations is, and uncertain as where I'm going to end up, it seems... pragmatic to get used to the idea of being alone on these family-type holidays.
I don't know. I have so much to say on this subject, and several related ones, but this probably isn't the place to air these grievances. Not that it's ever stopped me before, but it is this time.
Fun side-effect to having this place -- I'm starting to feel accountable.
Uncle Phranc? Mom won't let her come to Thanksgiving because of her haircut.
• Sunday, November 22, 2009 • 2 comments
Breaking blocks, hopelessnes [not mine], and a new Cash panel.
• Wednesday, November 18, 2009 • 1 comments
First off, Justin has posted a new panel from the comic [re: Calamity Cash and the Town with No Name]. In a rare switch, it actually has lettering, so even though it's a small panel, it's one of the most finished panels we've posted yet, and it shows off the font I talked about... well, awhile ago, which Sam had a hand in helping us find.
Actually wrote yesterday, which ended a bit of dry spell for me [though an understandable one]. The lack of writing is one of the reasons for the lack of posts here, and it was nice to shake off some of the things that have been happening, and just write something, even if what I did wind up with is a bit ridiculous. What I ended up with was this sort of semi-biblical, Walt Simonson's Thor meets Doctor Who kind of story, or as it would probably better be explained, Conan the Barbarian versus the aliens. I've never been a big Conan fan, though, so I like my first summation better.
Even though I got a rough outline for what the story would be about, the premise is so ridiculous, and the little bit of dialogue that would be in it [warrior cavemen and aliens? Not my kind of small talk], that I might forgo actually writing it, and just have Justin do a poster of one of the big battle scenes, or something. If he does, the end result will, of course, be posted here. And who knows, maybe visuals will actually spur me to write the whole thing -- they have in the past.
I thought a lot about some of the fantasy-level stuff I grew up with while working on it. Though I certainly have some non-schlock influences in that area, most of what I was thinking about during was "Hercules: The Legendary Journeys" and "Xena." Other than introducing me to the Raimi brothers and Bruce Campbell years before Evil Dead, the Kevin Sorbo and Lucy Lawless-centered television shows held sort of a high place for me, if only because the syndication-only, hour-long camp-fests hit at a very convenient time. My weekends as a kid were notoriously long -- living in the middle of nowhere with no neighbors, especially no neighbors my age, and only ten television channels made a Sunday or a Saturday something to be gotten through, and not enjoyed. The days dragged, and a couple of hours of bare-chested monster punching [oh man, I almost didn't write that] made the time pass a lot faster, and the shows were nothing if not fun. Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn't have gone native if not for that.
So there's a little of that in there too.
Lot of my stuff lately has had a sort of sci-fi bend. Escapism, more than anything else. Probably reasons for that.
This comic went up over at Modern Mythology Press today. I always enjoy their stuff, but today's comic is called "Hopelessness" and plays well with that whole sad/miserable thing I like so well myself.
Spent most of last night defragmenting hard drives and trying to get my laptop and my grandmother's home computer working in top shape again. We're switching internet providers at the end of the month, and it seemed like a good time to get everything working at peak condition again. There's a slim chance in the switch-over that I might be without service for a couple of days [unlikely, but always a possibility], so fair warning. I haven't really been posting enough lately that anyone would notice, anyway. Still, by the end of it, the internet here should not only be faster, but more reliable too, and I'm always glad for the upgrade.
Finally my oft-linked friend John is having surgery soon, and it would mean a lot to me if anyone who can would contribute to his surgery donation drive. I know I don't get a lot of traffic, but if the few people who do visit would just help spread the word, I'd appreciate it. Again, you can read all about it on the account page at Pledgie, or get John's own thoughts here. It's almost Christmas, after all.
Actually wrote yesterday, which ended a bit of dry spell for me [though an understandable one]. The lack of writing is one of the reasons for the lack of posts here, and it was nice to shake off some of the things that have been happening, and just write something, even if what I did wind up with is a bit ridiculous. What I ended up with was this sort of semi-biblical, Walt Simonson's Thor meets Doctor Who kind of story, or as it would probably better be explained, Conan the Barbarian versus the aliens. I've never been a big Conan fan, though, so I like my first summation better.
Even though I got a rough outline for what the story would be about, the premise is so ridiculous, and the little bit of dialogue that would be in it [warrior cavemen and aliens? Not my kind of small talk], that I might forgo actually writing it, and just have Justin do a poster of one of the big battle scenes, or something. If he does, the end result will, of course, be posted here. And who knows, maybe visuals will actually spur me to write the whole thing -- they have in the past.
