I am officially on hiatus until May 5th.
I've been given a deadline to finish a draft of my script and I'll be damned if I can't meet it.
Copy that.
Over and out.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Uuuunnnngggghhh...
I. am. so. hungover.
To quote one of the only bloggers I habitually read...
"Jesus H. Christ on a bike... Argh."
I couldn't in good faith claim the wordage as my own and (being the avid benefactor of talent that I am) had been meaning to do this guy a solid anyway with some P&A on my own less accomplished blog. And yes, he's British.
Anyway. Back to me.
I remember always laughing when people over the age of 35 would complain about not being able to bounce back as easily after a night of partying. Thinking, Ha! That'll never happen to me. In my exuberant, bouncy youth I rarely suffered hangovers and was sure I was immune. Granted, I've never been the hardcore 5-nights-a-week type, but I've done my fair share and handled it with aplomb. Four Ecstasy-fueled nights in a row in Miami when I was 21... Combat bowling until 3am on shots of Baileys and vodka when I was 23... Film premiere after-partying until it was time to shower for work the next morning when I was 25... Speaking of work... Two years of coke, booze and late nights in the middle of the week then rolling into the agency by 8am (well-dressed and perfectly made-up) and managing to be on my A-game for 12 hours straight while navigating the minefields of my boss' moods and learning what "work hard, play hard" really means.
Right, so maybe that last section of my party-girl career was a bit hardcore... at least for me.
And now we're up to date.
I used to be invincible, man! But now... Oh to be young and naive again. I'm not even 30 yet and I can't fucking deal. True, ever since I went all Less Than Zero at the agency I've sort of been on hiatus. Nesting and focusing on goals and such. I've become a little old lady that, when someone says "Meet around 10:30?", replies with "At night?!" It does make for more fulfilling fun when I do go out... but as I age it's getting harder and harder. The hangovers are getting worse and worse. It used to be that a good omelet and some juice in the morning could turn the booze crown upside down. Then it progressed to a dependable lunchtime dissipation. Now we're at 4 o'clock, I've had 2 full meals, protein, carbs AND sugar - blasphemy! - and I STILL have a cloudy, achy head and a queasy stomach. And I can't even discuss the morning. It's a miracle I made it to work... safely...
And all because I decided to take up a spur of the moment invitation to go dance like a nerd at a back-alley rock bar (okay, not so nefarious) on a Monday night. Seriously, if someone had told me yesterday morning that by 12am I'd be going ape shit up on a platform at some all ages 80s night and getting kicked out of the place for I'm not sure what because I don't remember and neither does anyone else... I would've been like, pssshhh, riiiiiight. Apparently, I'm unpredictable like that. Who knew?
All that is to say... I'm just not sure if it's worth it anymore. Not when I have to spend the next whole day completely out of sorts and feeling like I might pass out on my desk.
[insert labored moan here]
And it's still nowhere near time to go home. Wah.
To quote one of the only bloggers I habitually read...
"Jesus H. Christ on a bike... Argh."
I couldn't in good faith claim the wordage as my own and (being the avid benefactor of talent that I am) had been meaning to do this guy a solid anyway with some P&A on my own less accomplished blog. And yes, he's British.
Anyway. Back to me.
I remember always laughing when people over the age of 35 would complain about not being able to bounce back as easily after a night of partying. Thinking, Ha! That'll never happen to me. In my exuberant, bouncy youth I rarely suffered hangovers and was sure I was immune. Granted, I've never been the hardcore 5-nights-a-week type, but I've done my fair share and handled it with aplomb. Four Ecstasy-fueled nights in a row in Miami when I was 21... Combat bowling until 3am on shots of Baileys and vodka when I was 23... Film premiere after-partying until it was time to shower for work the next morning when I was 25... Speaking of work... Two years of coke, booze and late nights in the middle of the week then rolling into the agency by 8am (well-dressed and perfectly made-up) and managing to be on my A-game for 12 hours straight while navigating the minefields of my boss' moods and learning what "work hard, play hard" really means.
Right, so maybe that last section of my party-girl career was a bit hardcore... at least for me.
And now we're up to date.
I used to be invincible, man! But now... Oh to be young and naive again. I'm not even 30 yet and I can't fucking deal. True, ever since I went all Less Than Zero at the agency I've sort of been on hiatus. Nesting and focusing on goals and such. I've become a little old lady that, when someone says "Meet around 10:30?", replies with "At night?!" It does make for more fulfilling fun when I do go out... but as I age it's getting harder and harder. The hangovers are getting worse and worse. It used to be that a good omelet and some juice in the morning could turn the booze crown upside down. Then it progressed to a dependable lunchtime dissipation. Now we're at 4 o'clock, I've had 2 full meals, protein, carbs AND sugar - blasphemy! - and I STILL have a cloudy, achy head and a queasy stomach. And I can't even discuss the morning. It's a miracle I made it to work... safely...
