Day three of Camp NaNo, which I only participate in because it keeps me producing words instead of editing, rereading, and messing about. I'm sometimes torn between wondering if this focus on quantity effects my productivity and creativity. And then I think, no, it doesn't. No different than any other word count goal that is recommended by many successful authors. So take that, me.
I am aware that all my short stories somehow turn out reading like cast-off ideas for The Twilight Zone. I can imagine Rod Serling's voiceover coming in at the start of each one. A troubled man in a troubled world, unaware of his own limitations, but now he's very sure of one thing: he's become the kind of person he's always feared. And he must now find his way out...of The Twilight Zone.
Yeah. I'm not saying it's a bad thing, but I am not sure I am capable of this level of coolness. That's like assigning a monkey to sing at the met, although I'm sure it's been done at some point.
I can't help but stay in love with those kinds of stories, though. They were really the only stories that stuck with me as a kid as something diabolical and terrifying. Sure, all those slasher films gave me nightmares, but to this day, that episode where the kid receives calls from his dead grandma on his toy telephone still makes me shiver. Maybe because I can imagine it happening, much more than a masked killed hiding in my closet. There was no reason or logic to that idea. But a call from beyond the grave? Just maybe. And the stories were so human. So organic. About real people and not cookie-cutter "beautiful people" who try to pick up one night stands at bars and keg parties, using words like "bro" and "sup." And so many episodes made me cry, like the old woman who is petrified of death, but inadvertently lets the Grim Reaper into her dilapidated house.
I hope I never stop trying to write about real people. I hope I keep trying to tell real stories that focus on the truth and humanity, trying to make people cry and shake with fear. I'm never going to be on Rod Serling's level, but maybe one of these days I could come close. And if I ever become famous and they make a movie out of my story, I hope they won't cast Miley Cirus as the lead. I think I'll know then that I've failed.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
My Life in My Car
A friend of mine has a short story collection, which she's entitled, 'My Life in...' And she talks about the things in her life; her houses, her shoes. I can't think of a better title for this entry, so I'm stealing it. I hope you understand, Pat.
Yesterday I said goodbye to my minivan. I remember when my family got it in 1998, before they passed it on to me much, much later, when my own car died and they moved on to new cars, too. There was no reason to junk it, and it lasted me about eight years since.
I remember getting it and thinking it was like a moving hotel. So much space inside! I remember driving back and forth to my countless lessons and rehearsals in high school, riding in the back with tons of friends and flirting, hoping my mom wouldn't be looking in the rearview mirror while we were exhausted after six-plus hours of theatre and dance. And sitting in the back in the dark on the river road in Alton, listening to 1999's Top 40. And who could forget those vacations, dragging sand and water equipment across the fuzzy upholstery, until my mom cut out bits off commercial carpet to put down and make it last longer. It was the car I learned to drive in, and the one I used to get my license. On holidays, we'd pack it with food to take to my grandma's house about a mile away, and it never lost the scent of cooking oil, when we took over bags and bags of homemade crab rangoon.
I remember being in it constantly senior year, when I graduated, and packing it up with stuff for my dorms for years.
And then my own car died right smack in the middle of getting my master's degree. I took the car, thinking I'd be getting another soon. But it was a gas hog, and no one was jumping to take it from me. I didn't think about how much time I'd spent in it, just that I had to last the rest of the school year and graduate with good grades, finish my projects and host my first art show. I remember stuffing the back with frames, mattes and glass and driving all around, trying to get my show finished. For months afterward, I still had the mattes. When I cleaned out my car a few weeks ago, for the last (and maybe only time), I found a couple.
There were those millions of photo excursions, and those hellishly hot photo shoots when the air conditioning didn't work. I stuffed many friends in the back for late night runs to taco bell. I drove it back and forth to job interviews and then to jobs I'd gotten, many auditions that I was accepted and was rejected from. The back accumulated many things, most of which didn't belong to me. I remember my voice teacher asking me if I was homeless, because I hadn't yet taken out my bedding from a house-sitting job. I was always finding strange things. The weirdest item was a set of golf clubs. I'd never been golfing in my life.
I remember cruising Main Street on hot summer nights, coming home late from parties, and never worrying if anyone would want to steal it; it wasn't cool, it wasn't impressive, and it sucked gas like you couldn't believe. And I remember parking along the road on a special spot to watch the planes come in, at those times where I was afraid of what was going to happen in the future. And sitting at the ice cream place or the gas station, and lying on the hood looking at the trees or the sunset, or the stars, during those times where I didn't know what decision to make about something.