I thought a lot about some of the fantasy-level stuff I grew up with while working on it. Though I certainly have some non-schlock influences in that area, most of what I was thinking about during was "Hercules: The Legendary Journeys" and "Xena." Other than introducing me to the Raimi brothers and Bruce Campbell years before Evil Dead, the Kevin Sorbo and Lucy Lawless-centered television shows held sort of a high place for me, if only because the syndication-only, hour-long camp-fests hit at a very convenient time. My weekends as a kid were notoriously long -- living in the middle of nowhere with no neighbors, especially no neighbors my age, and only ten television channels made a Sunday or a Saturday something to be gotten through, and not enjoyed. The days dragged, and a couple of hours of bare-chested monster punching [oh man, I almost didn't write that] made the time pass a lot faster, and the shows were nothing if not fun. Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn't have gone native if not for that.
So there's a little of that in there too.
Lot of my stuff lately has had a sort of sci-fi bend. Escapism, more than anything else. Probably reasons for that.
This comic went up over at Modern Mythology Press today. I always enjoy their stuff, but today's comic is called "Hopelessness" and plays well with that whole sad/miserable thing I like so well myself.
Spent most of last night defragmenting hard drives and trying to get my laptop and my grandmother's home computer working in top shape again. We're switching internet providers at the end of the month, and it seemed like a good time to get everything working at peak condition again. There's a slim chance in the switch-over that I might be without service for a couple of days [unlikely, but always a possibility], so fair warning. I haven't really been posting enough lately that anyone would notice, anyway. Still, by the end of it, the internet here should not only be faster, but more reliable too, and I'm always glad for the upgrade.
Finally my oft-linked friend John is having surgery soon, and it would mean a lot to me if anyone who can would contribute to his surgery donation drive. I know I don't get a lot of traffic, but if the few people who do visit would just help spread the word, I'd appreciate it. Again, you can read all about it on the account page at Pledgie, or get John's own thoughts here. It's almost Christmas, after all.
Points... Of... Interest!
• Saturday, November 14, 2009 • 3 comments
Justin has a panel for the new page over on his blog [Re: Calamity Cash and the Town with No Name]. I've seen the whole thing, and it looks amazing. I know I say it every time, but each page Justin does impresses me more than the last, and that's really saying something if you were to see just how crowded the pages he's been working on have been. I mentioned it here once before, but there was a pretty heavy rewrite done on my part after Justin had already started, which meant only the last half of the book was changed, and even then I couldn't really add new pages -- so any new content had to work in the number we already had set aside for the book, which means things got kind of... cramped.
It's the reason when I wrote "Real Quality Comics" I stuck much closer to my 4 panels per page rule.
I've also been parodied over at Ian's blog. Ian's doing a series of creative homages to various kinds of blogs and online journals, and the Mojo Wire got to be lampooned this week. I particularly appreciate the Gin Blossoms reference in the title, and feel like with this out there, I can take a break and not write so much today.
Still re-orienting a bit here. Hopefully get back into the swing of things soon.
It's the reason when I wrote "Real Quality Comics" I stuck much closer to my 4 panels per page rule.
I've also been parodied over at Ian's blog. Ian's doing a series of creative homages to various kinds of blogs and online journals, and the Mojo Wire got to be lampooned this week. I particularly appreciate the Gin Blossoms reference in the title, and feel like with this out there, I can take a break and not write so much today.
Still re-orienting a bit here. Hopefully get back into the swing of things soon.
I don't hate you for disrespecting my nostalgia, though.
• Friday, November 13, 2009 • 0 comments
I am learning the subtle art of making coffee. And what I'm learning is that I'm not very good at it.
The machine is supposed to do most of the work. My pot at home, or where I used to call home, certainly did. I remember the first time I used it, when I realized, staring blankly at the filters in front of my then girlfriend, that I had no clue what I was doing, that this plastic thing in front of me was demanding attention from someone other than a perky, round-bottom barista, or rather more often, to the Jason Mewes looking guy who was just trying desperately to sling as many espressos as he could across the counter until he could afford to get the hell out of that place, and probably, out of the state. Post-script to the story? I went back to my coffee shop a few months ago, just to check, not to stay, I really couldn't have sat on that couch again. And he was gone, that morning saint who'd memorized my coffee-with-soy, he'd finally gotten out.
I saw him later, working at the coffee place next door.
I was lucky. In that moment without him, that time when I needed to look macho and knowledgeable in front of this girl, to show I had the manhood necessary to operate the coffee maker, I had absolutely no clue as to what I was doing. And that girl let slide. Though I am young, I think that there is rarely a show of love so strong as not pointing out another person's stupidity, save perhaps a few Lloyd Dobler-esque gestures or something involving one parachute.
