Many of my ambitions and values have evolved or been dropped over the years. I guess that's normal. These are the things I have always wanted to do before I die, the constants:
1. Write down all my thoughts, questions, and stories, and maybe get paid for some of them
2. Live in many different cities and countries and continents
3. Paint
4. Make an album of original songs - ideally in a band
5. Go to the moon
25 November 2009
02 November 2009
Staring down November
Fun Halloween, first one I've been able to do in NYC (food poisoning last year, from a tomato fucking soup...haven't been back to that place since).
Why is everyone making such a fuss about the VA and NJ gov races? It's not even the end of '09, and all everyone can talk about is the midterms. The window of actual governance seems to get continually smaller (not for the Pres, of course. Ballsy taking on health care first like he has. If it had fallen apart, goodbye first term).
Come Thursday, two of my best friends on Planet Earth are in town, and it's a swanky dinner, followed by Ricky Gervais at Carnegie Hall, followed by the Russian Tea Room. Then as consequence, for the rest of the weekend we'll buy cases of PBR from the liquor store and eat nothing but Ramen noodles.
Have today and tomorrow completely free for writing, feels like the first time in a while. Going to finish the screenplay today, and then it's some polishing work on everything. And then... And then... I enter the belly of the beast...
Why is everyone making such a fuss about the VA and NJ gov races? It's not even the end of '09, and all everyone can talk about is the midterms. The window of actual governance seems to get continually smaller (not for the Pres, of course. Ballsy taking on health care first like he has. If it had fallen apart, goodbye first term).
Come Thursday, two of my best friends on Planet Earth are in town, and it's a swanky dinner, followed by Ricky Gervais at Carnegie Hall, followed by the Russian Tea Room. Then as consequence, for the rest of the weekend we'll buy cases of PBR from the liquor store and eat nothing but Ramen noodles.
Have today and tomorrow completely free for writing, feels like the first time in a while. Going to finish the screenplay today, and then it's some polishing work on everything. And then... And then... I enter the belly of the beast...
30 October 2009
The Original
It becomes harder and harder as I approach my mid-twenties to come up with thoughts that I consider original.
When I started writing, I thought that everything I was putting to paper was fresh - ideas, and dialogue, and thematic journeys that no one had ever before conceived - and of course that's nonsense. I suppose it's the blindness of youth, and what I'm starting to wonder is if I'm coming out of this phase only to overdo it on the other end. Everything I'm coming up with lately, while it excites me and feels new, passes through a mental filter that says "It's all been done. What else ya got?"
Thankfully, it's not something that blocks me up. I still manage to churn out pages. I think I'm more curious about it than anything, and I think that's partly because it's an internal conflict, and could be - if I tapped into it the right way - a very honest well of thought. A writer who is clearly in struggle with his subject or protagonist has always been interesting to me, especially in the different ways it manages to work itself into the writing.
A struggle for originality, to mean something unique to this world, I guess that is one of the chief inherent conflicts of human existence. And it's frustrating to think that the best way to achieve it at this young (but more aware) point in my life might be to surrender myself to my lack of originality and see what comes of it, because I'm learning it's not something you can force.
When I started writing, I thought that everything I was putting to paper was fresh - ideas, and dialogue, and thematic journeys that no one had ever before conceived - and of course that's nonsense. I suppose it's the blindness of youth, and what I'm starting to wonder is if I'm coming out of this phase only to overdo it on the other end. Everything I'm coming up with lately, while it excites me and feels new, passes through a mental filter that says "It's all been done. What else ya got?"
Thankfully, it's not something that blocks me up. I still manage to churn out pages. I think I'm more curious about it than anything, and I think that's partly because it's an internal conflict, and could be - if I tapped into it the right way - a very honest well of thought. A writer who is clearly in struggle with his subject or protagonist has always been interesting to me, especially in the different ways it manages to work itself into the writing.
A struggle for originality, to mean something unique to this world, I guess that is one of the chief inherent conflicts of human existence. And it's frustrating to think that the best way to achieve it at this young (but more aware) point in my life might be to surrender myself to my lack of originality and see what comes of it, because I'm learning it's not something you can force.
