I write.
Lots of things.
Mostly screenplays, with other things thrown in when I have WB or I’m just too lazy to work.
I tend to get lost in an imaginary world full of heroes, villians and everything inbetween. So I write what I experience in the deep, dark recesses of my mind. Writers are the most selfish people in the world. They’re up in their minds all day (and night) and nobody else can get in there to experience their stories with them until the stories either hit the big screen or a Barnes and Noble near you.
“Honey,what are you thinking about?” she asks. “Oh nothing much,” I reply, a little irritated that I took my focus off the stick of the latest Russian Hi-tech jet for a split second to answer her and crashed it into the snowy slopes of an Alpine mountain. The Russian pilot will no doubt take the credit for shooting me down, but doggone it, she interrupted me! She of course meant well, but I doubt very much if the Pentagon will see it that way. Trying to recapture the train of thought that just crashed and burned in that snowy Alpine hillside isn’t always possible.
Her innocent intrusion into my imaginary world wasn’t a good thing.
Or was it?
Writing is what I do, or want to do. I can’t wait to sit in my chair, put my feet up over the corner of my desk and fire up the old PCÂ to start writing. It’s supposed to put money in the bank and food on the table, but it hasn’t yet. So I write diligently until that day comes. And because of that there has to be sacrifices, and the sacrifices tend to be those closest to us. I have to think and re-think every aspect of my work, sometimes using her as a sounding board, asking oblique questions without giving too much away and making the best of an answer based on no information. I haven’t learnt to share my work with her yet, something of which I’m very embarrassed.
I could’ve written The Great Adventure that far, or further, and suffered the same fate. Come to a screeching halt with a gut-wrenching moan. Hindsight always shows up the unstable trackwork over which my train was blissfully racing. Sometimes I run with an idea in great detail and forget where I was headed in the first place. That would’ve meant countless hours and days wasted. It also allows the brain to clear from the overflow of information that may have been clouding my thinking and affecting my perception of where the story was going in the first place. Step back, take a deep breath, smell the roses and consider my options.
I know myself and how I operate and I have a rule: never throw away stories, or even parts of them, I’ve written for the simple reason that I could always return and revisit (sort like a writer’s R ‘n R) at some later stage. I have countless bits and pieces lying about- I really should begin to cataloge them somehow for later use. If I’m lucky I can work bits into another story with minimal changes and proudly proclaim that I wrote 20 pages today- which is far from the truth if you consider that 15 were simply a cut-and-paste job.
To do that I have to climb back into my mind, the very place she just intruded into and yanked me flat onto my ass into reality, and hope I can repare the damage before she climbs in there again. Twinkling her baby-blues at me, and derailing my train again…
Oh, the life.
Tags: derail, marx, screenwriter, script, selfish, train, writer
