I hate my screenplay

Well I've done it. Sat down for a month straight and pounded out 117 pages of what I thought was pure brilliance, editing as I went along. And then, a breather. I deserved a good meal and a big cup of coffee...and hey, I'll read that new book while I'm at it. After perusing Part iv on Storycraft in 101 Habits of Highly Successful Screenwriters, I started getting down on myself. These guys are hard on themselves...harder than I am on myself. And that's saying a lot.

I began to realize that you can't just have a good screenplay. It's got to be great. There is no room for cliche', no room for boredom. Have I filled pages just to fill space out of obligation to the accepted formats? Do my characters have clear motivations? Are the stakes raised? Are they raised again? Is the story gripping in the way it's told...in it's choice of set pieces...in it's inventiveness? Does the first page get you? Do the first ten pages show you something new? Is the use of words economical, unique, and playful? Is the audience bored?

These are the issues one deals with after the first draft is done. These are now the issues that concern me. What concerns me most right now, is that I am trying to troubleshoot my story in my head when it's not even in front of me. I can't seem to put it down. But I have to.

So my happiness at finishing my first draft lasted all of about and hour and a half. And now I hate my screenplay. This is a good thing. If I were happy with it, I would be a shmuck. Besides, tinkering with something that looks and feels like its done...that's what artists do. At least this character has ample motivation to continue on with the story. Whether you want to turn the page with me is entirely another matter.

Harmonic Convergence

You've heard of it. Three inventors come up with the same idea within a day of each other, even though they are thousands of miles apart. Two businesses that do the same seemingly unique thing are launched at the same time. A succession of movies comes out and they're all eerily similar to each other. Perhaps nowhere on the planet is harmonic convergence more in effect than in Hollywood. This is a place where ideas flow like rivers. Now that I'm becoming more and more aware of the phenomenon, I'm also more wary of it.

Let me say this part first: I'm a skeptic. I don't believe in a God, at least not one with a face and not one who cares about what goes on in our meager little lives. I believe in physics and energy. I guess that makes me prone to belief in the unseen and so, for all practical purposes, I should believe in a God. But I don't. Probably a reaction to a good protestant upbringing. I believe in a common pool of human experiences. I believe in pop-culture and media contamination. And I believe in the fallibility of the human animal, willing to destroy his own kind for the most petty reasons. I think this pretty accurately describes Hollywood, don't you? Godless, petty, contaminated...yeah, we're livin' the good life out here.

Well, this morning I was talking to a friend on the phone as she described her current relationship breaking up. She mentioned the words 'reality check' at exactly the same moment I picked up a hat with that exact logo on it's front. This happens to me all the time. Two days ago I came up with an idea for a screenplay based upon a name which sounded catchy. That name was based upon a word which I just happened to be chanting like a mantra that day. Why that word? I don't know. Maybe it was part of the media-infected aether. I haven't heard that word for years. Anyway, no sooner had I written a quick treatment for it than I heard the word uttered on two separate occasions by two random and completely unconnected people. It's hard to accept you inner skeptic saying "it's a stupid coincidence" when external events are so obviously in alignment. So I finding myself uttering in the back of my head, "Coincidence? I think Not!" (one of my favorite lines from The Incredibles).

The question is, does this actually exist or is it just our ability to selectively hear, interpret, and free-associate that makes it seem like everything is connected.
And if nothing is connected, is it mere random activity, improbable as that may be, that leads to the expression of ideas in synchronicity? I think it's something else. Ideas are weightless and without physical form. As such, they are not subject to the ordinary laws of physics and logic. This makes sense to me. We are logical beings in an illogical world and it is precisely our lack of understanding about it that allows for all of the mysteries of the universe. Maybe we're all accessing a gigantic reservoir of collective knowledge. The Venn diagram of that scenario suggests that sooner or later we're going to overlap in our sampling of ideas. But I don't actually claim this notion as my own. In fact, I'm certain someone else already has.

Nobody Reads This Blog

I've now been a screenwriter for almost five weeks. Since the first two weeks were about loglines, beatsheets and outlines, the actual process of dialoguing has only been going on for three weeks. I have 104 pages. By my count, I was 17 pages over the mark I should've hit for the first act break and fourteen over for the second. I suspect that I have about fifteen pages to go and that I will need to cut at least ten pages of dialogue out. That puts my screenplay at 109 pages. My goal was 110. With at least three rewrites ahead of me, I figure I'll probably throw away another five pages in slimming it down and add another 7 pages in fleshing out and connecting dots to cover logical inconsistencies and plotholes.

In addition to referring to Save The Cat, Blake Snyder's book on being a slave to your logline, I've been using 101 habits of highly successful screenwriters and Syd Field's Screenplay. I'm sure I look like an idiot in referring to these books in public. Then again, I'm not having any problems coming up with ideas, connecting those ideas to each other, or making structural changes whenever I need to pull back and take a larger perspective. And I'm burning through the project. They may be shiiite, but I average 7 pages per day right now. In my book, that's a pretty good pace.