When I finally got the last of the stuff out, I found a complete kitchen set, BBQ set, restaurant napkins, clothes that weren't mine, a toothbrush that wasn't mine, and an evaporating carton of whipping cream wedged under the backseat.
It was a good car that lasted me a long time. I think about people like my cousin, who leases and gets a new car every five months. I sometimes think, "How lucky! New car smell every five months!"
But I really don't think that's lucky. I mean, it IS just a car. Metal, chrome, plastic and fibers. It's not alive. But maybe you really can build a relationship with an inanimate object. I know my cousin doesn't have enough time to make memories with all his cars, and I think I'm lucky I had my big, awkward van that no one would steal, but had brought me to all the places I needed to go in my life.
Yesterday I said goodbye to my minivan. I remember when my family got it in 1998, before they passed it on to me much, much later, when my own car died and they moved on to new cars, too. There was no reason to junk it, and it lasted me about eight years since.
I remember getting it and thinking it was like a moving hotel. So much space inside! I remember driving back and forth to my countless lessons and rehearsals in high school, riding in the back with tons of friends and flirting, hoping my mom wouldn't be looking in the rearview mirror while we were exhausted after six-plus hours of theatre and dance. And sitting in the back in the dark on the river road in Alton, listening to 1999's Top 40. And who could forget those vacations, dragging sand and water equipment across the fuzzy upholstery, until my mom cut out bits off commercial carpet to put down and make it last longer. It was the car I learned to drive in, and the one I used to get my license. On holidays, we'd pack it with food to take to my grandma's house about a mile away, and it never lost the scent of cooking oil, when we took over bags and bags of homemade crab rangoon.
I remember being in it constantly senior year, when I graduated, and packing it up with stuff for my dorms for years.
And then my own car died right smack in the middle of getting my master's degree. I took the car, thinking I'd be getting another soon. But it was a gas hog, and no one was jumping to take it from me. I didn't think about how much time I'd spent in it, just that I had to last the rest of the school year and graduate with good grades, finish my projects and host my first art show. I remember stuffing the back with frames, mattes and glass and driving all around, trying to get my show finished. For months afterward, I still had the mattes. When I cleaned out my car a few weeks ago, for the last (and maybe only time), I found a couple.
There were those millions of photo excursions, and those hellishly hot photo shoots when the air conditioning didn't work. I stuffed many friends in the back for late night runs to taco bell. I drove it back and forth to job interviews and then to jobs I'd gotten, many auditions that I was accepted and was rejected from. The back accumulated many things, most of which didn't belong to me. I remember my voice teacher asking me if I was homeless, because I hadn't yet taken out my bedding from a house-sitting job. I was always finding strange things. The weirdest item was a set of golf clubs. I'd never been golfing in my life.
I remember cruising Main Street on hot summer nights, coming home late from parties, and never worrying if anyone would want to steal it; it wasn't cool, it wasn't impressive, and it sucked gas like you couldn't believe. And I remember parking along the road on a special spot to watch the planes come in, at those times where I was afraid of what was going to happen in the future. And sitting at the ice cream place or the gas station, and lying on the hood looking at the trees or the sunset, or the stars, during those times where I didn't know what decision to make about something.
When I finally got the last of the stuff out, I found a complete kitchen set, BBQ set, restaurant napkins, clothes that weren't mine, a toothbrush that wasn't mine, and an evaporating carton of whipping cream wedged under the backseat.
It was a good car that lasted me a long time. I think about people like my cousin, who leases and gets a new car every five months. I sometimes think, "How lucky! New car smell every five months!"
But I really don't think that's lucky. I mean, it IS just a car. Metal, chrome, plastic and fibers. It's not alive. But maybe you really can build a relationship with an inanimate object. I know my cousin doesn't have enough time to make memories with all his cars, and I think I'm lucky I had my big, awkward van that no one would steal, but had brought me to all the places I needed to go in my life.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
But I digress.
Wow, it's been awhile! Again! I feel so neglectful. But seriously, folks, so much is going down. But when you're facing a crisis, do you let it hurt your work? Does it help it? Hmm.
Something cool coming up: Camp NaNo. For those who can't wait until November to get your 50k groove on, this year you can write TWO novels, 50k each for the summer! I did it last year, and even though it was exhausting, I got a huge chunk of a first draft finished. Oh my. Plus, sitting out on my back porch with a candle, listening to the To Kill A Mockingbird soundtrack, which is my staple-summer music. I always associate it with the Persiad Meteor Shower, which won't be occurring until August.