And all because I decided to take up a spur of the moment invitation to go dance like a nerd at a back-alley rock bar (okay, not so nefarious) on a Monday night. Seriously, if someone had told me yesterday morning that by 12am I'd be going ape shit up on a platform at some all ages 80s night and getting kicked out of the place for I'm not sure what because I don't remember and neither does anyone else... I would've been like, pssshhh, riiiiiight. Apparently, I'm unpredictable like that. Who knew?
All that is to say... I'm just not sure if it's worth it anymore. Not when I have to spend the next whole day completely out of sorts and feeling like I might pass out on my desk.
[insert labored moan here]
And it's still nowhere near time to go home. Wah.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Decidedly Simple #347
I'll be the first to say that I can be... difficult. Okay, my mother probably would be the first. I think of my personal quirks and expectations of the world around me as endearing. Call me a diva, call me hard to please, call me fickle... I say YES. All are a badge of honor that proclaim my high standards. But there are some things about me that are Decidedly Simple.
Witness: Exhibit #347
Bianca Responds to Positive Reinforcement
In my last job I had a boss that was super demanding. She was the matriarch of this company I worked for and therefore very successful and very, very good at her job. And I respected her. But let's just say, my nickname for her came to be Cunty Cunterson. While I know she thought highly of me and was only as hard on me as she was because she felt that I could not only meet but exceed her expectations... she was just a B.I.T.C.H. I worked my ass off for this woman and nailed it 98% of the time... But very rarely was acknowledged when I did good. No, she only ever harped on the 2% of the time I fucked up. Because she expected 100%. Sure, I get that. Nonetheless... only being recognized for things you're not getting right can be disheartening. I found myself dropping from 98% kickass to 95% and so on. Because it's all a mind fuck. And when she smelled blood, she went for it. Thus, a bad day would turn into a bad week and into a bad month. That bitch wore me DOWN. And I use "bitch" as a term of endearment here, because at the end of the day, when I basically decided I didn't want to BE her in 40 years and I quit... she helped me and I do love her.
At the opposite end of that spectrum... is the motivation that is sparked in me when someone compliments me or tells me I've done good. It's a little thing called Validation. While I'm locked in my little den of self-doubt wondering if I'm smart enough, good enough... One kind comment and BOOM the door blasts open. It can come from my mother or my manager or a friend or a stranger... I'm not picky... And it puts a big smile on my face because it has been confirmed that all my toil hasn't been for naught. And THAT inspires me to keep fighting the good fight.
Pretty simple, eh?
Witness: Exhibit #347
Bianca Responds to Positive Reinforcement
In my last job I had a boss that was super demanding. She was the matriarch of this company I worked for and therefore very successful and very, very good at her job. And I respected her. But let's just say, my nickname for her came to be Cunty Cunterson. While I know she thought highly of me and was only as hard on me as she was because she felt that I could not only meet but exceed her expectations... she was just a B.I.T.C.H. I worked my ass off for this woman and nailed it 98% of the time... But very rarely was acknowledged when I did good. No, she only ever harped on the 2% of the time I fucked up. Because she expected 100%. Sure, I get that. Nonetheless... only being recognized for things you're not getting right can be disheartening. I found myself dropping from 98% kickass to 95% and so on. Because it's all a mind fuck. And when she smelled blood, she went for it. Thus, a bad day would turn into a bad week and into a bad month. That bitch wore me DOWN. And I use "bitch" as a term of endearment here, because at the end of the day, when I basically decided I didn't want to BE her in 40 years and I quit... she helped me and I do love her.
At the opposite end of that spectrum... is the motivation that is sparked in me when someone compliments me or tells me I've done good. It's a little thing called Validation. While I'm locked in my little den of self-doubt wondering if I'm smart enough, good enough... One kind comment and BOOM the door blasts open. It can come from my mother or my manager or a friend or a stranger... I'm not picky... And it puts a big smile on my face because it has been confirmed that all my toil hasn't been for naught. And THAT inspires me to keep fighting the good fight.
Pretty simple, eh?
Friday, April 18, 2008
Shakin' off the stank...
Of another person is truly something I struggle with on a daily basis. Stank, in this context, is defined as:
stank /stAY-nk/ Noun - A negative, foul or offensive aura, vibe, mood or disposition that hangs about a person and infects everyone within a 10 foot radius
I am particularly sensitive to people's stank. For whatever reason, all my life, I have always been highly perceptive of a person's mood or attitude, however subtle. (This talent also thus encompasses my ability to communicate with cats, but I won't go there now...) There is just something in me that is in tune to people's emotional constitution. So much so that I find myself feeling what another person is feeling. I'm sure I'm not the only one.