I used to date someone who, no joke, would kick out 35 pages on a good day. She just had the gift. But she also hit major snags and couldn't restructure when things got bleak because she was so tied up in the language. Honestly, I'm just going to be happy to reach the point where I can start making big cuts. Though I am editing as I go along, feeling out each step before I place all my weight on the next footfall, it's going to be a relief to get rid of a couple of those passages that Ive been carrying like a security blanket from the beginning. A quick reread today revealed that I have at least two lumps to remove.

Looking at the tracker today, I realized that no one ever reads this blog..which is quite allright with me. It's here for my benefit...a place to piss and vomit in public just to see how that feels. Perhaps one day when I' doing it for real, I won't be at all offended at the idea of making an ass of myself in public. Come to think of it, I'm not so worried about that at present. Maybe succes looms closer than one would think!

Graceful Aging

I have a couple of friends (well, former friends...now more of acquaintances, really) who are women in their mid to late thirties. Recently, I've seen a surge in their writings about age-related stereotypes they encounter. They're struggling with the fact that they are considered 'cougars' in the dating world, that the world doesn't appreciate their inner beauty,and that men seem to speak in the past tense when referring to their prime days.

Let me first say, that I adore women. I also adore women in their thirties...and their forties, and of all ages, actually. I find that, generally speaking, women in their thirties know exactly what they want so they have no problems in asking for it, even demanding it. This is an attractive quality, at least it is to me. Strictly sexually speaking, I find that most women in their twenties have no idea what they're doing, whereas women in the next two decades have perfected the art of making love. Granted, I am not the rest of the world, or consumer culture or Madison Avenue. I am just a man. But I am a man who loves women.

That said, women have a lot of self-image problems. Despite all of the empowering messages that circulate in pop-culture (girl-power, The Secret, libraries of female affirming literature, the abundant presence of positive female role models (Suze Ormand, Oprah, Hillary Clinton, Ruth Bader Ginsberg to name a few), and Dr. Phil), many women of my age don't seem to be getting it. While they profess how confident they are and how happy they are they simultaneously bitch and moan, often publicly about how they're devalued and misunderstood. I'm a patient man. I read their concerns. I listen to friends who lie in this demographic. I am sympathetic, really...I am. It's time, however, to give the rest of us a break. Pleeease!

As a man in my late thirties who has never been married, lives as an artist, owns nothing, has little saving, and hasn't fathered a child, I can say that I sympathize with the plight. I get it. You're getting older. You may not find The One. And yet you want to get something rolling. With the exception of the female egg timer issue I relate to every one of these problems. AND I was raised by a single mother who had to deal with issues of self-image while raising two children. I empathize with you.

So here it is. Deal with it. We are, each of us, what we are. Possibly more...nothing less. If you don't like hearing people talk about what your better days WERE, either redirect the topic of conversation or find a new partner in conversation. If you don't like being called a cougar, don't listen...or stop dating men vastly younger than yourself. If I date someone who's in her early twenties, I am referred to as a scoundrel, cradle-robber, and pervert. Guess What? I don't give a shit. You shouldn't either. And if you don't like that the world is calling you old, stop complaining about it. The popular media prizes beauty, that's true. Don't we all know that the media is not to be trusted? If you feel resentful that the world is judging you for not looking a certain way and you choose to rebel by not wearing make-up...good for you! You made a decision and you're living by it. But don't then complain that the very source you're acting in opposition with STILL doesn't appreciate you. They never will! Get over it. Jeez.

Here's a fact...we age. We can't get around it. We also die (shocking, I know!). But what are you going to do? We can't avoid these realities. What we can do is recognize that the narrative in our lives is our self-growth. What defines character is not the circumstances you've been dealt, but how you respond to the circumstances.

And that, my dears, is the key to aging gracefully. Now I have to go apply preparation-H to the crow's feet and bags around my eyes. I have a date with a woman in her forties and I want to impress her.

Coffee Culture

It's so cliche'...hanging out in a coffee house all day long banging out a script. I used to think that those people were just trying to look like writers because all of the serious writers were at home or in offices at studios working. Maybe they are. I still don't know. I do know that I have friends who are successful writers who have offices....who need offices...to get their work done. But they have families and the standard excuse is that they had an office at home, but there were too many interruptions. Well I had an office at home, too. It consists of a chair, a table and an internet connection. I travel two feet from my bed and I'm working.

With all of the craziness around my apartment with the sanding and vacuuming and my cat screaming to get out because I've locked her in to protect her from the work chaos...I just couldn't take it. So for the past three weeks I have been keeping offices at a crepe shop and cafe near my place. And Now I'm one of them...one of the guys I would swear is doing nothing but surfing youtube all day and looking up facebook profiles.
In fact, I am writing. At first it was a lot of thinking and scribbling. Then it was two pages one day. Then three. Then for a week I averaged about five pages a day.

Last night I realized that it is going to take me five weeks to spit out even a rough draft of this script at that pace. That's a lot of crepes! So today I stepped it up...fifteen pages...many of them good ones (I anticipate an attrition rate of about 75 percent over the long haul, so getting the bad ones out of the way early is an important part of the purging process. At this pace, I'll have a rough draft by the middle of next week. I figure I'll slow up and speed up again so I'm guesstimating two weeks to hammer it out.)