It was a brilliant moment of triumph for me, and one she let me take complete credit for. I have no idea why, but if anyone here is eyeing sainthood, I'd consider taking notes. And from here on in, I felt I could master any coffee machine, or at least any that relied so heavily on the common three-part construction of maker, filter, and pot.
Post eviction, I found a new challenger. It didn't look any different [okay, so maybe it looked older, though one wonders if even the most posh and modern coffee makers manage to look as though they were made after 1979 -- a trait shared only by the digital clock], but there was something not quite right, one might almost call it contrary, and it had no sympathy for someone careless in its use. Too much coffee, and it's bubble over, beating back the filter from it's inner walls and filling the belly of the pot with grounds, while too little meant brown water that tasted more or less like what came from the tap. Measurements had to be exact, and not exact to any particular, measurably amount, no, it had to be exact to the old, disposable cup someone had once left in the container now holding the grounds. It didn't want to give me coffee; it wanted to give me a hard time, and to leave it the hell alone and let the woman who had cared for it diligently for years to continue to brew everything just right.
I find I hate it, for not respecting my nostalgia.
I spoke to Kyle today about "Nova." He's taken on another side-project, but feels his schedule will be freeing up a bit soon, and work will probably happen then. I've been thinking about some design things, particularly for the wings of the angels, something maybe a little more current to the trends as well as easier and cheaper for us to do. Nothing permanent enough to mention here yet, but maybe in a few days, after Kyle and I have had some time to ruminate on it.
I'm only up now, drinking my weak swill I made myself, because my allergies have hit me pretty hard, and sleeping just wasn't on the agenda last night.Which is a shame, because earlier in the day I finally slept quite a bit, and caught up after the two 36+'ers I pulled in tandem there. I find myself desperately wishing it would freeze outside, just to give me a little relief.
My last post made it sound like I was getting back to work. I really thought I was, but after sitting with several piles of papers all I could think was how I had no idea what I wanted to work on next. Barring 'want' there's nothing that needs my immediate attention, so that's out as well. Something new might be cool, assuming it wasn't a "completely take over my life" sort of something new, but I'm always short on inspiration while trying this hard. A lot of other writers have told me that at times, it's better to "just write" which is, more or less, what this post is, me putting myself at the computer and just trying to produce, even if the end result isn't very good. And anyway, it's my blog, so if I want to turn my mind out and see if it does a trick [that works on so many levels], then that's my prerogative.
Lot on my mind. Might need to sit, re-organize things up there a little bit before I can get to work again. But there are these panels in my head, like comic books, all drawn by John Romita Jr. [I have no idea why I'm thinking in his style, but it's happened before, in high school, so much so that if I met the man I might ask him to draw Jay Gatsby], of myself and others, of things I watch on TV or read that I've written. And they seem so... clear. It makes me want to get it all out so I can look at it proper.
So there's that.
I wish I had a novel in me. This is national novel writing month or something ridiculous like that, where everyone and their cousin are trying to write one, and I find it offensive for a number of probably unfair, and most certainly elitist reasons. The novel is one of the few formats/genres I still put up on a pedestal, and the idea of attempting to finish one in a month causes me physical pain. To illustrate, people have, usually lovingly, told me that I tend to agonize over whatever I'm working on, and I currently think a novel is too big of a mountain for me to climb. Which on the surface probably doesn't mean anything to anyone but me, yet it seems like a heavy responsibility to shoulder just because an internet holiday tells you to. Think about what you're taking on, is all I'm saying.
Eh. Ignore me. I'll always be uptight when I think folks are being cavalier about writing. Imagine how indignant I'll get if one day someone starts paying me for it.
The machine is supposed to do most of the work. My pot at home, or where I used to call home, certainly did. I remember the first time I used it, when I realized, staring blankly at the filters in front of my then girlfriend, that I had no clue what I was doing, that this plastic thing in front of me was demanding attention from someone other than a perky, round-bottom barista, or rather more often, to the Jason Mewes looking guy who was just trying desperately to sling as many espressos as he could across the counter until he could afford to get the hell out of that place, and probably, out of the state. Post-script to the story? I went back to my coffee shop a few months ago, just to check, not to stay, I really couldn't have sat on that couch again. And he was gone, that morning saint who'd memorized my coffee-with-soy, he'd finally gotten out.
I saw him later, working at the coffee place next door.