It can be as simple as being in the same space as another person, without interaction. Like, you walk into a room and you don't know why but suddenly you feel different. You can't figure it out and certainly don't know where it's coming from. That's when you're picking up another person's stank. Most of the time when this happens, I find myself plummeting into melancholy, uncomfortable awkwardness (okay, sometimes that's just me) or biting pessimism without any discernible reason. Sometimes it turns me inward, but usually it causes me to act out. Usually against the person whom I'm feeding off of. Imagine how bad a situation like that can go...
The greatest and most prevailing example of this is my relationship with my mother. We finally figured out at a certain point that our moods infect each other and we end up getting stuck in these escalating bitchfests until we're screaming at the top of our lungs, crying and then apologizing. Being aware of it now really makes no difference, emotion being as gripping as it is. Except maybe we're able to stop the ride sooner. Like before we vomit all over each other.
And sometimes, I pick up a person's stank through direct interaction. Whether in person, over the phone or even over email. Whether they're being bold about their negativity or are unaware of it. I pick it up... and it fucks me up. It can fuck me up for the rest of the day, depending on who the person is, my relationship to them and the color of my own emotional outfit du jour.
In either scenario... it is difficult to shake off the stank. The greatest thing I've come to learn is that 95% of the time, it has NOTHING to do with me. For a long, long time I'd translate any projected negativity as a form of rejection. Then I read somewhere that all people act out as a response to their own subjective view of the world. (Most general example I can think of is when a person cheats on their spouse and then is constantly accusing the spouse of cheating... projecting the guilt) Whatever it is that they're feeling, whatever emotions or subconscious insecurities they've got going on... it's all them. Not me. When I can remember that - and in some cases, it takes me a little while - then I'm cool.
So... Today I had a short email exchange with a person who triggers some strong emotions in me. Part of the problem is that I know too much about this particular person and probably assume too much, also. Lots of unacknowledged bodies at the bottom of this lake and whatnot. On a scale of 1-10 I'd give this email exchange a -1 for enjoyable and a 10 for fucking tiresome. See, at first, I was offended. And upset. And hurt. And feeling dismissed, which is actually a lot worse than feeling outright rejected. Then I accused this person of being "bitter." Then I realized that I was responding from my OWN bitterness in relation to this person. Then I realized that this person probably IS bitter (for entirely different reasons) but would never admit it. And THEN I realized that whatever this person's problem is...
IT'S NOT MY PROBLEM.
And just like that, I shook off the stank.
stank /stAY-nk/ Noun - A negative, foul or offensive aura, vibe, mood or disposition that hangs about a person and infects everyone within a 10 foot radius
I am particularly sensitive to people's stank. For whatever reason, all my life, I have always been highly perceptive of a person's mood or attitude, however subtle. (This talent also thus encompasses my ability to communicate with cats, but I won't go there now...) There is just something in me that is in tune to people's emotional constitution. So much so that I find myself feeling what another person is feeling. I'm sure I'm not the only one.
It can be as simple as being in the same space as another person, without interaction. Like, you walk into a room and you don't know why but suddenly you feel different. You can't figure it out and certainly don't know where it's coming from. That's when you're picking up another person's stank. Most of the time when this happens, I find myself plummeting into melancholy, uncomfortable awkwardness (okay, sometimes that's just me) or biting pessimism without any discernible reason. Sometimes it turns me inward, but usually it causes me to act out. Usually against the person whom I'm feeding off of. Imagine how bad a situation like that can go...
The greatest and most prevailing example of this is my relationship with my mother. We finally figured out at a certain point that our moods infect each other and we end up getting stuck in these escalating bitchfests until we're screaming at the top of our lungs, crying and then apologizing. Being aware of it now really makes no difference, emotion being as gripping as it is. Except maybe we're able to stop the ride sooner. Like before we vomit all over each other.
And sometimes, I pick up a person's stank through direct interaction. Whether in person, over the phone or even over email. Whether they're being bold about their negativity or are unaware of it. I pick it up... and it fucks me up. It can fuck me up for the rest of the day, depending on who the person is, my relationship to them and the color of my own emotional outfit du jour.
In either scenario... it is difficult to shake off the stank. The greatest thing I've come to learn is that 95% of the time, it has NOTHING to do with me. For a long, long time I'd translate any projected negativity as a form of rejection. Then I read somewhere that all people act out as a response to their own subjective view of the world. (Most general example I can think of is when a person cheats on their spouse and then is constantly accusing the spouse of cheating... projecting the guilt) Whatever it is that they're feeling, whatever emotions or subconscious insecurities they've got going on... it's all them. Not me. When I can remember that - and in some cases, it takes me a little while - then I'm cool.
So... Today I had a short email exchange with a person who triggers some strong emotions in me. Part of the problem is that I know too much about this particular person and probably assume too much, also. Lots of unacknowledged bodies at the bottom of this lake and whatnot. On a scale of 1-10 I'd give this email exchange a -1 for enjoyable and a 10 for fucking tiresome. See, at first, I was offended. And upset. And hurt. And feeling dismissed, which is actually a lot worse than feeling outright rejected. Then I accused this person of being "bitter." Then I realized that I was responding from my OWN bitterness in relation to this person. Then I realized that this person probably IS bitter (for entirely different reasons) but would never admit it. And THEN I realized that whatever this person's problem is...
