Don't Look At Me, I'm Not Writing
A few weeks ago, I happily posted about writing again. "Look At Me, I'm Writing". It felt good. I had the words-on-paper buzz.
Unfortunately, I haven't done any real work on a screenplay in weeks. And that doesn't feel good.
I can make excuses. Time crunch is a valid one; because my better-paying reading jobs are in flux (at least until the Weinsteins get their new company rolling again, or the old Miramax decides to throw me some work) I've been scrounging up lesser-paying work to make up the difference. There's plenty of it; it just takes more work to make the same money I was making before.
But the more work I do, the less I want to work on my own stuff. Catch 22. And the irony is, I still love writing. It's not that I'm burned out on the process itself. It's... I don't know.
The angst and chaos of moving certainly didn't help. My wife gets her well-deserved attention each day. We don't have children, and I respect the hell out of anyone who can do this with kids; if I had kids, forget it.
Blogging takes some of the edge off; making myself post here on a regular basis gets my creative engine revving. But it's still not advancing my own work.
I've been reading stuff for some people who took me up on my offer, and giving them notes, and that's been good too. Because the type of notes I've been giving them is mostly story notes, and brainstorming ideas, and I'm good at that stuff. Very good. And that gets my creative juices flowing too.
But still, not in the right direction.
I feel pregnant with creativity. But when I do find an hour to do something, the last thing my brain wants to do is dive back into my own stuff. And it's going to take more than an hour; it's about getting up to speed, and getting it rolling.
I'm a cliche. And I know what you're going to say. It takes discipline, setting aside hours, focusing on what I want to do, getting my priorities straight. And you're right. Dead on right.
Fuck. I'm 42. The train is leaving the station. And instead of taking red pen to pages 60-110 of my supernatural-thriller-that-desperately-needs-a-really-tight-polish, I'm writing a whiny blog entry, that I may have already deleted by the next time you come here. Because who needs to hear from another writer lamenting their lack of production?
I don't know what to say. The whole situation sucks.
I feel like Danny Bonaduce. I thought his new show was weird, turning the cameras on himself, showing all his warts, a lot of unsympathetic stuff, as he spirals down, and hopefully gets better.
But maybe there's something to this. Maybe opening oneself up, and saying this is who I am, this is the me that has to change, helps drive that change. I don't know.
Maybe it's just self-absorbed bullshit.
I have friends who get doubts sometimes, who consider chucking writing and not chasing the dream any more. It's a tough decision to make. It's not one that I want to make. But the clock is ticking.
So feel free to nag me about the supernatural thriller that's 85% there, but needs another solid pass. Or the horror tale I started working on last month, that is perculating away. Or the idea that me and a guy I met online have been trading e-mails on for almost a month now, slowly piecing the plot together, which is probably the closest I've come to writing even though my contribution has been largely limited to lobbing ideas in his direction.
The sad thing is, I think there's a good writer in me somewhere. I just need to get off my ass, and try to help him get his shot.
The end of the year is coming. Work will be slower. If I'm going to make it happen, it's time to start getting up speed, to hit that ramp.
Here's hoping. Here's... Shit.
Just going to try.