I was lucky. In that moment without him, that time when I needed to look macho and knowledgeable in front of this girl, to show I had the manhood necessary to operate the coffee maker, I had absolutely no clue as to what I was doing. And that girl let slide. Though I am young, I think that there is rarely a show of love so strong as not pointing out another person's stupidity, save perhaps a few Lloyd Dobler-esque gestures or something involving one parachute.
It was a brilliant moment of triumph for me, and one she let me take complete credit for. I have no idea why, but if anyone here is eyeing sainthood, I'd consider taking notes. And from here on in, I felt I could master any coffee machine, or at least any that relied so heavily on the common three-part construction of maker, filter, and pot.
Post eviction, I found a new challenger. It didn't look any different [okay, so maybe it looked older, though one wonders if even the most posh and modern coffee makers manage to look as though they were made after 1979 -- a trait shared only by the digital clock], but there was something not quite right, one might almost call it contrary, and it had no sympathy for someone careless in its use. Too much coffee, and it's bubble over, beating back the filter from it's inner walls and filling the belly of the pot with grounds, while too little meant brown water that tasted more or less like what came from the tap. Measurements had to be exact, and not exact to any particular, measurably amount, no, it had to be exact to the old, disposable cup someone had once left in the container now holding the grounds. It didn't want to give me coffee; it wanted to give me a hard time, and to leave it the hell alone and let the woman who had cared for it diligently for years to continue to brew everything just right.
I find I hate it, for not respecting my nostalgia.
I spoke to Kyle today about "Nova." He's taken on another side-project, but feels his schedule will be freeing up a bit soon, and work will probably happen then. I've been thinking about some design things, particularly for the wings of the angels, something maybe a little more current to the trends as well as easier and cheaper for us to do. Nothing permanent enough to mention here yet, but maybe in a few days, after Kyle and I have had some time to ruminate on it.
I'm only up now, drinking my weak swill I made myself, because my allergies have hit me pretty hard, and sleeping just wasn't on the agenda last night.Which is a shame, because earlier in the day I finally slept quite a bit, and caught up after the two 36+'ers I pulled in tandem there. I find myself desperately wishing it would freeze outside, just to give me a little relief.
My last post made it sound like I was getting back to work. I really thought I was, but after sitting with several piles of papers all I could think was how I had no idea what I wanted to work on next. Barring 'want' there's nothing that needs my immediate attention, so that's out as well. Something new might be cool, assuming it wasn't a "completely take over my life" sort of something new, but I'm always short on inspiration while trying this hard. A lot of other writers have told me that at times, it's better to "just write" which is, more or less, what this post is, me putting myself at the computer and just trying to produce, even if the end result isn't very good. And anyway, it's my blog, so if I want to turn my mind out and see if it does a trick [that works on so many levels], then that's my prerogative.
Lot on my mind. Might need to sit, re-organize things up there a little bit before I can get to work again. But there are these panels in my head, like comic books, all drawn by John Romita Jr. [I have no idea why I'm thinking in his style, but it's happened before, in high school, so much so that if I met the man I might ask him to draw Jay Gatsby], of myself and others, of things I watch on TV or read that I've written. And they seem so... clear. It makes me want to get it all out so I can look at it proper.
So there's that.
I wish I had a novel in me. This is national novel writing month or something ridiculous like that, where everyone and their cousin are trying to write one, and I find it offensive for a number of probably unfair, and most certainly elitist reasons. The novel is one of the few formats/genres I still put up on a pedestal, and the idea of attempting to finish one in a month causes me physical pain. To illustrate, people have, usually lovingly, told me that I tend to agonize over whatever I'm working on, and I currently think a novel is too big of a mountain for me to climb. Which on the surface probably doesn't mean anything to anyone but me, yet it seems like a heavy responsibility to shoulder just because an internet holiday tells you to. Think about what you're taking on, is all I'm saying.
Eh. Ignore me. I'll always be uptight when I think folks are being cavalier about writing. Imagine how indignant I'll get if one day someone starts paying me for it.
Disconnected.
• Wednesday, November 11, 2009 • 0 comments
I know there weren't any posts for the last week, but I had plans to take a trip and that kept me from doing much writing, especially here. Barring drastic changes [again], it doesn't look like I'll be going anywhere for the time being, so I'm going to try and get back into the routine.
It was weird to miss a week, especially with how I've been feeling lately. Everything has seemed very present, like something is right on my heels, and I'm trying to out run whatever it is. It's hard to explain, but it feels like a deadline, or maybe more like a drum beat from an oncoming army. There's no way to guess what's coming, when it will arrive, or if it's even really on its way at all, and I will freely admit it could all be in my head, but I've felt this real urge to just sit and write -- get things out of my head and onto to paper, even if they're just truncated notes scribbled here and there.