Amazingly, the dialogue is tying in with the plot points I laid out so carefully in the blueprints. I love it when it comes together like that...from starting point into a dark fog, then softly dovetailing with a target that required a precision alignment...and it worked! Of course, I then blurt, go off point, redirect, then destroy (...er, edit)...but that's the process. It's awesome. What have I been doing with my brain for all these years? Clearly the coffee was not getting through.

I Ain't No Jim Bob

LITTLE ROCK, Ark. - It's a happy Mother's Day for an Arkansas woman — she's pregnant with her 18th child. Michelle Duggar, 41, is due on New Year's Day, and the latest addition will join seven sisters and 10 brothers.
Duggar has been been pregnant for more than 11 years of her life, and the family is in the process of filming another series for Discovery Health.
Duggar said she's six weeks along and the pregnancy is going well. She and her husband, Jim Bob Duggar, said they'll keep having children as long as God wills it.
The other Duggar children, in between Joshua and Jennifer, are Jana, 18; John-David, 18; Jill, 16; Jessa, 15; Jinger, 14; Joseph, 13; Josiah, 11; Joy-Anna, 10; Jeremiah, 9; Jedidiah, 9; Jason, 7; James, 6; Justin, 5; Jackson, 3; and Johannah, 2.

My sister-in-law wrote me...so do you think Marcel and I should go for the record?

Here was my reply:
Well, you had better get busy. Thing is...I don't even think that's the record. Let's see, if that woman's oldest is 20 and she's 41, that means she started at 21. You're forty, so your a bit behind the curve. Oh and you're going to start having sex with my brother again...
Now, if you did decide to match her pace, she did wait two hears before having her second child. So you're right on track, actually. You have one child...oh, wait, she's turning two in a two months. Looks like you're going to be playing catch up from her on out, Jen.
The Duggers had twins so they went from one to three really quickly. Then they waited two more years. So up until that point, they were a pretty normal family. I think the fifth kid was the turning point for them , though. And you know it by two indicators: a. after Jessa, child number 4, they start having kids every year, not every two...that means they had a goal in mind. And after Jessa, which is technically almost acceptable as a name, they jump to "Jinger" which is definitely not. And after Jinger they turned to the Bible, naming their child Josiah. That's really the pint where you know they've gone insane. You can see they re-thought the Bible thing with Joy-Anna, reverting to their bumpkin roots and the tendency to combine names, as is common in the south and the undereducated. At least they were thinking for themselves. Then they come back with Jeremiah, Jedidiah, Jason, and James. It's clear that at this point they're just looking for help on the farm and to sweep the family reunion softball game with sheer numbers. Justin is clearly a "my eggs are drying up" kind of name. You never hear of an eldest child named Justin. They're always the runts. Jackson is a last name, which means they were reaching now for anything starting with a "J." It's a sign of desperation. Johannah is another reversion back to their southern roots, probably because they're just surprised that this woman is still kickin' kids out. I wouldn't be surprised if by now they aren't letting the other children name the children. The last child is named Jennifer. Traditional, obvious. If they'd thought of that in the first place, maybe they wouldn't have embarked on this mad Journey...which, by the way, is my suggestion for the name of the next child.

Grinding it out

I awoke to the sound of power-sanders eating the front door this morning. Then a knock. Groggily I open the door. One of my eyes feels sewn shut. "Can we come in to plaster the windows?", Tom said in a Korean/broken-Engrish dialect. Translation: "Can we come in and put plastic around your windows? "OK." I said, "Can you give me a hour?" No problem, he said.
So I wet upstairs and started to wake up, but for real this time. I took a shower. Suddenly someone charges up the stairs yelling "Hello!"
Despite the soap in my ear canal, I yell, "I thought you were coming back in an hour!!!" slightly perturbed.
"OK!", he replies. He runs back downstairs and makes lots of noise.

Inside my head I scream, "I haven't even had a fucking cup of coffee yet. C'MON!!"

A little backstory, then...
My landlord started this sanding/painting/reclamation project ten weeks ago.
It was supposed to be a nine week job.
All the neghbors are asking "How long is this fucking madness going to go on?"
The neighbors are not happy.
She's made the poor saps sand and paint and re-sand multiple times. They're going broke. The workers are not happy.
Add to that the fact that my apartment was burgled a month-and-a-half ago. The only person who is supposed to have key access to the place is my landlord, who is out of town. So I am a little pissed to be interrupted in the shower by workers.
I am not happy either.

Post shower, I find that my front door has been removed. Great. Now I'm stuck here. I can't write here because of all the noise and particulate in the air. I cannot leave because a bunch of strangers have full access to my place and are in no way legally responsible for anything. On top of that they're pissed at the landlord, who is conveniently out of town.
So I apologize and ask them to put the door back on, then lock it, then give them money for lunch because I feel like a shit complicating an already chaotic situation because of my insecurities about the security of my place. And then I leave.

So what do you do when your landlord is irresponsible? Well, I think you tell the landlord your side of it and then you move. There's only so long you can tolerate the intolerable.