Creatively, I haven’t had a lot going on this past year. Not since my feature film production went on hiatus in early May of 2013. With a stalled film production and some burned bridges, debt I hadn’t anticipated and lost friendships that it turns out were probably not real to begin with, I had taken to writing articles for various web publications that revolve around film, mainly as a means of distraction, to avoid dwelling on some of these things – my favorite articles are about classic films and the future of film as an art, business and creative outlet. As a result of these contributions, I’ve found that more and more I’m getting back into writing, in that, it excites me again. Not screenplay writing (which I do all the time and don’t really consider it “writing”), but narrative, poetry and experimental work. The kind of writing that requires the writer to command the language, at least at some elevated level above basic grammar and formatting. I have noticed that my approach has changed and I refuse to write about anything that doesn’t interest me. I had started out with news, boring factual regurgitations that offer no original thought to the cesspool of media we’re all swimming in. I might’ve thrown about an opinion here or there in a half-ass attempt to make it mine but none of that news was truly mine because I didn’t really care about any of it. A journalist absolutely, whole-heartily needs to care about the stories they’re covering, otherwise they have no right to. As the months of the past year carried on, I found myself refusing assignments that didn’t offer a creative outlet or at the very least, some mechanism to express my own ideas or concerns. Instead, I took up offers to write OP-ED’s and articles about films that I think have some level of value in our society. This has lead to some of my favorite pieces and those works have lead me to write works for me and only me. Works that aren’t assigned or requested, but created because I felt I needed to express myself or tell a story or experience, to vent and not let certain things rest. Let sleeping dogs lie? Hell no! Through this I feel I am finding my voice, little by little, not just how I write is improving, but what I write about is much more relevant to me than it ever had been before. This is exciting!
I had a completed YA novel a couple years ago that I shelved because I wasn’t satisfied with the prose and the lack of detail in some of the chapters. Some of the characters felt empty and I feared I’d be accused of undermining the intelligence of the young reader the book is geared towards. This has changed and I’m now in the process of editing the book, adding in all the elements it was missing and improving upon the prose with the secure knowledge that my reader is pretty fucking smart. The editing process is nowhere near completed, but the work has improved a great deal and I can finally sleep now that it’s moving forward. Additionally, I have the bones worked up for another novel – a little more personal and grown up themed. I took the script for Objects, a film I tried to fund over the summer, and have been re-working it as an “experimental narrative” – but really it’s a novel with a touch of “I don’t give a shit if you like it, I need to write it!” Looking at it in its current form, I think it works better as a literary narrative. It would have been fine as a film, but the novel form gives it some sort of incalculable value and allows me to be free with my settings and scenarios without the restriction of a crowd funded budget. Lastly, I have taken to requiring that I write at least one poem and one short narrative per week. The narrative is usually a short story or a memoir of some kind. Whether fiction or not, it’s got a beginning, middle and end. I usually turn these out on Tuesdays, and this morning I blew through both projects in under an hour, in addition to adding a chapter to the new novel. As I work through this unnatural debt and fight off the banshees and negativity of those who consider me their slave, writing keeps me alive, keeps me free and allows for the possibility of a future where I’m not dependent on film as a creative outlet. I love film, but I despise the industrialization of it. The culture of it. It’s all incredibly off-putting. Writing, is of course, mine and mine alone. What comes of it is my responsibility, my doing and it’s either good or bad because of me, not others. Most importantly, I do it for the right reasons. The execution of the work isn’t commensurate to the capacity of a paycheck ‘nor dependent on those whos dedications are. All I require when I’m doing it, like any other creative outlet, is that it makes me happy.