28 September 2009
Trips and scripts
An upcoming cruise with the London gang, paired with a week-long excursion to visit my uncle in Abu Dhabi next spring, have given me a sense of urgency in finishing the projects in front of me.
I have written two versions of the same play in very different ways. I like the second one better, but I feel so overly-saturated with the characters and story that I just can't tell anymore if I like any of it. We'll do a reading of it in January and I think I've just got to throw my hands up and see what happens from there. I'm ready to put it down like Lassie if need be (and damned if it might).
Much more positively, I'm halfway through the HEIST screenplay, which is going swimmingly. I have a firm deadline for that: first draft before the cruise, and a solid second draft by Nov. 5, when Eric and Taylor come out for a weekend. I can't wait to see what they think, as the three of us came up with the premise about a year ago.
Mentally, most all my time is spent on the Story Machine project. I'm pouring all this (often annoying) existential energy into it, which I suppose is much more productive that waxing philosophic to nearby friends (which, make no mistake, I have done aplenty, to what must be a tiring effect). I can't help it. All I think about all day long is the universe and death. I have no original thoughts on these subjects, and I'm resigned to calling it a passing phase of youth. But one that, it seems, I have to see through to its end, much as I'd like to hurry it along. In the meantime, I'm finding a whole new appreciation for Woody Allen. (Wait - maybe it doesn't ever go away?)
There are grave, grave conclusions one reaches if he sees no reason to believe in an afterlife. I suppose on paper I could have guessed this, but it's hard to predict how you're going to react. I mean no disrespect in saying so, but I think this is why most people prefer not to think about it, drowning out instead the sounds of doubt with the louder voices of hymns.
I have written two versions of the same play in very different ways. I like the second one better, but I feel so overly-saturated with the characters and story that I just can't tell anymore if I like any of it. We'll do a reading of it in January and I think I've just got to throw my hands up and see what happens from there. I'm ready to put it down like Lassie if need be (and damned if it might).
Much more positively, I'm halfway through the HEIST screenplay, which is going swimmingly. I have a firm deadline for that: first draft before the cruise, and a solid second draft by Nov. 5, when Eric and Taylor come out for a weekend. I can't wait to see what they think, as the three of us came up with the premise about a year ago.
Mentally, most all my time is spent on the Story Machine project. I'm pouring all this (often annoying) existential energy into it, which I suppose is much more productive that waxing philosophic to nearby friends (which, make no mistake, I have done aplenty, to what must be a tiring effect). I can't help it. All I think about all day long is the universe and death. I have no original thoughts on these subjects, and I'm resigned to calling it a passing phase of youth. But one that, it seems, I have to see through to its end, much as I'd like to hurry it along. In the meantime, I'm finding a whole new appreciation for Woody Allen. (Wait - maybe it doesn't ever go away?)
There are grave, grave conclusions one reaches if he sees no reason to believe in an afterlife. I suppose on paper I could have guessed this, but it's hard to predict how you're going to react. I mean no disrespect in saying so, but I think this is why most people prefer not to think about it, drowning out instead the sounds of doubt with the louder voices of hymns.
22 September 2009
Meditation #4 - Bigger Picture
Returning to the grander scope, the question of the play is "What is the true nature of human storytelling? Is it mathematical or spiritual? Or - more interestingly, and synthesistically - is it both?" Not a little of each, but a fusion. Does the formula of story, which we know has a scientific component (structure, character arc, hero's journey) also have a truly creative component that stems from human consciousness? And the rub: based on where science is headed, are these two really very different? Can the science of the artistic instinct - not just from an evolutionary standpoint, but ethereally chemical - be conjoined with the science of structure?
What if - ultimately - these two become one to form "story"? You start with them as separate pieces of the play: the Mechanical, and the Organic. The Mechanical is the story generating software that our protagonist is brought in to help create. She takes us on a journey delving into the body of story, driving deep until we reach the skeletal structure that holds all plots, characters, and themes together. The foundation upon which every story is built, using the same building blocks (story DNA, we might call it).
