Number 4

I haven't been posting because, honestly, I lost interest in posting.  I won't blow the proverbial smoke and say I was too busy because when you take time to nap and Facebook and make/eat delicious Fantasy Fudge, that would seem to indicate there's some extra time in your schedule. 

Strangely, I always seem to come back around New Years.  Not sure why.  It has nothing to do with resolutions or anything like that.  I'm as willing to make resolutions in June as January.  And I have made some positive improvements since last we spoke.  I'm losing weight for one.  This is not vanity.  This is to save my life.  No, I'm not 700 pounds and on life support.  I just had a "moment of clarity" last year, again in January, looking at my father in a hospital bed and knowing that was going to be me if I didn't straighten the hell up healthwise.  I'm doing yoga, the first exercise I have ever truly enjoyed.  Don't you hate people who go to aerobics and wear terry cloth sweatbands and proclaim to love it when you know there is no way anyone could possibly ENJOY that crap?  And don't worry, I will not start springing Buddhist words of wisdom on you because basically I know none.  Go to the website for your zen.

I've used the excuse of studying when my friends ask about writing.  I spent about two years studying for CPIM exams, so it was pretty much like getting an associates degree.  And don't worry what CPIM stands for because it is on a planet far, far away from writing.  Now I'm studying for CSCP (don't look it up) and toyed with the idea of using it for the next great excuse.  But I'm not going to.  I've come to realize that the same discipline it takes to study for and pass those hard-ass tests I've been taking can be applied to writing.  It comes down to this:  break it down.  I break down the study in little chunks every day, and there's no reason to not do the same with the writing.  I've got the story, it's already started, I just need to put down a little chunk in writing every day.  And as was established in the first paragraph, the time is there.  Just put down the fudge.

New Year

I know. It has been awhile. But I posted something last New Year's, so I couldn't break the tradition.

I've been pretty busy. I started an internship as a reader for a management company. I've always heard that it is very beneficial to your own writing to read and critique lots of other screenplays. I think it is helping, but it's difficult to cram this work in on top of all the other with my job, etc.

Happy New Year. Write some good stuff. Maybe I'll read it.

To Be Continued ...

The short story will have to be continued at a later time, possibly early June. Circumstances prevail at present.

The Mirror - Part 1

When Aidan was a younger man, he spent his weekends at football games and parties and in younger women's pants. He drank his fair share and puked more than. He cruised with friends through town during the hopeful, lush, starlit hours of Saturday nights with the windows down and dark air cooling inexperienced faces. He found love and lost it. He found it again. He skinny-dipped in water that was still warm on top from a recently departed sun but cold and thrilling in lower regions. He attended proms in stiff tuxes with girls in Southern belle gowns. But in those younger years there was one thing he never did on Saturday night: wait around on his wife in her creepy dead aunt's gigantic creepy house.

He rolled his eyes around at the dark furnishings straight from a torture chamber. Heavy, ornately carved wood with black varnish and heavy fabric died the shade of old blood. Antique books and bric-a-brac that appeared not to have moved from their appointed spot in decades. Dusty drapes that looked like they could kill a man if they should fall from their titanic rods. He instinctively felt that the house viewed him as an unwanted intruder so he steered clear of the drapes.

The most impressive item, however, was a mirror. It wasn't impressive in the way that most people think of impressive, like when a person admires the outcome of an artist's work and feels struck by the innate talent. This object was impressive in that it made an impression on the mind, a deep furrow that was not exactly pleasant. But it had a dark attraction, something like a vampire. Everyone knows they're dangerous, but we can't quite stop looking, can't completely suppress an admiration and desire.

He edged up closer, unconsciously trying to come at it from an angle so that his face wouldn't be caught in it.

"Pretty spooky, isn't it?"

He damn near crapped his pants.

Next week - Part 2

Out like a Lion

The end of March approacheth. I don't recall it coming in like a lion so I take it that means it won't go out like a lamb. Either way, neither the lion or the lamb seemed to give me any inspiration this month because I am still not where I need to be on finishing my screenplay. The first contest date is coming up fast, and I suppose if I quickly slapped something together I could still make it. Just not my style. I'm not particularly upset about it because I'm planning on entering two in the Austin and maybe one or two somewhere else so that will be plenty drain on the checking account.

I've been inexcusably lazy on the writing this month. I could have definitely done more, and that's why I'm here. I need to get warmed up and going again. This is my place to warm my hands by the fire so they're limbered up enough to turn around and punch somebody in the mouth. I will make this month go out like a lion.

There are actual lambs that live up the road from me. A whole field full of them. They belong to a cranky old guy who actually put up a can on the fence one spring with a sign telling people that if they want to stop and look at his cute lambs, they should contribute to their support. All these years, there have been those sheep and little lambs. You get used to driving by there, glancing over at the playful, fluffy lambs kicking up their heels. Yesterday, I drove by and there amongst them ... was a cow. Now what is he doing?

Formula writing

My writing has been reduced to mathematics: adding, subtracting, long division, formulas. Well, not really my writing exactly (because wouldn't that be terribly boring even though most of the screenwriting advice you read tries to force you to fit your story into the tried-and-true-and-therefore-utterly-worn-out formula). It's more like my drive, my sense of urgency, has been reduced to mathematics. In calendar form mainly.

Contests are an excellent way to light a fire under your butt and get you out of your complacency, laziness, and procrastination. They are deadlines. They are that something that demands you have it done by a particular date, or by the gods and little fishes, they are going on without you. So I printed off a calendar, because for some reason I don't seem to have one, and I have written the dates of the contests I will be entering on the margins, and I have carefully calculated out how many more pages I need divided by the number of days left and minus off about two weeks because I will need about that for strictly editing. And voila, I have a goal for how much needs to be written each day.

Side note, completely off-topic: I have enjoyed visiting the blog of Elizabeth Bales Frank http://www.elizafrank.com/index.html. A couple days ago, the strangest thing happened. There was number on my caller ID with the name Elizabeth Frank. I know it wasn't her because the number was from my town, and I believe she lives quite far from my town, plus the fact that we are complete strangers, but still ... what's the word for that?

Black and White

My year has been one of extremes - severe, deepest blacks and enlightening whites. The term of 2009 A.D. was very uneven, a rough ride, and even in its final moments, it seemed to be trying its damnedest to snap at me a few last times. The number 9 signifies the end of a cycle, but for every end, there is also a beginning.

I had some of the worst experiences I have ever had in my entire life. I had lows so extreme that I was amazed it was me. But for every low, every deep, black cavern, there was the opposite. There was the light of friends and family gathering around and proving what I always suspected: they really are on my side. For every utter defeat, there was a sparkling victory.

Everyone lives their own movie. There were as many versions of 2009 as there are people on earth. Some lived it in color. Some had the shades of gray found in the oldies. For me, it was black and white.