What have I been writing, you ask? Oh my, are you going to be surprised! Okay, my unstable readers, my goal for Camp NaNo, and for the last few months are short stories. I've been racking a bunch of them up, trying my hand at much shorter works than I ever thought possible. I'm one of those word-dump people, who can produce MORE of a work than a shorter piece. It was hard at first, but I persevered.
From some advice I've gotten from some of my writer friends, I've decided to put together a book of short stories. From a whole bunch I'm going to get finished this summer, I'm hoping to select enough for a collection with some kind of similar theme. This brings me right back to Graduate School. I can even hear one of my old professors:
(cue flashback music)
"Your talent is hearsay. All of you will break up with your significant others while you're trying to make it as an artist, because they won't understand your obsession. What are you trying to say? And don't say you're trying to 'find yourself.'"
What are your summer goals? Where do you go to write when it's too hot to park yourself and your laptop under a tree? I think I'm going to write a short about a swimming pool that can transport kids to a different world where they can be happy, away from their arguing parents. Oh wait...
Something cool coming up: Camp NaNo. For those who can't wait until November to get your 50k groove on, this year you can write TWO novels, 50k each for the summer! I did it last year, and even though it was exhausting, I got a huge chunk of a first draft finished. Oh my. Plus, sitting out on my back porch with a candle, listening to the To Kill A Mockingbird soundtrack, which is my staple-summer music. I always associate it with the Persiad Meteor Shower, which won't be occurring until August.
What have I been writing, you ask? Oh my, are you going to be surprised! Okay, my unstable readers, my goal for Camp NaNo, and for the last few months are short stories. I've been racking a bunch of them up, trying my hand at much shorter works than I ever thought possible. I'm one of those word-dump people, who can produce MORE of a work than a shorter piece. It was hard at first, but I persevered.
From some advice I've gotten from some of my writer friends, I've decided to put together a book of short stories. From a whole bunch I'm going to get finished this summer, I'm hoping to select enough for a collection with some kind of similar theme. This brings me right back to Graduate School. I can even hear one of my old professors:
(cue flashback music)
"Your talent is hearsay. All of you will break up with your significant others while you're trying to make it as an artist, because they won't understand your obsession. What are you trying to say? And don't say you're trying to 'find yourself.'"
What are your summer goals? Where do you go to write when it's too hot to park yourself and your laptop under a tree? I think I'm going to write a short about a swimming pool that can transport kids to a different world where they can be happy, away from their arguing parents. Oh wait...
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Woody Allen directs my life, and What I learned from it.
What "kick" are you on right now, my unstable readers/writers?
I'm on a screenplay kick. Not just writing them, but analyzing them.
The other day, I saw 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?' for the first time. I've read the play, and obviously I'd forgotten about it and everything it entails. We open with Liz Taylor and George Segal walking down a campus path. You can smell the sweat from the summer night, and it becomes stifling as they enter their bedroom. From then on, it doesn't let you go. The distorted camera angles swirl around as the characters laugh and scream and sing. But you don't dare look away. It's a freak show, and you're a part of it, and the freaks really aren't freaks at all; they could easily be you and me, if we get pushed a little bit more out of our comfort zone, maybe.
I've studied James L. Brooks, director of 'As Good as it Gets' and 'Terms of Endearment.' And of course, I revisit good old Woody and Wes Anderson. I catch some Sophia Coppela and Jonathan Dayton. I'm studying their use of space, and when a song should start billowing in.
But what is most important in a film, or should we say, a STORY? If you're lucky enough to have Sidney Poitier and Hans Zimmer, can your film "make do" with a bad script?
I'm struggling right now to not allow my scripts take over the formula and flavour of my favourite writers/directors. But how can we do that? We're so influenced by them; they've saturated our lives. And of course we've read those notorious screenplay books which inform us of the exact page the main crisis should happen, and that your main character should start to reconsider his/her choices on page so-and-so. 'Yes,' I think, 'but wait. What about this movie? THAT one didn't follow the rules. And what about THIS?'
I guess it all boils down to NOT whether you follow the rules or not, but if NOT following the rules somehow WORKS ANYWAY.
I'm wondering if my tendency to not follow the rules is working. And for how much Woody Allen and the Cohen Bros are going to sue me.
I'm on a screenplay kick. Not just writing them, but analyzing them.
The other day, I saw 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?' for the first time. I've read the play, and obviously I'd forgotten about it and everything it entails. We open with Liz Taylor and George Segal walking down a campus path. You can smell the sweat from the summer night, and it becomes stifling as they enter their bedroom. From then on, it doesn't let you go. The distorted camera angles swirl around as the characters laugh and scream and sing. But you don't dare look away. It's a freak show, and you're a part of it, and the freaks really aren't freaks at all; they could easily be you and me, if we get pushed a little bit more out of our comfort zone, maybe.