The Organic is our play itself: our protagonist's journey in our story. We follow her through an emotional journey that feels spontaneous, original, and true. It is the intangible part of storytelling that, when employed effectively, makes the whole thing feel alive.
By the end of Act One, we have completely extricated the Mechanical from story and placed it in a literal box. When Act Two begins, this technology is in wide use, updated daily with world news, scientific advancement, cultural trends, evolving memes. It churns out much of the world's "artistic" content: television shows, films, novels. The same idea has even been incorporated into fine art, leading to computer-generated imagery of all mediums: oils, sculptures, abstract expressionism (this technology already exists, by the way). Writers are largely out of work, confined to small-time theatres and arthouse cinemas. They have become largely unnecessary, as it has been proven effectively that by and large general audiences cannot tell the difference between a human script and a generated script.
However, this has subtly changed the course of artistic evolution. While new artistic trends still catch on and filter down through the scripts being churned out, something is different (a variable as yet unknown to me). Does our protagonist notice the difference? Is it a feeling of emptiness in these works? Like a world of sitcoms? We watch them, yes, like robots recharging our batteries, but maybe the difference is that they no longer have the power to affect us? Maybe Act Two takes place several thousand years later, and because of this technology, our genetics no longer require the massive brain power necessary to create? What would that make us? What are we when we are no longer needed as creators?
The drama in Act Two then is the fusion of these two parts: the Mechanical and the Organic. Our protagonist does it with one simple action: she sits down at her computer, and enters in all the imputs in the software that make up her life. She puts in the extensive variables and tells the machine to print out her own autobiographical drama. She becomes aware of the play she is in, the script of her life. She sees the structural underpinnings: she is the hero, facing obstacles on an emotional journey, headed towards an inevitable climax. The Mechanicl and Organic have merged, and as she reads the pages coming out of the printer, life around her occurs accordingly. The script is prophetic. She is waking up to the consciousness of her own life story just as she nears the end of her character arc, which from our vantage point in the audience we have seen coming. Now she sees it as well.
And then somehow it ends.
What if - ultimately - these two become one to form "story"? You start with them as separate pieces of the play: the Mechanical, and the Organic. The Mechanical is the story generating software that our protagonist is brought in to help create. She takes us on a journey delving into the body of story, driving deep until we reach the skeletal structure that holds all plots, characters, and themes together. The foundation upon which every story is built, using the same building blocks (story DNA, we might call it).
The Organic is our play itself: our protagonist's journey in our story. We follow her through an emotional journey that feels spontaneous, original, and true. It is the intangible part of storytelling that, when employed effectively, makes the whole thing feel alive.
By the end of Act One, we have completely extricated the Mechanical from story and placed it in a literal box. When Act Two begins, this technology is in wide use, updated daily with world news, scientific advancement, cultural trends, evolving memes. It churns out much of the world's "artistic" content: television shows, films, novels. The same idea has even been incorporated into fine art, leading to computer-generated imagery of all mediums: oils, sculptures, abstract expressionism (this technology already exists, by the way). Writers are largely out of work, confined to small-time theatres and arthouse cinemas. They have become largely unnecessary, as it has been proven effectively that by and large general audiences cannot tell the difference between a human script and a generated script.
However, this has subtly changed the course of artistic evolution. While new artistic trends still catch on and filter down through the scripts being churned out, something is different (a variable as yet unknown to me). Does our protagonist notice the difference? Is it a feeling of emptiness in these works? Like a world of sitcoms? We watch them, yes, like robots recharging our batteries, but maybe the difference is that they no longer have the power to affect us? Maybe Act Two takes place several thousand years later, and because of this technology, our genetics no longer require the massive brain power necessary to create? What would that make us? What are we when we are no longer needed as creators?