IT'S NOT MY PROBLEM.
And just like that, I shook off the stank.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Everyone needs an Eli Stone...
I love the new show ELI STONE. And I looooooooove Jonny Lee Miller. The former is a young love, the latter has been quite enduring. I've loved Jonny Lee Miller ever since seeing him in HACKERS playing opposite his soon-to-be-ex-wife Angelina "vag trap" Jolie.
Yes, my Brit love goes way back. And yes, it is of a particular tall, lanky, brunette and sometimes borderline Hobbit variety (they of the up-turned nose and elfish charm). There are many on my list... But Jonny Lee Miller was one of the first. And I'm very happy that after years of proving his talent in small films (most notably, Trainspotting) he's finally getting the major exposure he truly deserves in America. Even if he is starting to look a little light-bulb headed and pointy-nosed as he gets older, I still think he's adorable and would marry him and bear his Elvish babies.
So, when I watched the pilot of ELI STONE early last year, I was thrilled because I loved the show and he really pops off the screen in this role. Then, seeing it again when the show premiered on ABC, I was having second thoughts. I liked the concept of bad lawyer turns do-gooder prophet because of inoperable brain aneurysm, but it felt a little heavy-handed in places. It seemed like a recycled Ally McBeal, except with a male lead who has cheesy flashbacks of his alcoholic dad and envisions gay pop icons instead of dancing babies. I was bummed. I had such high hopes for ELI. Especially in light of Greg Berlanti's other new show of the season, Dirty Sexy Money, which had become a rabid addiction to rival the early days of Grey's Anatomy. BUT I gave Mr. Berlanti the benefit of the doubt and stuck with it. I can happily say now that ELI STONE has surpassed my expectations. It's just a fucking great show. Everyone in it is good. Victor Garber is always amazing, but here he's given a chance to sing and camp it up a bit like you know he always wanted to on Alias ("But can't I wear a wig this time, J.J.? Why does Jen get to have all the fun?"). His character makes a triumphant pirouette from bad guy to awesome guy in the most recent episodes and thank god, because I really didn't want to hate him. Natasha Henstridge is beautiful, but she looks like a linebacker next to almost every other male on the screen - which is unfortunate as it reminds you that most actors are Lilliputian pocket people that should be wearing lifts in their shoes when stood next to Amazonian goddesses. But otherwise she's good. Loretta Divine is, as always, divine (sorry) especially because she and Jonny Lee Miller have this unexpected, totally crack-up chemistry. Even the other supporting player lawyers, who've now each had their turn at a 2-hander episode with Eli, have been fleshed out and I'm finding myself rooting for every. single. one of them! Most importantly, the ongoing theme of damn the man, fight for what you believe in, save the underdog is a consistent tear-jerker. I don't know about you, but I love shows that can reliably induce a good cry. That is where the show could've gone all wrong and been entirely too shmaltzy - and, okay, some of it is shmaltzy - but the writers do a clever job and it just keeps getting better and better. I don't know if they'll sweep the Emmy noms... certainly not with Dirty Sexy Money as their competition... but I really, really, really, reeeeeaaaaally hope Jonny Lee Miller gets nominated because, even though it's just TV, he's turning out the performance of his life so far.
And that's all I have to say about that.
P.S. For further evidence as to why Greg Berlanti is currently topping my Show-Creator Hero list, do yourself a favor and check out his Why We Write essay written during the WGA strike.
Yes, my Brit love goes way back. And yes, it is of a particular tall, lanky, brunette and sometimes borderline Hobbit variety (they of the up-turned nose and elfish charm). There are many on my list... But Jonny Lee Miller was one of the first. And I'm very happy that after years of proving his talent in small films (most notably, Trainspotting) he's finally getting the major exposure he truly deserves in America. Even if he is starting to look a little light-bulb headed and pointy-nosed as he gets older, I still think he's adorable and would marry him and bear his Elvish babies.