What I feel like I need to do is actually finish some things. If it were any other year, it would be ridiculous to me that things like "Trendsetter" and "Familiar" are sitting unfinished; it isn't any other year, of course, but the point stands. Following up a little better would be nice too -- I finished the script for the RCQ script [Re: Real Quality Comics #1] ahead of schedule, and even found a few places where I might find interested artists, but I didn't keep with it, even though I have three or four outlines for new issues. It's all there, the oft-repeated mantra of this blog might as well be "I just need to do it" and these things are no different. Of course, that's also simplifying it a lot. There's something intangible between "this is what I need to write for this scene" or "this is what needs to happen on this page" to what actually goes on the page, and making that leap, at least for me, takes a lot of time.
I don't want this to seem like a "Randall gets his shit together" entry because that would involve me actually getting my shit together, and we're all better off if I don't have to do a "Randall's sorry he didn't fulfill his promise and get his shit together" post later. But the past couple of days have been prime ones for rethinking things, including some of the stuff I was working on before Dad died that I haven't really picked up since. I think there were ideas, even projects that were really present and important to me, that I sort of "gave up" when that happened, not unlike how I gave up video games for that period of time there.
I spent a lot of today reading over "Trendsetter" again, and thinking of some alternatives to putting so much of it in a Walmart. Having the character of Eddie be a flea market pitchman isn't the best idea I've ever had [and Jesus, I'd have to re-write more than half of TS to accommodate that], but it was fun to play with his dialogue, and get the character back in my head.
And it also reminded me how much I've wanted to write something about Evangelical youth ministers...
I'll see tomorrow if it goes anywhere. Cheers.
It was weird to miss a week, especially with how I've been feeling lately. Everything has seemed very present, like something is right on my heels, and I'm trying to out run whatever it is. It's hard to explain, but it feels like a deadline, or maybe more like a drum beat from an oncoming army. There's no way to guess what's coming, when it will arrive, or if it's even really on its way at all, and I will freely admit it could all be in my head, but I've felt this real urge to just sit and write -- get things out of my head and onto to paper, even if they're just truncated notes scribbled here and there.
What I feel like I need to do is actually finish some things. If it were any other year, it would be ridiculous to me that things like "Trendsetter" and "Familiar" are sitting unfinished; it isn't any other year, of course, but the point stands. Following up a little better would be nice too -- I finished the script for the RCQ script [Re: Real Quality Comics #1] ahead of schedule, and even found a few places where I might find interested artists, but I didn't keep with it, even though I have three or four outlines for new issues. It's all there, the oft-repeated mantra of this blog might as well be "I just need to do it" and these things are no different. Of course, that's also simplifying it a lot. There's something intangible between "this is what I need to write for this scene" or "this is what needs to happen on this page" to what actually goes on the page, and making that leap, at least for me, takes a lot of time.
I don't want this to seem like a "Randall gets his shit together" entry because that would involve me actually getting my shit together, and we're all better off if I don't have to do a "Randall's sorry he didn't fulfill his promise and get his shit together" post later. But the past couple of days have been prime ones for rethinking things, including some of the stuff I was working on before Dad died that I haven't really picked up since. I think there were ideas, even projects that were really present and important to me, that I sort of "gave up" when that happened, not unlike how I gave up video games for that period of time there.
I spent a lot of today reading over "Trendsetter" again, and thinking of some alternatives to putting so much of it in a Walmart. Having the character of Eddie be a flea market pitchman isn't the best idea I've ever had [and Jesus, I'd have to re-write more than half of TS to accommodate that], but it was fun to play with his dialogue, and get the character back in my head.
And it also reminded me how much I've wanted to write something about Evangelical youth ministers...
I'll see tomorrow if it goes anywhere. Cheers.
Found wanting.
• Wednesday, November 4, 2009 • 4 comments
Last night I did the first twenty pages of "Bourgeois Punks," before stumbling about where to take the story after I'd already had a coke party and a funeral [the first I put in with great trepidation, especially having read John's recollection of workshop writing at Bennington]. I don't really know if I'm going to follow up with it, as while I already have a strong Act 3 in mind, I really have no clue what the end of Act 1 and the beginning of Act 2 is supposed to look like. I only mention it at all because it's rare that my throw-away writing takes shape like this did -- usually what I end up with is a scene, a conversation, or an outline, but here, there's a beginning, and several scenes, and all the characters slowly hit their mark of who they're supposed to be.