The drama in Act Two then is the fusion of these two parts: the Mechanical and the Organic. Our protagonist does it with one simple action: she sits down at her computer, and enters in all the imputs in the software that make up her life. She puts in the extensive variables and tells the machine to print out her own autobiographical drama. She becomes aware of the play she is in, the script of her life. She sees the structural underpinnings: she is the hero, facing obstacles on an emotional journey, headed towards an inevitable climax. The Mechanicl and Organic have merged, and as she reads the pages coming out of the printer, life around her occurs accordingly. The script is prophetic. She is waking up to the consciousness of her own life story just as she nears the end of her character arc, which from our vantage point in the audience we have seen coming. Now she sees it as well.
And then somehow it ends.
21 September 2009
The Plan.doc
Never one for meeting aspirations, I found myself surprisingly determined this morning to make a Word document that I called "The Plan". I abhor plans, goals, to-do lists, agendas, and calendars, because these sorts of things mean you have to follow through on intentions. I am not good at this.
My intentions change. My ambitions change. Sometimes I want to be a lucrative screenwriter, other days I want to be a pauper playwright. Talent aside, I'm talking about goals. I'm talking about what-I-want, in a world where I'm able to get everything I want. If the genie appears out of the bottle, what is my wish? Enough to get by, writing the kinds of things I want? Making a name for myself? Having enough money to travel wherever I want, spend all my time reading, and watching shows and films, and eating amazing food, and drinking nothing but top-shelf, and having a personal accountant and maid and chef and chauffeur?
All the time, my dreams change. So it's impossible - or quickly erstwhile - to think of "plan". The only consistent dream I've ever had is to be in a position to make a living by writing. Vague, but it's all I've got.
So "The Plan.doc" is created and saved, but will it be consistently followed? Will it be followed at all? I've spent a year in NYC, and the theme of year one was undoubtedly "evolution". My whole world and philosophy have shifted dramatically, cataclysmically, and its shaken the image in my head of the catalogue I want to create in my lifetime. I don't recognize it anymore, I can only make out a few bits of it, really. My thoughts have obsessed over how little time one has in a life to look over the history of humanity, determine what he thinks it might be about (or not), and use what time he has left to act on these conclusions.
Annoyingly existential, and whiny, and not a very good excuse for not having a plan until this morning. But honest.
"The Plan.doc" is a forced blueprint. Provided it is worth having ambition, and worth seeking out the things you want, this is the guide I have laid out. It's what I'm going to do in Year Two, no looking back. Because I'm starting to think that sometimes you have to pretend to think something is important to get by in life.
My intentions change. My ambitions change. Sometimes I want to be a lucrative screenwriter, other days I want to be a pauper playwright. Talent aside, I'm talking about goals. I'm talking about what-I-want, in a world where I'm able to get everything I want. If the genie appears out of the bottle, what is my wish? Enough to get by, writing the kinds of things I want? Making a name for myself? Having enough money to travel wherever I want, spend all my time reading, and watching shows and films, and eating amazing food, and drinking nothing but top-shelf, and having a personal accountant and maid and chef and chauffeur?
All the time, my dreams change. So it's impossible - or quickly erstwhile - to think of "plan". The only consistent dream I've ever had is to be in a position to make a living by writing. Vague, but it's all I've got.
So "The Plan.doc" is created and saved, but will it be consistently followed? Will it be followed at all? I've spent a year in NYC, and the theme of year one was undoubtedly "evolution". My whole world and philosophy have shifted dramatically, cataclysmically, and its shaken the image in my head of the catalogue I want to create in my lifetime. I don't recognize it anymore, I can only make out a few bits of it, really. My thoughts have obsessed over how little time one has in a life to look over the history of humanity, determine what he thinks it might be about (or not), and use what time he has left to act on these conclusions.
Annoyingly existential, and whiny, and not a very good excuse for not having a plan until this morning. But honest.
"The Plan.doc" is a forced blueprint. Provided it is worth having ambition, and worth seeking out the things you want, this is the guide I have laid out. It's what I'm going to do in Year Two, no looking back. Because I'm starting to think that sometimes you have to pretend to think something is important to get by in life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