So, when I watched the pilot of ELI STONE early last year, I was thrilled because I loved the show and he really pops off the screen in this role. Then, seeing it again when the show premiered on ABC, I was having second thoughts. I liked the concept of bad lawyer turns do-gooder prophet because of inoperable brain aneurysm, but it felt a little heavy-handed in places. It seemed like a recycled Ally McBeal, except with a male lead who has cheesy flashbacks of his alcoholic dad and envisions gay pop icons instead of dancing babies. I was bummed. I had such high hopes for ELI. Especially in light of Greg Berlanti's other new show of the season, Dirty Sexy Money, which had become a rabid addiction to rival the early days of Grey's Anatomy. BUT I gave Mr. Berlanti the benefit of the doubt and stuck with it. I can happily say now that ELI STONE has surpassed my expectations. It's just a fucking great show. Everyone in it is good. Victor Garber is always amazing, but here he's given a chance to sing and camp it up a bit like you know he always wanted to on Alias ("But can't I wear a wig this time, J.J.? Why does Jen get to have all the fun?"). His character makes a triumphant pirouette from bad guy to awesome guy in the most recent episodes and thank god, because I really didn't want to hate him. Natasha Henstridge is beautiful, but she looks like a linebacker next to almost every other male on the screen - which is unfortunate as it reminds you that most actors are Lilliputian pocket people that should be wearing lifts in their shoes when stood next to Amazonian goddesses. But otherwise she's good. Loretta Divine is, as always, divine (sorry) especially because she and Jonny Lee Miller have this unexpected, totally crack-up chemistry. Even the other supporting player lawyers, who've now each had their turn at a 2-hander episode with Eli, have been fleshed out and I'm finding myself rooting for every. single. one of them! Most importantly, the ongoing theme of damn the man, fight for what you believe in, save the underdog is a consistent tear-jerker. I don't know about you, but I love shows that can reliably induce a good cry. That is where the show could've gone all wrong and been entirely too shmaltzy - and, okay, some of it is shmaltzy - but the writers do a clever job and it just keeps getting better and better. I don't know if they'll sweep the Emmy noms... certainly not with Dirty Sexy Money as their competition... but I really, really, really, reeeeeaaaaally hope Jonny Lee Miller gets nominated because, even though it's just TV, he's turning out the performance of his life so far.
And that's all I have to say about that.
P.S. For further evidence as to why Greg Berlanti is currently topping my Show-Creator Hero list, do yourself a favor and check out his Why We Write essay written during the WGA strike.
Monday, April 14, 2008
An AHA! moment...
I had an epiphany this morning. I'm aware that the phrase "an Aha! moment" is Oprah-related and generally refers to more in-depth realizations about yourself and personal growth... Actually, as I was about debase my own epiphany by saying it wasn't quite as significant as that, I realized... NO. It IS significant. For me. Alright, so here it is...
I want to direct music videos.
Okay yeah, sounds silly at first after that intro. Here's the deal. I'm a writer. That's always what I've wanted to do with my life. All this time... ever since I was 17 and started really getting into screenwriting... I've been inspired by music. Literally. I hear a song and get a flash of a scene in my mind. It doesn't happen with every song. Only certain songs. Whether it's the vibe or the lyrics or the emotion a song evokes in me... Whatever it is, my imagination is triggered and I SEE a scene. That is how A LOT of my writing has come about. I remember thinking, when I was younger, I really must have a "gift." That's how it felt. Like something bestowed on you without even reaching for it. All I wanted then was to create vivid and compelling scenes. It wasn't work and I wasn't second-guessing myself and at the time, un-jaded as I was, I thought it would be easy and had no concept of failure. And the gift CAME to me. Easily. Because I was completely open to it. Now... maybe not so much. Because I got off my writing track for a while there. I lost faith in my ability, I got scared and I shunned my gift. But I didn't forget. (I can't tell you how many people I worked with, how many of my bosses, would tell me what a good writer I was and that was based on business letters and actor bios and thank you notes!) And the flashes never went away. Now they're becoming more frequent again. Like a bolt out of the blue, the scene I see when I hear a song reveals something about a character in a script I'm working on that I hadn't thought of before. Or it adds flesh to an idea that I've been thinking about. And it's like BINGO! That's it! And I am a very detailed, very descriptive writer. When I see things in my head, I see them just so. That's why I have ALWAYS figured I will have soundtrack consultation or approval worked into every deal when I sell a script. Which is not typical. The writer usually doesn't have control of much once they've signed over their baby. The soundtrack, if anything, falls under the jurisdiction of the director's vision and the work of a music supervisor. But I am determined because if I ever see on screen a scene I've written set to an entirely different song than what I imagined... Well, that would just ruin everything.
So the question you're thinking is: Why not aim to direct the things I write? My answer has always been: I don't want to. Mainly because a) I can't possibly conceive of all the elements that go into making a film and leading an entire crew and b) I know what a fucking headache it is to be a director. I didn't go to film school. I don't know all the technicalities or how to set up a shot. I'm good with still photographs, sure. Directing live action is something I've never desired to touch even with a 10-foot-pole.
BUT I have vision. And this morning, it suddenly became clear.
I was hiking in Runyan Canyon, as I normally do few mornings a week before work. It's my thinking time. And I couldn't do it without my iPod. Today as I passed this particular spot I've walked by so many times, with it's vista of L.A. framed by each side of the canyon... I had a flash of a scene. Then on my way back up, passing it again, while a certain song played on my iPod... the scene came together with a story set to this song. And that's when my Aha! moment happened....
I have a photographic eye. A sense of aesthetic style. Songs inspire my mind to produce stories, quite naturally. Wouldn't it be great to direct music videos some day?
