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!”
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