Besides, at 20 pages of a screenplay, it's hard to not start thinking about the math. If it only tops out at 90, then it's entirely plausible that a first draft could be done in around five days. Of course, in this case, that would rely on some flashes of brilliance and inspiration to get me through the next thirty or so until the things start happening that I know I want to have happen, but still. People have been telling me more and more lately not to toss so much out, and though I've always felt my process has worked very well with me, it's hard not to argue with folks who've managed to put together a slightly more robust body of work than I have.
The story for BP is nothing special. Pretty much a straight romance with hipsters, something I keep toying with but putting away as soon as it starts to resemble anything. Ending takes a different turn than what I think most people would expect with the genre, so there's that as a saving grace, along with a denouement I think I could actually sit through if I were watching it. There are a lot of characters [in this first twenty I just barely squeeze in nine], and the pacing is sort of wonky, and would probably have to be reworked heavily if I ever wanted to do anything with this. Not strange for me is knowing where I want to go, but not being very sure as to how to get there, and I think I might have just kept writing tonight if not for the fact that I had no idea what the next scene should be.
This morning, I've been thinking about "Un-filmable" -- specifically, if I'm any closer to getting it made than I was when I finished it over a year ago. The funny thing is, it doesn't seem like such an impossibility now, as it has in the past. Pragmatically speaking, and working from the numbers Kyle and I were using on "Nova," I think it could probably be finished in two-and-a-half weeks for somewhere in the area of 25,000-35,000 dollars. Not that I'm anywhere near being able to get that kind of money, but still, with the few connections I have, if funds were to materialize, I think I could do it easily.
So much is about money, of course. And I'd probably have to take the rain scene out. At least the exterior one.
It's good to get writing done, as I actually hadn't done much of anything since making my Halloween post. Three days isn't really a dry spell, especially for me, but for some reason it felt like one. Not getting any feedback on it was kind of a bummer, but let's face it -- not that many people read this blog, and sometimes replying to comments slips my mind, which I doubt encourages people to do make any.
I'm going to try and do a "PsyOps" outline in the next couple of days. I was looking at how many notes I put together in that one period of time when things were just really flying onto the page, and realized if I ordered these things a bit, I might actually have the story I've been looking for. Not sure yet, though.
In an interesting aside, Julia and Zoe both have blogs up about some of their influences. Both good, interesting reads, especially for my interests. Speaking of my interests, the Lucid Despair blog also has an entry up on "Heart Throb Comics," that though tongue-in-cheek was just fascinating to me, especially considering the "Real Quality Comics" script I did recently.
All for now. It's been nice to write a little, but the past 12 hours or so have been rough.
Besides, at 20 pages of a screenplay, it's hard to not start thinking about the math. If it only tops out at 90, then it's entirely plausible that a first draft could be done in around five days. Of course, in this case, that would rely on some flashes of brilliance and inspiration to get me through the next thirty or so until the things start happening that I know I want to have happen, but still. People have been telling me more and more lately not to toss so much out, and though I've always felt my process has worked very well with me, it's hard not to argue with folks who've managed to put together a slightly more robust body of work than I have.
The story for BP is nothing special. Pretty much a straight romance with hipsters, something I keep toying with but putting away as soon as it starts to resemble anything. Ending takes a different turn than what I think most people would expect with the genre, so there's that as a saving grace, along with a denouement I think I could actually sit through if I were watching it. There are a lot of characters [in this first twenty I just barely squeeze in nine], and the pacing is sort of wonky, and would probably have to be reworked heavily if I ever wanted to do anything with this. Not strange for me is knowing where I want to go, but not being very sure as to how to get there, and I think I might have just kept writing tonight if not for the fact that I had no idea what the next scene should be.
This morning, I've been thinking about "Un-filmable" -- specifically, if I'm any closer to getting it made than I was when I finished it over a year ago. The funny thing is, it doesn't seem like such an impossibility now, as it has in the past. Pragmatically speaking, and working from the numbers Kyle and I were using on "Nova," I think it could probably be finished in two-and-a-half weeks for somewhere in the area of 25,000-35,000 dollars. Not that I'm anywhere near being able to get that kind of money, but still, with the few connections I have, if funds were to materialize, I think I could do it easily.
So much is about money, of course. And I'd probably have to take the rain scene out. At least the exterior one.
It's good to get writing done, as I actually hadn't done much of anything since making my Halloween post. Three days isn't really a dry spell, especially for me, but for some reason it felt like one. Not getting any feedback on it was kind of a bummer, but let's face it -- not that many people read this blog, and sometimes replying to comments slips my mind, which I doubt encourages people to do make any.