I've studied James L. Brooks, director of 'As Good as it Gets' and 'Terms of Endearment.' And of course, I revisit good old Woody and Wes Anderson. I catch some Sophia Coppela and Jonathan Dayton. I'm studying their use of space, and when a song should start billowing in.
But what is most important in a film, or should we say, a STORY? If you're lucky enough to have Sidney Poitier and Hans Zimmer, can your film "make do" with a bad script?
I'm struggling right now to not allow my scripts take over the formula and flavour of my favourite writers/directors. But how can we do that? We're so influenced by them; they've saturated our lives. And of course we've read those notorious screenplay books which inform us of the exact page the main crisis should happen, and that your main character should start to reconsider his/her choices on page so-and-so. 'Yes,' I think, 'but wait. What about this movie? THAT one didn't follow the rules. And what about THIS?'
I guess it all boils down to NOT whether you follow the rules or not, but if NOT following the rules somehow WORKS ANYWAY.
I'm wondering if my tendency to not follow the rules is working. And for how much Woody Allen and the Cohen Bros are going to sue me.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Maybe I'm exaggerating, but...
I'm really sure you'd rather me spend my time writing my short-stories/novels/screenplays than blog, right? But that doesn't make up for my absence.
What do you do, dear, unstable readers and writers, when you're stuck in the middle of too many writing projects that demand all of your attention? Of course, it's great when you're bursting with ideas, but all at the same time, you're torn between these needy, little children? Because that's, essentially, what they are.
They want your time, your money, and your sanity. They fight with each other and pull each other's hair. When you give one attention, the other comes in crying, accusing you of being partial and a crappy parent. They want attention, and they won't take no for an answer. You stay up until the wee hours making sure each one is very aware of how much you love it.
And sometimes you just want to dump them off for someone else to take care of, just so you can have a moment when you're not wondering about them, worrying about them, contemplating whether or not this subplot is working properly, or if this character is too trite, and why your hero is reminding you too much of your ex-boyfriend. Or why you always name the baddie after that guy who rejected you in high school.
These children are expensive, because they take up the time you'd normally spend being a productive asset at your "real job." They're demanding and jealous of each other, of YOU and your relationships, and they won't stop until you've exhausted yourself meeting their needs.
But every once in awhile, though, they'll come home with a cool painting of you to hang on the fridge. Or a shiny, gold sticker on top of their math homework. Maybe they'll come in first at the gymnastics competition, or they'll come in fourth. They'll be mad and bitter, but you won't care-you're proud either way. Maybe they've discovered something amazing in their own world, and they're excited to tell you about it over chocolate milk. Or maybe their pet dies, and they're full of tears and questions.
They'll keep pulling hair and throwing tantrums. They'll be secretive, and you usually don't know exactly what's going on in their lives, because the answer isn't very clear until the very end. Sometimes you might forget about them altogether, and they're mighty cocky when you remember.
Right now I'm working on two screenplays, editing a novel, trying to finish a short story and wanting to write another one. I have two ideas for two other novels, and people wonder why I don't have enough energy to go out and have fun with them. When I do, it's hard to not keep thinking about the bratty little things at home waiting for me, making messes, wanting me to FINISH them.
Am I weird for missing them, just a little?
And now for your viewing pleasure, the classic Bill Cosby:
What do you do, dear, unstable readers and writers, when you're stuck in the middle of too many writing projects that demand all of your attention? Of course, it's great when you're bursting with ideas, but all at the same time, you're torn between these needy, little children? Because that's, essentially, what they are.
They want your time, your money, and your sanity. They fight with each other and pull each other's hair. When you give one attention, the other comes in crying, accusing you of being partial and a crappy parent. They want attention, and they won't take no for an answer. You stay up until the wee hours making sure each one is very aware of how much you love it.
And sometimes you just want to dump them off for someone else to take care of, just so you can have a moment when you're not wondering about them, worrying about them, contemplating whether or not this subplot is working properly, or if this character is too trite, and why your hero is reminding you too much of your ex-boyfriend. Or why you always name the baddie after that guy who rejected you in high school.
These children are expensive, because they take up the time you'd normally spend being a productive asset at your "real job." They're demanding and jealous of each other, of YOU and your relationships, and they won't stop until you've exhausted yourself meeting their needs.