I got that excited, tingly butterflies feeling in my stomach and thought... Okay, I'm really feelin' that idea. Why not start now?
SO. That'll be my next project. A spec music video. I have no idea how or when or how or where or how or who or fucking HOW to do it... But I WANT TO. And I WILL.
I want to direct music videos.
Okay yeah, sounds silly at first after that intro. Here's the deal. I'm a writer. That's always what I've wanted to do with my life. All this time... ever since I was 17 and started really getting into screenwriting... I've been inspired by music. Literally. I hear a song and get a flash of a scene in my mind. It doesn't happen with every song. Only certain songs. Whether it's the vibe or the lyrics or the emotion a song evokes in me... Whatever it is, my imagination is triggered and I SEE a scene. That is how A LOT of my writing has come about. I remember thinking, when I was younger, I really must have a "gift." That's how it felt. Like something bestowed on you without even reaching for it. All I wanted then was to create vivid and compelling scenes. It wasn't work and I wasn't second-guessing myself and at the time, un-jaded as I was, I thought it would be easy and had no concept of failure. And the gift CAME to me. Easily. Because I was completely open to it. Now... maybe not so much. Because I got off my writing track for a while there. I lost faith in my ability, I got scared and I shunned my gift. But I didn't forget. (I can't tell you how many people I worked with, how many of my bosses, would tell me what a good writer I was and that was based on business letters and actor bios and thank you notes!) And the flashes never went away. Now they're becoming more frequent again. Like a bolt out of the blue, the scene I see when I hear a song reveals something about a character in a script I'm working on that I hadn't thought of before. Or it adds flesh to an idea that I've been thinking about. And it's like BINGO! That's it! And I am a very detailed, very descriptive writer. When I see things in my head, I see them just so. That's why I have ALWAYS figured I will have soundtrack consultation or approval worked into every deal when I sell a script. Which is not typical. The writer usually doesn't have control of much once they've signed over their baby. The soundtrack, if anything, falls under the jurisdiction of the director's vision and the work of a music supervisor. But I am determined because if I ever see on screen a scene I've written set to an entirely different song than what I imagined... Well, that would just ruin everything.
So the question you're thinking is: Why not aim to direct the things I write? My answer has always been: I don't want to. Mainly because a) I can't possibly conceive of all the elements that go into making a film and leading an entire crew and b) I know what a fucking headache it is to be a director. I didn't go to film school. I don't know all the technicalities or how to set up a shot. I'm good with still photographs, sure. Directing live action is something I've never desired to touch even with a 10-foot-pole.
BUT I have vision. And this morning, it suddenly became clear.
I was hiking in Runyan Canyon, as I normally do few mornings a week before work. It's my thinking time. And I couldn't do it without my iPod. Today as I passed this particular spot I've walked by so many times, with it's vista of L.A. framed by each side of the canyon... I had a flash of a scene. Then on my way back up, passing it again, while a certain song played on my iPod... the scene came together with a story set to this song. And that's when my Aha! moment happened....
I have a photographic eye. A sense of aesthetic style. Songs inspire my mind to produce stories, quite naturally. Wouldn't it be great to direct music videos some day?
I got that excited, tingly butterflies feeling in my stomach and thought... Okay, I'm really feelin' that idea. Why not start now?
SO. That'll be my next project. A spec music video. I have no idea how or when or how or where or how or who or fucking HOW to do it... But I WANT TO. And I WILL.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Salad Stealer
So, someone stole my salad out of the refrigerator in the kitchen at work last night... and I'm still annoyed about it. I'm territorial about my food. No, I did not grow up as the youngest of 5 siblings in a household where I had to fight for the last crust of bread. I was an only child with a single mother who would buy anything my stomach desired... but who, at any given moment, would feel compelled to finish off a 3/4 full container of ice cream or peanut butter or [insert anything you can eat with a spoon until scraping bottom] much to my foot-stamping disappointment when I would come home after school, anticipating a yummy snack only to find an empty spot where the ice cream/peanut butter/whatever used to be. This is probably also why I think the funniest line in the history of FRIENDS is when Ross said: "I grew up with Monica. If you didn't eat fast, you didn't eat!" For me, looking forward to eating something is almost better than actually eating it. I'm a bit of a hoarder. I have my vices (ie my own bottom-of-the-Nutella-jar-scraping tendency) but generally I'm the girl that can keep a stash of Kit Kats for weeks without touching them.
Back to the salad stealer. To be fair... the refrigerator here is a hotbed of abandoned food. It's eat or be eaten, so I should know better. But I never thought it'd be necessary to start writing my name on things! Let me start by telling you, the biggest perk of working in TV production is FREE FOOD. Our kitchen at work is so ridiculously overstocked that we could feed Sally Struther's entire village of starving Ethiopians and still have leftovers. Seriously, I'm not kidding. We have little elves (okay, Production Assistants) that go grocery shopping every week, buying anything and everything that is requested. Every shelf in every cupboard, upstairs and downstairs, overflows with a staggering variety of chips, crackers, nuts, cookies and candy... OH MY. Add to that the dependable B-L-D schedule and it's a bit overwhelming. Goes a bit like this...
