wilderworks

My most recently completed feature-length screenplay, A Darkling Plane , has been chosen as a Quarter-finalist in the first round of contests it was submitted to. In particular, the American Screenwriting Competition, sponsored by Hollywood Scriptwriter Magazine and Flat Shoe Entertainment. It represents the top 5% of those screenplays submitted. Now, this is very early indeed, and the likelihood that it will progress is very slim, particularly since this was the original draft. However, it is rare that Quarterifinalists are "published," even online, and because it has been published, online, it makes for an excellent addition to my resume, joining Intelligence, Blaring Static, and Occult Blood amongst those scripts of mine that have received some recognition. Wish me luck, and here's the website. American Screenwriting Competition Quarter-finalists.

Should you live your whole life, even twice, and do nothing else, you need never hear the same song twice, you need never read the same sentence again, nor view the same picture or painting for more than a moment, and neither film nor play nor episode nor even joke need ever be repeated to you: for you will not run out. Life is so very full.

I wrote an e-mail to inquire about the progress of the selection process on my LA internship. I received the following response: I apologize for not getting back to you. The process has indeed been delayed. Everything is up in the air. As of right now, I'm not sure when we will have our new intern start. It might not be until after the Holiday. I will keep you updated. Thank you for your interest and persistence. Jennifer Graff Niad Management 3465 Coy Drive Sherman Oaks, CA 91423 So, I'm taking visitors until January. I probably won't be sleeping much until then, so it's the perfect chance to bid Wilder good-bye, before he heads to Los Angeles in January, as the plan had always been.

My month away has come to a close. The sad part is, it was freezing out west. Blistering, wind-burning cold. On my drive across the Mojave mountain pass, between Vegas and LA, I was trapped in snow. I-15 was closed off, with me on it, first at Primm, at the state line, and later at Barstow. A four hour drive became 18 hours, stranded in a snow-covered desert. Quite an experience, but I made it to the interview on time. Now, I'm in an oddly unpleasant place between boredom and anxiety. I don't know whether to pull for or wish against the internship off Mulholand drive, where the girl wore a Grover tee-shirt. Winning it would mean a long-awaited step toward a career, a step away from Christmas decorations, skin biopsies, and patient charts, but it would also mean a sudden and too-expensive relocation to Los Angeles. As in - Thursday. Losing the internship would mean incredible disappointment and self-doubt, and a future without any direction, and still, an expensiv

Outside my window, a few blocks away, they just imploded the second section of the old Desert Inn. Feels good. It's been such a fucking frustrating day, and I've been stuck in this room, where I can't throw or break a thing. Let the buildings collapse. Until next time, keeping the anger alive, and having my eyes opened in Vegas,

My mall decorating on the east coast is done. Every bone aches after two weeks of non-stop, all-night work. I'm cut and bruised. And buff, of course. My feet, objects of pain on even a normal day, have gone well beyond their customary donation of discomfort. My steps are like dragging bare bones, wrapped in raw nerves, like wreaths wrapped in twinkle lights, across rough concrete. This is no common interior decoration job. This is heavy construction. Fifty foot cranes. Twenty foot scissor lifts. Scaffolding and power tools. Ornaments of welded steel and chicken wire, big enough to stand in, heavy enough to crush you, hung from aircraft cable and chain. The scale and expense of these decorations is mind-blowing. A crew of twenty works night after night to make hallways blink with lights, to build elaborate sets for elves and Santa pictures. The money. The time. The effort. The human experience. All for a massive project that will be laboriously dismantled, pack

Within spitting distance of the Pentagon... Each side of this wreath weighed 350 pounds...

Pulling out before visitors can arrive, and getting cancellations every day... Welcome to North Jersey! A stripper could dance inside these ornaments, without movement impeded. Of course, the chicken wire would cut the stripper to pieces, and the frequently electrified steel cross-beams would probably knock the stripper unconscious. Trust me. This tree is 60ft tall. More to come!

The heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country...

Today may be the last day of my present form of monotony, though I may exchange it for a worse one. Tomorrow, I will head off to join the seasonal staff of Center Court Displays, a little company that owns and installs Christmas decorations for malls and casinos. I will bebop around. During the days, I'll be staying in hotels they've provided, eating on their meal passes. Through the nights, I'll be hanging enormous Christmas decorations. Nocturnal Christmas installations for one month. My schedule looks like this: Monday, November 1st - Friday, November 5th: Park City Mall, Lancaster PA. Saturday, November 6th - Wednesday, November 10th: Jersey Gardens Mall, Elizabeth NJ. Thursday, November 11th - Sunday, November 14th: Landmark Mall, Alexandria, VA. Monday, November 15th: Travel to Las Vegas. Tuesday, November 16th - Wednesday, December 1st Ceasar's Casino and Forum Shops, Las Vegas, NV Thursday, December 2nd Travel Home. Somewhere in there, I