But every once in awhile, though, they'll come home with a cool painting of you to hang on the fridge. Or a shiny, gold sticker on top of their math homework. Maybe they'll come in first at the gymnastics competition, or they'll come in fourth. They'll be mad and bitter, but you won't care-you're proud either way. Maybe they've discovered something amazing in their own world, and they're excited to tell you about it over chocolate milk. Or maybe their pet dies, and they're full of tears and questions.
They'll keep pulling hair and throwing tantrums. They'll be secretive, and you usually don't know exactly what's going on in their lives, because the answer isn't very clear until the very end. Sometimes you might forget about them altogether, and they're mighty cocky when you remember.
Right now I'm working on two screenplays, editing a novel, trying to finish a short story and wanting to write another one. I have two ideas for two other novels, and people wonder why I don't have enough energy to go out and have fun with them. When I do, it's hard to not keep thinking about the bratty little things at home waiting for me, making messes, wanting me to FINISH them.
Am I weird for missing them, just a little?
And now for your viewing pleasure, the classic Bill Cosby:
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Why I am a literary snob, and how I'm trying to fix it.
I have never been drawn to romance novels.
I wouldn't say I'm an un-romantic person. Not at all. But I think I've strayed into the swamp of snobbery, where I raise an eyebrow when I find out the heroine in my book-o-the-moment turns out possessing raven hair, sapphire eyes, and conveniently living down the hall from the man of her dreams, who is conveniently just as beautiful and misunderstood as she is. Or he is sublimely amazing in everything he does, and she just doesn't know WHY he could EVER love her.
I now confess I label all romance/fantasy books in this category, and it's JUST NOT TRUE. I've read so many novels with romantic undertones I thoroughly enjoyed (A Widow for One Year), and plenty of fantasy I couldn't get enough of (Tolkien). So what happened that made me turn into a literary snob?
When I started reading Gone With the Wind, I yawned each and every time Scarlett pined for drab Ashley Wilkes, so much that I never finished the book. I wanted to know more about her parents and their wacky marriage. When I read Wuthering Heights, I fought the urge to drop-kick Catherine and Heathcliff right over that metaphoric wall that separated their classes; I wanted to know more about the rest of the house servants. They were interesting.
Maybe I have intentionally steered away from novels with blatant romantic plots and subplots because I don't want to get involved in a book that makes me fight it all the way through, hoping for a glimpse into the life of that old widow down the street and her flea-ridden cat, or what the quiet butler is doing while the socialites are enjoying the party. Surely he is 'round back, stirring up some debauchery.
I don't want to be a literary snob, and sometimes I don't really think that title is accurate. I hope I'm not, that I like to give all novels a chance and not judge them by the artistic rendition of Fabio on the cover. These novels have their place in the literary world. But I would find them much more entertaining if Fabio had a glass eye and a hoarding complex.
I wouldn't say I'm an un-romantic person. Not at all. But I think I've strayed into the swamp of snobbery, where I raise an eyebrow when I find out the heroine in my book-o-the-moment turns out possessing raven hair, sapphire eyes, and conveniently living down the hall from the man of her dreams, who is conveniently just as beautiful and misunderstood as she is. Or he is sublimely amazing in everything he does, and she just doesn't know WHY he could EVER love her.
I now confess I label all romance/fantasy books in this category, and it's JUST NOT TRUE. I've read so many novels with romantic undertones I thoroughly enjoyed (A Widow for One Year), and plenty of fantasy I couldn't get enough of (Tolkien). So what happened that made me turn into a literary snob?
When I started reading Gone With the Wind, I yawned each and every time Scarlett pined for drab Ashley Wilkes, so much that I never finished the book. I wanted to know more about her parents and their wacky marriage. When I read Wuthering Heights, I fought the urge to drop-kick Catherine and Heathcliff right over that metaphoric wall that separated their classes; I wanted to know more about the rest of the house servants. They were interesting.
Maybe I have intentionally steered away from novels with blatant romantic plots and subplots because I don't want to get involved in a book that makes me fight it all the way through, hoping for a glimpse into the life of that old widow down the street and her flea-ridden cat, or what the quiet butler is doing while the socialites are enjoying the party. Surely he is 'round back, stirring up some debauchery.
I don't want to be a literary snob, and sometimes I don't really think that title is accurate. I hope I'm not, that I like to give all novels a chance and not judge them by the artistic rendition of Fabio on the cover. These novels have their place in the literary world. But I would find them much more entertaining if Fabio had a glass eye and a hoarding complex.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Late night coffee quote.
"You might be poor, your shoes might be broken, but your mind is a palace." -Frank McCourt
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