Every morning, one little elf brings in a dozen bagels. For a while the bagels arrived with a platoon of flavored cream cheese spreads. It's gotten to the point now where we have an entire shelf in the refrigerator door devoted to the cream cheese. If you're not careful when opening it, you're assaulted with flying little tubs that splat at your feet and ooze herb & onion shmear all over. The bagels hang out all day, the poor unchosen left hoping that someone will wander in for a 4pm carb nosh. This never happens because... After breakfast - nay, DURING the consumption of breakfast - one of our little elves comes around with a lunch menu from that day's restaurant of choice. The choice is at the elves' discretion however there is often heated debate or a flat-out veto from one of my bosses that results in a new menu passed out. One day a week, a family spread is ordered from a short-list of approved restaurants and it's first come, first serve. By the way, I'm not even going to discuss trips to stage for rehearsal and run-thru. There's a whole other catered lunch for the crew and sometimes you're tempted to eat twice. Lunch usually is the high point of the day. Then shortly after lunch, there's a Coffee Bean run for the writers. And throughout the afternoon, multiple trips to peruse the upstairs and downstairs cupboards for a snack until it's time to go home. UNLESS the writers are having a slow day which turns into a slow night... Then we get to order dinner. That process is always a little more slap-dash than lunch, but still an elf, a restaurant menu and bags of excess food.
Well, yesterday we had a lunch spread from this Italian place. There is always so much left over that gets tossed, it's a real shame. And considering the salary I live on, I'm not above taking home food that would otherwise be wasted. Unfortunately, I'm never interested in the vat of spaghetti bolognese or chicken parm and there's never much of the healthier stuff left. This time though there was a good amount left of this salad I particularly like. I scooped most of it into a large Ziploc, stuck it in a drawer in the fridge intending to eat it for dinner. But when I stopped at the fridge on my way out, much to my annoyance, it was gone!
So, I was really pissed off. Like, more than I should have been. I mean, it's not like I paid for it. It didn't have my name on it. But it was IN A DRAWER. Which means someone foraged through the other options of less obviously hidden food and made it all the way to the Bottom Drawer and TOOK MY SALAD. I told myself, it's just lettuce. There are more salads in your future. Let it go. But oh... the letdown... I couldn't let go. Which is why I've clearly gone on way too long telling this story. But y'know what? Now I feel better.
Back to the salad stealer. To be fair... the refrigerator here is a hotbed of abandoned food. It's eat or be eaten, so I should know better. But I never thought it'd be necessary to start writing my name on things! Let me start by telling you, the biggest perk of working in TV production is FREE FOOD. Our kitchen at work is so ridiculously overstocked that we could feed Sally Struther's entire village of starving Ethiopians and still have leftovers. Seriously, I'm not kidding. We have little elves (okay, Production Assistants) that go grocery shopping every week, buying anything and everything that is requested. Every shelf in every cupboard, upstairs and downstairs, overflows with a staggering variety of chips, crackers, nuts, cookies and candy... OH MY. Add to that the dependable B-L-D schedule and it's a bit overwhelming. Goes a bit like this...
Every morning, one little elf brings in a dozen bagels. For a while the bagels arrived with a platoon of flavored cream cheese spreads. It's gotten to the point now where we have an entire shelf in the refrigerator door devoted to the cream cheese. If you're not careful when opening it, you're assaulted with flying little tubs that splat at your feet and ooze herb & onion shmear all over. The bagels hang out all day, the poor unchosen left hoping that someone will wander in for a 4pm carb nosh. This never happens because... After breakfast - nay, DURING the consumption of breakfast - one of our little elves comes around with a lunch menu from that day's restaurant of choice. The choice is at the elves' discretion however there is often heated debate or a flat-out veto from one of my bosses that results in a new menu passed out. One day a week, a family spread is ordered from a short-list of approved restaurants and it's first come, first serve. By the way, I'm not even going to discuss trips to stage for rehearsal and run-thru. There's a whole other catered lunch for the crew and sometimes you're tempted to eat twice. Lunch usually is the high point of the day. Then shortly after lunch, there's a Coffee Bean run for the writers. And throughout the afternoon, multiple trips to peruse the upstairs and downstairs cupboards for a snack until it's time to go home. UNLESS the writers are having a slow day which turns into a slow night... Then we get to order dinner. That process is always a little more slap-dash than lunch, but still an elf, a restaurant menu and bags of excess food.
