The Obligatory Post on Self-Doubt
I write this now so I can refer to it in the future. You know, because a time will come when I don’t feel this awesome.
Every author struggles with self-doubt.
Does this sentence work?
This might be the most terrible thing ever written.
Am I ever going to be published?
What if I don’t have any other ideas?
This has been done before!
I think the answers are:
Probably. Unlikely. Possibly. You will. Of course it has.
I’ve been working on a project (un)lovingly working-titled: “The Project I Hate“. Why do I hate it?
I feel like I’m selling out. Honestly, this idea sprang from my brain when I was trying to think of a more commercial project. I read it at workshop and I’ve gotten this comment (a direct quote):
“I think this is the best thing I’ve heard you read.”
Well, on one hand, thank you. Regardless of how “good” of a writer I am, there is always room for improvement. I would hope that every week would be the best thing I’ve ever written.
On the other hand, this is The Project I Hate. How can you like it when I hate it with such a fiery passion?
You know what blocks writers from writing? Themselves. By labeling it The Project I Hate, I sequestered it to a little space in my mind and started putting up sandbags around the thing.
Sorry to go all Cask of Amontillado on you.
I’ve complained about it to my writer friends and tried to shut my mouth when they glared condescension. I know! People love it! I hate it! I want it to die! Why can’t I crush it with my mind vice?
Last week, I found myself getting pensive. Every night, I had some sort of interaction with another human being. As an introvert, this was draining. And, when I’ve been in front of people too long without recharge time, I start to dig things up from the dregs of my brain. The pot gets stirred. I scrape bottom.
While I closed down the cafe Monday night, it was the first time I’d been alone in five days. I have been working my second job for three months, which is the job I walked away from a year ago. It sort of sucks to think you are in the same place you were a year before. No forward movement, no developments, no prospects. And, dammit, writing used to be fun! Why isn’t writing fun anymore?
Could it be because I’m actively sabotaging my work?
Thanks, brain. You asshat.
So, I put down The Project I Hate, just for twelve hours. I went to the coffee shop, took out a project I’ve been sitting on, 16 pages from completion (I know, another boneheaded abandonment), and I finished it. It was like a forgotten circuit board lighting up. I remembered. Writing is fun. I don’t do it because I have to, I do it because I love it.
Who cares if that sentence doesn’t work? You can fix it later, or delete it. Maybe it doesn’t go there.
Until you read everything that’s ever been written, you can’t know if yours is worse.
You’re never going to get published if you don’t finish something.
You have new ideas every day that you add to your brain stew. You will never run out of ideas.
Everything has been done before. You can form new connections, mix new metaphors, build new characters, and set new scenes. Everything may have been done before, but it’s new to you.
Oh, and The Project I Hate? It’s called The Elementalist and it is fantastic.
Everyone’s an Expert
I hate the word ‘expert’.
It didn’t always used to be this way. Now, everyone’s throwing around this term, and, like most overused words, it has lost it’s meaning.
These days, everyone’s an expert on something. Social media, writing, television. In fact, I do know some people who qualify to call themselves experts, but they are few and far between.
An expert is defined as a person who has special skill or knowledge in some particular field; specialist; authority.
Look at yourself. Do you really qualify as an expert? My dad studies WWII as a hobby. He knows more about the European theater than anyone I have ever met. He can identify tanks by their tread marks (okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration). The point is: if you asked him, he would deny any expertise. Here’s where we come to the weird thing about those who attain knowledge.
They (we?) realize that the more you learn, the less you know.
I work in social media. I read Mashable, Read Write Web, Web Pro News everyday. While I have learned a lot from these people, this knowledge does not make me an expert. Being the one writing for them might.
With something like social media, the field is constantly changing. Unless you are on top of it everyday, developing strategy and implementing it, you can’t rightfully call yourself an expert.
It’s hard to be an expert. This isn’t something that should be taken so lightly. The true experts of the world need to take back that word.
