the blood of a poet

A film is a petrified fountain of thought.

Style is a simple way of saying complicated things.

Art is science made clear.

Tact is knowing how far to go too far.

Everything one does in life, even love, occurs in an express train racing toward death. To smoke opium is to get out of the train while it is still moving. It is to concern oneself with something other than life or death. --cocteau

topanga tales

*** UPDATE: I GOT THE PLACE! moving in for a month or two. ***

ah, life. a series of panic-stricken bumbles staccattoed by deep
breathing and occasional crescendos of conviction. at least that's what it feels like as i rampage from one impressively orchestrated distraction to another, accented by supporting choir, all in an attempt to keep the symphony's volume at thought-drowning level.

*

this is a very fancy, alliteration-filled run-on sentence (my favorite bad habits in writing) way of saying i've been procrastinating and hearing the tsk-tsking buzz of silence beneath all the clamor anyway.

*

i need to run away. i'm waiting to hear from a magical doppleganger i stumbled upon in topanga, as to whether or not she will sublet her hobbit-hole on a hill to me for 2 months for dirt cheap. i'll know on sunday, and if it works out, i expect to finish hipster by the beginning of february; just in time for the scheduled call with my agent that i have put off until then.

*

this is the place. too good to be true. WISH ME LUCK!!!

from my book hipster

*
There is a place where dry, golden wheat crackles under the afternoon sun, and the muted fragrance of death, natural and sweet, abounds. A place where autumn soil is dry and caked but when you dig into it, with fingertips stubby from use, you find moisture, still, beneath the surface. Dark, rich and full of life.
When Joleen sucks the air in through her nostrils, so deep that she finds the space beneath the smog, she can freeze-frame this place, and keep it as hers, in the depths of an inner garden, where no one, not even It, with Its fears and doubts and trepidation, can tread.
It is not made for man with his trodding desires, it is a place solely bred for life-giving oxygen, and that is what she finds, that is what sustains her next step forward, when she breathes deep, deep, deep, puncturing the seams of sodden grey and into clean, clear white.

somehow, this whiny little gem had snuck around dark corners of the book shelf until last night, when i finished it for the first time.

if i could write one book like this one - a gritty, sympathetic, unashamed meander into a troubled mind - i could hang up my red hunting hat.

i had a previous, flippant impression that holden caulfield was merely an unjustified chip on an innocent world's shoulder; maybe that was before i'd begun to discover the cracks in my own once-shinier veneer.

good job, j.d.

getting it together

it's time to start focusing again. i burned myself out writing the pilot for strays, and have been over-indulging in pseudo-unnecessary chilltime. also, trying to get in a creative mode usually takes me all weekend after working in a corporate atmosphere, and then right when i feel those stirrings again, i come in on monday morning and have to brainstorm on things like how to make convenience store ampm's brand image more 'fun and irreverent' which throws me off all over again. i'm starting to question if i have the discipline necessary. but since depression is a side effect of unproductivity in my chosen passion, i have no choice but to get it together. this weekend's trip to lake arrowhead is my planned catalyst.

spinning in all directions

good news! big gap between posts means I've been busy on actual work instead of ruminating on it.

-agent is calling me back again and likes the new bofc chapters. he's submitting to new editors.

-worked like, 14 14 hr. days on strays and hit the deadline for class. almost done with the pilot; will email them the rest.

-hipster continues to run thru my veins like bad blood. must bleed it out. soon. agent likes but warns, no one buys novels.

-short stories popping out at random intervals. they're so dark and pathetic that the strength and honesty just may shine thru and i think that's the lightest way to be.

reality check

of course, there's the other side to all this wishy-swishing around through the warm bath water of lavender-scented indecision and frothy ideas.

they come in the form of texts from my friend at william morris who just went thru a writer's bootcamp for agents thing today, and is taking it out on me:

dude, there are too many writers with motivation making money. grow up or stop claiming ur a writer.

ouch, and then...

too harsh for u. i mean i'm bored of postive reinforcement.

ok! followed by...

i mean seriously? ull be procrastinating till ur 40.

i hope they told her to do this to writers or something. and...

the strays idea. how many years u had that stashed?

ok, fine. back to work.

post-materialism, the aesthete and style

my mind is stewing these days with angles, edges, concepts and philosophies all converging aromatically like a big goo-ball at a reggae festival. which austere bun-lady over there would definitely not approve of my sampling.

i'm not sure where it's all going to end up, but i'm treading off into some social commentary land in my new novel, hipster. it's fun, a little daunting, and ultimately, very entertaining to live with ideas jostling through your veins like childhood building blocks.

Helpful Research Tool

This is a great website for television screenwriters.

RIP - the author of 'The Infinite Jest'

never surprises me when writers do this.

here's something he wrote in college:

You are the sickness yourself.... You realize all this...when you look at the black hole and it's wearing your face. That's when the Bad Thing just absolutely eats you up, or rather when you just eat yourself up. When you kill yourself. All this business about people committing suicide when they're "severely depressed;" we say, "Holy cow, we must do something to stop them from killing themselves!" That's wrong. Because all these people have, you see, by this time already killed themselves, where it really counts.... When they "commit suicide," they're just being orderly.

one-month strategic plan

focusing is SO DAMN HARD. i spend more time coming up with new ideas and researching old ones, than actually working.

i need to make a rock-solid plan and then stick to it. darn, does that mean i have to right now? ok, here goes.

to do:

-rewrite bride of christ opening chapter. i'm told it needs to be 'more visual, more shocking.' bleh. the hardest thing is, i'm still struggling with the voice. do i want to be objective and narrative, or can i employ my snarky, holden caulfield voice at times too? then they'll tell me, 'less abrasive. we want to like the character more.' double bleh.
-plot out a STRAYS season, then write the pilot. SO MUCH WORK!!