Well, yesterday we had a lunch spread from this Italian place. There is always so much left over that gets tossed, it's a real shame. And considering the salary I live on, I'm not above taking home food that would otherwise be wasted. Unfortunately, I'm never interested in the vat of spaghetti bolognese or chicken parm and there's never much of the healthier stuff left. This time though there was a good amount left of this salad I particularly like. I scooped most of it into a large Ziploc, stuck it in a drawer in the fridge intending to eat it for dinner. But when I stopped at the fridge on my way out, much to my annoyance, it was gone!
So, I was really pissed off. Like, more than I should have been. I mean, it's not like I paid for it. It didn't have my name on it. But it was IN A DRAWER. Which means someone foraged through the other options of less obviously hidden food and made it all the way to the Bottom Drawer and TOOK MY SALAD. I told myself, it's just lettuce. There are more salads in your future. Let it go. But oh... the letdown... I couldn't let go. Which is why I've clearly gone on way too long telling this story. But y'know what? Now I feel better.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
LACMA - Addendum
And if all else fails, I may have a future in Blackberry photography... WITNESS:
The abstract "Urban Light" installation outside LACMA's BCAM, the new Contemporary Art building
(which, in passing on Wilshire Blvd, at first I though was a giant menorah that had yet to be taken down after the holidays...)
Pretty chuffed with myself on these photos, I must say. While I'm at it, 2 more (less impressive) selects from the day...
My favorite: "Selene and Endymion" by Ubaldo Gandolfi
Bohemia, 15th century articulated crown (you know what I was thinking when I saw this... "I want one...")
The abstract "Urban Light" installation outside LACMA's BCAM, the new Contemporary Art building
(which, in passing on Wilshire Blvd, at first I though was a giant menorah that had yet to be taken down after the holidays...)
Pretty chuffed with myself on these photos, I must say. While I'm at it, 2 more (less impressive) selects from the day...
My favorite: "Selene and Endymion" by Ubaldo Gandolfi
Bohemia, 15th century articulated crown (you know what I was thinking when I saw this... "I want one...")
I would've been a shit scientist...
For all my observations and declarations and hypothesizing would have gone unproven because clearly I cannot even maintain the simplest of self-imposed experiments - this daily writing journal. MY scientific method is lacking in follow through. Granted, it has been significantly busier at work in the last 1 1/2 weeks...
Between cold-calling the ridiculously rich Malibu home owners whom one of my bosses shares sand with in the summer (of the names Ovitz, Spielberg and the like) to collect their email addresses for a community website... AND being chosen as unofficial "Emmy submission coordinator" because - besides my given qualifications of working for the exec producer and being a clearly capable, agency-trained animatron - apparently certain other (also agency-trained) assistant(s) are too busy not knowing what the fuck is going on despite being 35 and, I repeat, AN ASSISTANT.
Ooh, that was a wee tangent there. Where was I? Oh yeah, my point... Between all that bullshit and my own procrastination habits and some hormonal shifts thanks to a new BC pill I'm taking... I haven't had the time for my mind to come fully round from boredom to actually being inspired to write. Not even a rambling entry such as this. I failed my own experiment! Perhaps there's still hope for me yet though...
As any good scientist knows, a single experiment does not a hypothesis prove. Or something like that. Basically, this last week was just Round 1. From which I deduced:
Self-discipline is a bitch, man!
And that is in clinical terms.
Now I move on to Round 2. Identify scheduled time each day when subject (me) must perform manual word processing (writing) in attempt to develop mindset of habitual creation.
So. 11am. Time enough to get in to office, make some tea and egg whites, enjoy a little social time, scan a couple daily emails and then GET TO IT. Facebook, be damned!
I will dominate... MYSELF!
Between cold-calling the ridiculously rich Malibu home owners whom one of my bosses shares sand with in the summer (of the names Ovitz, Spielberg and the like) to collect their email addresses for a community website... AND being chosen as unofficial "Emmy submission coordinator" because - besides my given qualifications of working for the exec producer and being a clearly capable, agency-trained animatron - apparently certain other (also agency-trained) assistant(s) are too busy not knowing what the fuck is going on despite being 35 and, I repeat, AN ASSISTANT.
Ooh, that was a wee tangent there. Where was I? Oh yeah, my point... Between all that bullshit and my own procrastination habits and some hormonal shifts thanks to a new BC pill I'm taking... I haven't had the time for my mind to come fully round from boredom to actually being inspired to write. Not even a rambling entry such as this. I failed my own experiment! Perhaps there's still hope for me yet though...
As any good scientist knows, a single experiment does not a hypothesis prove. Or something like that. Basically, this last week was just Round 1. From which I deduced:
Self-discipline is a bitch, man!
And that is in clinical terms.
Now I move on to Round 2. Identify scheduled time each day when subject (me) must perform manual word processing (writing) in attempt to develop mindset of habitual creation.
So. 11am. Time enough to get in to office, make some tea and egg whites, enjoy a little social time, scan a couple daily emails and then GET TO IT. Facebook, be damned!
I will dominate... MYSELF!
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