Better yet, invent a word that means the same thing that hasn’t been ruined.
Everyone’s a norpluck.
My So-called (Immortal) Life
I love vampires.
I mean, really.
I love high-holy asskickery. I love moral qualms. I love vicious sociopathic killers. I love those looking for redemption. My only criteria seems to be they have the potential for immortal life and feed off some aspect of humanity, be it blood, emotion, or culture.
So, I present to you a thought experiment.
What if you were a vampire?
Haha! Awesome! So cool! I would run really fast and make out with hot guys (girls) and drink so much blood you wouldn’t even believe…hold the phone. That’s not where I was going with this.
What if you were a vampire 300, 400, or 500 years old?
I think you would be bored. Insanely, mind-numbingly bored. Let’s say you were turned at the ripe old age of 26. You have eternal youth on your side, but you’re not a pimply teenager anymore. Face it, stalking and biting humans is not what it was. Maybe once upon a time (maybe, mind you), people had a healthy sense of self-preservation coupled with the fear of constant suspicion that kept them in the house after dark, or safe in herds during the day. That could mean there used to be a thrill to the hunt, but that would fade. Humans aren’t so hard to separate from the back, and, as time passes, we are less and less suspicious of paranormal occurrences.
As a vampire, you rarely see another of your kind. You are completely and utterly alone. Any connection you try to make is gone within several decades, so you would stop making those connections. What would you hold on to? Say you play the piano. You have forever to perfect your art. Would you procrastinate?
Think about human ingenuity in the last 500 years. How would you react to a vastly changing world? Flight, social reform…look at the Internet. MySpace was a blink of the eye. World War II would be “that thing with Germany…you know, the second time”.
Don’t believe me? Let me refer you to one of the most stunning vampire films of all time.
Groundhog Day.
Yep, Bill Murray is a freaking vampire. As long as he is stuck in Groundhog Day, he is immortal. Truly immortal. He tries to kill himself dozens of times. Maybe he doesn’t fit the “feeding off humanity” criteria, but he is sort of a menace to it.
Obsessed with Film writer Simon Gallagher did the math and put the final tally at 33 years and 358 days. Whether you agree or not, this is one of the most interesting psychological looks at immortality.
Not to mention it’s funny.
Now, imagine Groundhog Day for 500 years. Now, that’s a vampire.
Book Breakdown (and a free something!)
I’m going to do it! I’m going to give something away on my blog! It’s a copy of Texas Gothic by Rosemary Clement-Moore. Why? Because you should read it.
And, filing this in the “easier to ask forgiveness” category, it will be signed.
By the author.
Not by me.
Sound good? Okay, I think the best way for you to do this is either:
A.) Impress me.
B.) Submit a comment and I’ll draw it out of a hat.
C.) Cast names on the floor and see which one my cat chooses.
Probably B. Let’s go with option B. My cat’s not a very nice person.
Book Breakdown
(let you get something for nothing)
Texas Gothic
Everybody has that normal one in the family. You know the one. She sort of holds everything together when your crazy aunt is off making potions and magic organic household products, shampoos, soaps, and hand sanitizers, and your genius sister is popping fuses every time she tries to test her latest invention.
She’s the responsible one. The one who answers the phone every time; the one with the normal future that doesn’t involve getting swept up in mystery; the one who does it because she loves you no matter how weird things get in the nuthouse.
That’s Amy Goodnight. She’s ranch-sitting for her aunt (and baby-sitting her brilliant but intellectually distracted sister). Until construction on a bridge unearths a body and a ghost won’t leave Amy alone. She struggles maintain her aura of normalcy in front of the neighbor cowboy, Ben *cat-growl* as well as the Anthropology crew that shows up to take care of the body.
Make that “bodies”. As the body count grows higher, Amy’s might be the next one to be buried if she can’t get the whole ghost thing under control.
First Ten:
Goats.
Climbing trees.
There are goats climbing trees.