I'm going to try and do a "PsyOps" outline in the next couple of days. I was looking at how many notes I put together in that one period of time when things were just really flying onto the page, and realized if I ordered these things a bit, I might actually have the story I've been looking for. Not sure yet, though.
In an interesting aside, Julia and Zoe both have blogs up about some of their influences. Both good, interesting reads, especially for my interests. Speaking of my interests, the Lucid Despair blog also has an entry up on "Heart Throb Comics," that though tongue-in-cheek was just fascinating to me, especially considering the "Real Quality Comics" script I did recently.
All for now. It's been nice to write a little, but the past 12 hours or so have been rough.
Something for Halloween... sort of.
• Saturday, October 31, 2009 • 0 comments
He was a complicated man who wanted to be simple, and by "simple" he meant complicated, because everyone else around him had simple wants, and simple needs, and tunnel vision, and that only ever complicated things. Yes, he was a man of two minds about everything, which was great and fine, unless, of course, he had to make a decision.
Usually, that meant knowing nothing -- not specifically about anything, because in fact, he wanted to know everything; except the opinions of others. Those were what he wanted nothing of, because they could, probably, influence his decision unnecessarily, and make him act on information that was not his own. That was what others did -- the simple, the complicated, they let peer pressure unduly influence them, they let what others thought color the way they would think. And he was not a man like that, oh no, and he would not dare become that way, even fleetingly. And so strong was this influence in him that, when faced with a decision about something [or to do something], that he already knew of some general opinion about, and then he would go immediately against that inclination.
All of this was directly affecting the dilemma he was in. It was Halloween, and at the last minute and old friend had decided to stop by. He hadn't expected this, of course, and knew he had to come up with some activity for them to partake in, and for lack of a better idea [and indeed, knowing anyone else might torture themselves over coming up with a better idea], he had ambled down to his local video store, with the intent of securing them a horror film to partake in. This, coupled with a pizza and the bag of candy corn he'd acquired in case the trick-or-treaters who never came had come, would have been a fine, acceptable sort of night.
Two problems had arisen. The first was annoying, but entirely out of his hands. The short notice his friend had given him for their evening together was problematic, since, as it was Halloween, the video store was not surprisingly under stocked, no doubt because the majority of horror enthusiasts had made it out earlier on, content in the knowledge that they had their perfect October evening already planned out, well in advance. And he decided that really, to be one of these nonspontaneous persons was better, because everyone was always making these plans, and if things didn't work out they could get, well... complicated.
The other problem was what had been left over. There were two movies left in their plastic slip cases on the shelves, and choosing was going to be difficult. Oh, yes, he had ways he could compare them, the information, for instance, on their tapes [as he thought horror films were best watched on VHS, and had yet to hear anyone agree with him] was there in front of him, readily available. The titles, both innocuous, "The" something, that something being an object that was only vaguely threatening, coupled with the studios under which they were made. The running times for both were the same, and both had come out in the same year. There was, he thought, no way to arbitrarily select one over the other, and as he held them one in each hand, at eye level, he cursed that even their weight, and the color of their cases, were the same.
Which meant he would have to weigh them on their merits, an annoying conclusion he'd actually come to right away. The problem was, he'd seen neither, but heard much about both. And this had frozen him, completely disabled him from making any sort of decision.
The first was, of course, well thought of. Its director was popular, outspoken, and old-school -- he'd plied his craft making low-budget films with his friends, and had worked his way up from nothing. He was self-made, and his films could be enjoyed on many levels, specifically as pop corn films, for fun, but with symbolist undertones about life, society, and the evils inherent to man. This film was, for all intents and purposes, his magnum opus, and in all circles of theory was above reproach, so much so that even those who refused to demean themselves by partaking in horror held the film high, and classified it as one of those rare moments when a movie had managed to prevail upon the shortcomings of its genre. And to him, no such pretension could sound more stomach turning.
The other had a reputation as well -- one of complete and utter schlock. The acting was bad, the director was drunk, and the writing abysmal, and universally it was said that the budget was simply too low to save it, and too high for what the film had turned out as. It was derided regularly, and often listed as the worst of the craft, to the point that in trivia its title had become synonymous with "garbage." And this dissent, normally, would be enough for him to take up the film, and proclaim it as brilliant, if not for the regrettable fact that many "fans" had yet beat him to it, and raised the movie to cult status, proclaiming it so incompetent as to be hilarious, so awful that it actually strikes of genius. Some radical element even dared to call the film enjoyable in more than just the ironic sense, that somewhere in this disaster was a glimmer of intent, a commentary on film, and quality, and the genre itself. And in the face of this, he could not bring himself to that place where he might be, if all that was thought of it had been bad.
