Writer's Hell

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Where Have All The Words Gone?

How ironic is this? I'm having some trouble with my screenplay, the short film, teenage boy story with the suicide thingy thing going on. I have it vaguely outlined to the second plot point but that's all. In addition, I really have not come up with enough of the complications crap for the second act yet. I have six more days before the next meeting where I will be presenting my synopsis. Yeah, fantastic. You know, I get these ideas, and they're cool and all that, so I write them down, then dialogue starts forming in my head. Great. Good. However, I don't have the whole storyline worked out. I never do.

You're supposed to begin at the end. That's the way it's supposed to work. I didn't. I don't. I probably never will. I’m a fuck-up. Always have been, always will be. It’s the nature of the beast. Well, me at any rate.

Now I'm stuck. So what do I do? Yeah, I pull out a DVD and watch "Californication" where some other writer is stuck and screwing up his life. Well, screwing up his life in a different way than how I’m screwing up my life. Different sex, different screwing…up. You get the picture, or not.

Writing is not as easy as it sounds. Not for me anyways. I never open up Word or Celtx without an idea already planted in my brain cause that’s just begging the reaper to come deliver me unto the fiery depths of hell. Very few people can look at a blank screen and write something intelligent. Maybe “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” but we know where that leads.

The thing is if I sit here and stare at the laptop long enough, I will simply phase off into another dimension where my brain is actually a big bowl of oatmeal that doesn’t even have any sugar in it. ADHD, OCD, BRB, LOL? I don’t know. But if that grey cat pops up bitching about his damn cheeseburger, then I know I’m well and truly lost.

I remember, centuries ago as an undergrad, a girl telling me that her problem was that she wrote too much. Poor thing. She wrote pages and pages each and every day. She couldn’t help it. She had so much to say and she could see everything with this incredible clarity. And she wrote it all down. Everything. Every fucking little tiny miniscule thing. I don’t write pages; I write words. (I have to insert a sigh here. This is so depressing.) I fight for my words. I hunt the little hairy bastards down, trap them and haul them off to be plastered on a virtual page where they will live out their futile lives in servitude of a story that is probably crap anyway.

And what am I doing right now? Yes, I am writing but it is nothing more than vomiting out words of frustration in the vain attempt to alleviate said frustration, along with a little “Look at me! Look at me!”

Whatever.

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Attani profile image

Attani 4 years ago from Silicon Valley Author

Yeah, Woody Allen always annoyed me.


Ghost32 4 years ago

Not that this will help you, but it tickles me to realize that I'm not the only writer out there who does not "start at the end". No, I've never written a screen play; to do so, I'd probably have to learn how you construct one of those things, and that just seems like too much...work.

But I've written everything else there is to write, except maybe an encyclopedia. And I NEVER have the ending in mind when I start, except maybe at the beginning of the very last chapter of a lengthy novel, and usually not even then.

Fortunately for me, I'm way too ego-bound to realize if my stuff might be crap, so I'm convinced most of is is good stuff.

Now: Back to you. Want you to know, I actually read every word of your Hub and am enjoying, "Looking at you! Looking at you!"

Not that you'll take the easy way out, just kill off the suicidal teenager and bring in a new character with some nerve, less Woody Allen, more Sam Elliot.

Voted Up and, darned if it wasn't, Interesting.

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