Leave a comment. How excited are you to get this book?
Things are about to get…
Things are about to get really boring. And, then, really interesting.
I’m moving.
Probably to Los Angeles. New York isn’t off the table, but it’s less likely. If I fail, it’s going to be in a blaze of glory, like a Katy Perry song or something.
I’m hoping there’s no Midnight Train to Georgia moment.
I’d been kicking around the idea for a bit. Last night, I got the marvelous advice from Shawn Scarber: “You’re broke here. Why not be broke in LA?”
Excellent point.
So, January, at the latest.
I’m not completely without guidance. This blog by Amanda Pendo is quite inspirational. Now, I live in that space that all procrastinating writers love: the Research Phase. Can you really trust anyone on Craigslist? In the land of beautiful people, will I stand out in mediocrity? Am I crazy? Will I ever see my family or friends again? (If you don’t hear from me, my phone plan’s probably been canceled.)
Doing some spec scripts right now. Modern Family and Warehouse 13. I’m flexing my network (hopefully, not to the breaking point). I’m looking for a writing assistant position, maybe a fellowship, maybe a production assistant, maybe a Starbucks employee.
Here’s your latte, Mr. Scorsese.
Watch the blog. Things might get interesting.
Cue Defying Gravity from Wicked.
Bad blogger! No cookie!
I haven’t blogged this week. I know. Bad writer. Back to your cave.
So, here’s the rundown. There comes a point in every person’s life when they make sweeping assumptions about the human race based on their personal experiences. And, this is one of those times.
I tend to look at my life as a game with specific objectives I’m attempting to achieve. I think this was a week of secondary objectives, which is sort of a terrible thing to say (you’ll see why in a moment).
I cultivated a social life this week.
My main objectives are…not going so well. This may have to do with the fact that I feel like I’ve been treading water. It’s terrible to consider a social life secondary, but hey, I never said I was perfect. I just insinuated…
This last weekend, I wrote a spec script for a television show. After sending it on its merry way (for your eyes only), I decided I wasn’t going to write anything until next Tuesday. Not one word. Except, quotes. And, this blog post, which is hardly coherent.
The demonic writer within me flipped me the bird and hunkered down in the back of my head. It’s been poking me more insistently as the time passes. Last night, it said, “Hey, you know that one scene? What if you do this? You better go jot it on a notecard or something because you’ll forget it by morning.”
Not gonna do it.
Characters are sort of bunching up in my head seeking escape. And that’s just fine.
What to do with all that time?
Reading. That’s a big one. Watching movies. I actually played a little bit of a video game. Played Solitaire for a long time on my iPad. You don’t really notice how long you’ve been playing Solitaire until it’s ten games later and you realize you haven’t blinked in an hour and a half.
But, here’s something cool. I saw friends. Like, real life actual people outside of the Internet box. We talked about stuff. Stuff that mattered. Stuff that didn’t. Stuff that might or might not ever be.
I complained a lot. I’m not making any headway on that main objective of moving out of parents’ house, you know, so I make a stink about it.
It was cool. Sort of nice to see what it’s like to not work all the time. Achievement unlocked.
I’ll be a bit more bloggy next week. Until then, I’m going to sit in the sun and finish reading The Automatic Detective by A. Lee Martinez.
Summer’s here. You should take some time to…you know. Whatever.
The Learning Curve
I have these lists.
And, they’re long.
One is Things I Learned in School. This list is finite. It’s not getting any longer, mainly because I’m not in school anymore. The non-academics are on there, too. Like how to become a cool kid (never actually learned that one, but it might be on your list).
Then, there’s Things I Didn’t Learn in School. This one’s infinite, and I discover more things on it every day.
I unfurled a different list this weekend: Things I Should Have Learned in School. Like, say, how to write a query letter. Or, how to get published. Or, how not to look like a crazy writer in front of a group of agents after you spent the last 12 hours in a caffeine-induced heightened state of awareness while pounding out 10,000 words.