So he stood there, unsure and unmoving, both tapes sitting in his outstretched arms, like some balanced scale which would occasionally tip, but always level out. And over an hour had past, and the attendant had came by and told him the store would soon be closing, but still he could not choose. Even when he was nearly sure that his friend had arrived, even knowing that he was uncharacteristically late, he was compelled to stay, to weigh his options. He felt he needed the time, that he had to decide.
It was a simple decision, after all.
Usually, that meant knowing nothing -- not specifically about anything, because in fact, he wanted to know everything; except the opinions of others. Those were what he wanted nothing of, because they could, probably, influence his decision unnecessarily, and make him act on information that was not his own. That was what others did -- the simple, the complicated, they let peer pressure unduly influence them, they let what others thought color the way they would think. And he was not a man like that, oh no, and he would not dare become that way, even fleetingly. And so strong was this influence in him that, when faced with a decision about something [or to do something], that he already knew of some general opinion about, and then he would go immediately against that inclination.
All of this was directly affecting the dilemma he was in. It was Halloween, and at the last minute and old friend had decided to stop by. He hadn't expected this, of course, and knew he had to come up with some activity for them to partake in, and for lack of a better idea [and indeed, knowing anyone else might torture themselves over coming up with a better idea], he had ambled down to his local video store, with the intent of securing them a horror film to partake in. This, coupled with a pizza and the bag of candy corn he'd acquired in case the trick-or-treaters who never came had come, would have been a fine, acceptable sort of night.
Two problems had arisen. The first was annoying, but entirely out of his hands. The short notice his friend had given him for their evening together was problematic, since, as it was Halloween, the video store was not surprisingly under stocked, no doubt because the majority of horror enthusiasts had made it out earlier on, content in the knowledge that they had their perfect October evening already planned out, well in advance. And he decided that really, to be one of these nonspontaneous persons was better, because everyone was always making these plans, and if things didn't work out they could get, well... complicated.
The other problem was what had been left over. There were two movies left in their plastic slip cases on the shelves, and choosing was going to be difficult. Oh, yes, he had ways he could compare them, the information, for instance, on their tapes [as he thought horror films were best watched on VHS, and had yet to hear anyone agree with him] was there in front of him, readily available. The titles, both innocuous, "The" something, that something being an object that was only vaguely threatening, coupled with the studios under which they were made. The running times for both were the same, and both had come out in the same year. There was, he thought, no way to arbitrarily select one over the other, and as he held them one in each hand, at eye level, he cursed that even their weight, and the color of their cases, were the same.
Which meant he would have to weigh them on their merits, an annoying conclusion he'd actually come to right away. The problem was, he'd seen neither, but heard much about both. And this had frozen him, completely disabled him from making any sort of decision.
The first was, of course, well thought of. Its director was popular, outspoken, and old-school -- he'd plied his craft making low-budget films with his friends, and had worked his way up from nothing. He was self-made, and his films could be enjoyed on many levels, specifically as pop corn films, for fun, but with symbolist undertones about life, society, and the evils inherent to man. This film was, for all intents and purposes, his magnum opus, and in all circles of theory was above reproach, so much so that even those who refused to demean themselves by partaking in horror held the film high, and classified it as one of those rare moments when a movie had managed to prevail upon the shortcomings of its genre. And to him, no such pretension could sound more stomach turning.
The other had a reputation as well -- one of complete and utter schlock. The acting was bad, the director was drunk, and the writing abysmal, and universally it was said that the budget was simply too low to save it, and too high for what the film had turned out as. It was derided regularly, and often listed as the worst of the craft, to the point that in trivia its title had become synonymous with "garbage." And this dissent, normally, would be enough for him to take up the film, and proclaim it as brilliant, if not for the regrettable fact that many "fans" had yet beat him to it, and raised the movie to cult status, proclaiming it so incompetent as to be hilarious, so awful that it actually strikes of genius. Some radical element even dared to call the film enjoyable in more than just the ironic sense, that somewhere in this disaster was a glimmer of intent, a commentary on film, and quality, and the genre itself. And in the face of this, he could not bring himself to that place where he might be, if all that was thought of it had been bad.
So he stood there, unsure and unmoving, both tapes sitting in his outstretched arms, like some balanced scale which would occasionally tip, but always level out. And over an hour had past, and the attendant had came by and told him the store would soon be closing, but still he could not choose. Even when he was nearly sure that his friend had arrived, even knowing that he was uncharacteristically late, he was compelled to stay, to weigh his options. He felt he needed the time, that he had to decide.
It was a simple decision, after all.
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