-brainstorm a plot idea, then write a sample 'mad men' episode. that's how to break in, i always hear. copy an existing show to show your skills before you try to sell a new idea as a no-namer. plus, i've watched 17 or so episodes in the last few weeks. now's the time.

-write some short stories from my vast reprotire of undone ideas. submit them.

so. it's friday, August 29. i have a 3 day weekend. plan out a mad men story by tuesday morning; review the episodes and take notes on names and specific dialogue. research some early '60's demos. ooh! i have an idea! research when the feminist movement started; maybe draker's stay at home wife could have a run-in with some outspoken women and start to think outside the box! i like this!

ok. so start writing the episode two hours every night; have it done by october 1st. meanwhile, get up at 8am every day, and submit 2 short stories for publication by october 1st. and work on bride of christ two hours every day, after work; send three great chapters to my agent by mid-september.

whew! i need a cigarette break and, oh i know, this calls for...a random old typwriter posting!!

hint, hint to the universe

this is my book wishlist right now.
i just ordered
no one belongs here more than you by miranda july. she lives in LA and her best friend is in my writing class. i wish i could be miranda's friend, too. she's out of control awesome.

UPDATE: 10/16

I ended up thumbing thru Dear Diary at the American Apparel warehouse downtown (long story) and it's pretty much lame, so never mind.

Also, I have jealousy issues with the author, who is my age, and just happened to have held on to her teenage years diary. Damn my parents and their irresponsible foreclosure while I lived on the other side of the country and couldn't save all my childhood stuff from being tossed in a dumpster, thereby prohibiting me from seamlessly squeezing my lemons into profitable lemonade, dammit!

Starting to write Short Stories

i never got that genre .... all i can think in terms of are grand, swooping ideas that will take years to do and, suicide and psychosis narrowly avoided, win me a pulitzer at 50.

since i'm sick of waiting around for all that fun, i've decided to take the million or so crazy, weird stories already floating around in my head and compile a short story collection.

for inspiration i just amazoned elizabeth gilbert's (eat, pray, love) first book, Pilgrims. google says: A superior collection of stories about women who are as tough as they look, though perhaps not quite as tough as they think they are.

exactly where i'm coming from, and since i've had a lot of people randomly tell me that eat, pray, love makes them think of my writing, seems like a great author to observe. so far, the stories kick ass, and i already have a list of about 10 stories i want to write.

i can't wait to assault my agent with more unsold, dubious ideas.

STRAYS

spent the weekend revamping a tv show i started creating last fall. can't BELIEVE it's almost been a year since i went back to it.
really loving living each moment fully these days. time flies, cliche, cliche, cliche, bla, bla, but it's SO true.

so STRAYS is a tv show about 4 young artists and their struggle to make it in LA. they're girls - an actress, writer, musician and costume designer who are best friends, and you guessed it, they live in venice beach! in two adjoining beach bungalows.
think entourage (without the success) meets sex and the city (younger, hotter, literally hungrier) meets californication (but better writing i hope) meets friends and seinfeld (without the comedy focus) meets (and here's where the dreams get big) sopranos, six feet under, and mad men (writing quality ;)

i've learned so much about dialogue and character development in the last year, through trial and error and observation, and i think this could be good.

my roommate works at william morris and wants to pitch it around.

it's so fun working on this, because every single moment is pretty much inspiration.

intro to the memoir

Dearest Author of Certain Renown:Sorry I've taken so long in getting back to you. I've read it; it's good, very good. Right on the money. You've nailed the narrative style for this sort of writing.My delay is that I'm taking the liberty of editing it a bit. As an editor I'm slow, very slow.Back to you soon,Peter

my mom's boyfriend Peter, an unemployed architect and yale graduate with time on his hands and literature in his soul, has offered to look at my latest 2 sample chapters for BRIDE OF CHRIST.

it's so good to have some help. i really respect his opinion.

a little background: Bride of Christ is my memoir. Although I've completed the original manuscript, the sample chapters provided to editors thru my agent have gone thru 4 edits. This fourth, i feel, is the one. I think I'm finally getting what they want across without compromising my integrity or losing my voice.

enjoy the cheesy yet perceivedly desirable sensationalist cover i made once upon a time.

i'm here to write

I may not be very good at it, the publishers might want endless variations on something i invariably and belatedly realize was hopelessly wanting, but it is a saving grace, this writing, my soul's silver tongue that seeks solid ground after so much tossing in this flawed vessel.

two pieces of good news, soul. there's dramamine and the writing can only get better with time.

in this rampant, loveless city of perpetually youthful angels, the latter's reality is a rarity.

i'm working on a novel, a memoir, a script, and want to write more short stories. i also intend to regularly procrastinate by posting pictures of writerly things like this old typewriter advertisement.

and so the journey from optimistic novice to whiskey-drinking pessimist continues. may as well try and get published on the way.