Not that anything like that has ever happened to me…
So, what’s the problem? What’s the point?
I wouldn’t trade my education for anything. I took full advantage of the opportunities my school provided. However, one should never assume they are done learning. Every person in the world is a wealth of knowledge. Lately, I’ve felt like a brain slug, leeching off the intellect of people I know.
Is that a thing? Does it count as leeching if they give it to you freely?
On the flip side, do we gravitate towards each other? There must be a law in the Physics of Psychology (yeah, just made that up).
People with like interests and a passion to learn from each other attract. Whether by choice or how the world turns, it seems we all end up in the same place. iHop on Wednesday nights (wink).
So, here’s the lesson you can take away from today’s ramble:
If you want to be a writer, go to class. Go to conferences. Talk to other writers. Listen to what people have to say about the art. Read the blogs. And, keep writing the whole time. Knowing it all is overrated (and BS).
You can’t learn it all in school. You can never stop learning.
Throw it against the wall. See what sticks.
Bohemian Rhapsody just started on my stereo, so y’all know what I have to do.
Hardly Working
I may have…accidentally…on purpose…inadvertently…quit my job.
That was the teaser.
Now for something completely different.
My final semester of college, I flipped my academic advisor (and group of friends) the bird and moved to New York City. NO REGRETS! Jiminy Cricket, I love that city. I participated in an internship program. The Great Lakes Colleges Association purchased an old hostel on 29th Street and 8th Ave. (I could practically spit on Madison Square Garden). Out of all the artistes participating in the program, the coffee-fetchers, the case carriers, the note-takers, I had something amazing.
An internship at Sony Pictures Television.
I was in a three-person department which consisted of the Development VP and Producer for Mini-Series and Made for TV Movies, her assistant, and lil ol’ me.
And this was no coffee-fetching internship. I was picking writers for projects. I was determining which rights to acquire. Script coverage, contacting agents, sitting in on budget meetings, editing scripts…my God, I’m almost shedding tears thinking about it.
Once the writers’ strike was over, the VP was on set while her assistant and I held down the fort at the New York office. I was watching dailies, seeing costuming. I only went out for coffee once, and the assistant apologized at least four times for asking me to do it.
I was in love. There’s something about that city. It doesn’t work for everyone, but when it gets inside you, you feel it. It whispers in your ear. It tugs on your heart. It lifts you up high and reminds you of every low. It makes you forget everything outside of itself.
In retrospect, I did some stupid stuff in that city.
I walked around by myself at two-o-clock in the morning just to feel the pace still burning through the streets when the world should be sleeping. Okay, I didn’t go to Central Park at night. I have seen almost every episode of Law and Order: SVU. I’m stupid, but not suicidal.
And, when walking through NYC at two-o-clock in the morning, I knew what I want to do with my life.
I want to produce content. Not just books, not just TV shows, not just movies. I want to tell stories, no matter what form that takes. I want to take these fantastic images in my head and hand them to someone else and say, “Look. Without me, this would not exist. What do you think?”
I know. All mad gab existential.
But, more than that, I want to be someone people can associate with quality storytelling. I want my name to be attached to a TV show, and a group of people take over a bar on premiere night so they can make up a series drinking game. I want to share other people’s stories that I find brilliant.
I want to determine what gets added to the cultural genetic structure.
Sounds crazy, no?
It’s not about the money. It’s not even about the reputation. It’s about the story. It’s about the culture. It’s about striving for a higher standard, raising the expectation, and achieving something amazing.
This past weekend, I took a step back and looked at Day Job. I adopted a British accent, stuck my finger in its face, and screamed, “You’re not helping me achieve my bloody goals!”
I told my boss I think I needed to explore my options. Because I have to keep moving forward. Stagnancy is going to kill me.
Wish me luck, pray for me, keep me in your thoughts, whatever.
Because I might be broke forever, but, at the end of everything, at least I can say I tried my hardest.
And, that counts for something.