I'm having a very hard time finding motivation. I'm having a very easy time finding resistance. I'm repulsed almost by the act of writing. Looking forward to a month of hanging Christmas decorations, without a project to return to at the end of the day, or an idea to consume the hours during it, is not appealing at all. Since, of late, the things I've been successful in writing have all been for production, I can only imagine that my reluctance still rests in my desire for interaction. Even now, two years later, it appears that Darwin's Kids has spoiled me. Before it, I had no problem losing myself in a project, even with only one interested party, even if that party was only me. Now, without feedback, without people waiting for the next draft, without dreaming about and debating over the production, I can't get through the surface. My thoughts drift. My will is weak. I've never felt in such a haze; I don't feel engaged. My old dependable

I am feeling wretchedly untalented this evening. In response to a bunch of screenplay synopses that I sent to a producer, who requested said synopses, I received the following message: "It's hard to tell, based on your synopses, whether I would like to read the scripts or not. They could all go either way, be fascinating and brilliant, or somewhat bromidic. That can be a good thing, you make me curious, but people with little time, might put you back on the stack." For those who aren't certain, here's what I think that means: bromidic adj 1: dull and tiresome but with pretensions of significance or originality; [syn: corny, platitudinal, platitudinous] To make myself feel less like a complete jerk, I did what I often do: I made a list of things I have accomplished. My list looked like this: This is a very pretentious and, ultimately, silly list. I decided I had better start anew. So I've been working on a new short script. This is what I

Here is a souvenir from my little tiny road-trip up the east coast, through North Hampton and Amherst, through Boston and Salem, to a little Sheraton shaped like a castle, up in a town called Braintree.

My first day attempting a strict new routine - one with coffee, and exercise, and writing - has been barely half successful. I vastly overslept, then immediately lost focus when I received an e-mail informing me that my new $600.00 miniDV camcorder would be rush-delivered to my apartment in Harlem. Where I don’t live. Of course, I didn’t order the camcorder, so no problem. Except the identity theft. Hours were spent on the phone, canceling the order, reporting the card in my hand “stolen.” All I can say is - FUCK THE POST OFFICE. They’ve managed to forward 1 out of every 35 pieces of my mail - at best. This has already cost me late fees and lost me replies from contests and producers. Now, it’s put my credit card bills in the hands of some creep that’s moved into my former residence, who’s ordering camcorders and merchandise from jessicalondon.com. FUCK THAT CREEP. AND FUCK THE POST OFFICE. Most of all, fuck NEW YORK CITY. Just cause. May that dank, crowded tomb col

Gabe and Gwynne were wed yesterday. I caught the garter but had no date; my lesbian accompaniment stood me up. Both of the bridesmaids were spoken for. Afterward, I went to see Shaun of the Dead with Shaun and Michelle. I can't imagine why anyone would feel the need to keep making zombie movies after recognizing the existance of this excellent flick - but that seems to be Misplaced Planet's next indulgence, led by Benni's obsession and money. As pointless as the exercise may be, particularly now, it would be more pointless to exclude myself. So, instead, I will attempt to wriggle my way into tackling the screenplay to Benni's story co-credit. I will try to face it as an amazing challenge ( at this point, what the hell can be done to make a zombie movie unique, and in less than 15 minutes? ). It will cost me only time, and, meanwhile, profit me experience, participation, and another ticket in the lottery of movie-making. Besides, I can always use a pen-nam

I've been making phone calls, pacing hands-free in the backyard. I wore a track in the grass and emptied a final half-pack of cigarettes. I smoked enough to make myself ill, and caught Stirling in a momentof drunken confession mania. His rant was an odd balance for someone so inebriated. It sounded like a break-up from the, "It's not you, it's me," school. On one hand, he claimed to have given up film-making; on the other, he's pushing Mark D'Agostino's newest script on his boss for production, even if it lacks an ending. He said that I'd be successful and inspire the next generation of filmmakers and artists, but seemed to dismiss my work as pandering and shallow. He apologized for ditching Ladies and Gentlemen , but said he'd had different, political aspirations for it, aspirations that conflicted with mine and doomed the project. He apologized for not contributing to Momentary Engineering , but expressed his distaste for the script

Almost eleven at night. Another day. Another contest in which I failed to win or even place. I'm overcome with boredom. This is a mode that's grown too familiar. I get up. If I don't get a life-changing e-mail, if I don't get a life-changing phone call, if I don’t get a life-changing postal mail – the day is over. I just wait for the credits to roll. For sixteen hours. I've taken benedryl again this evening. I risk it, though it brings me down. It will lull me to sleep. It will put a haze over tomorrow. But it's okay. I don't expect much from tomorrow. Barb is in "town," but I expect her schedule to be full. I don't expect to even catch her on the phone. It seems like a long, long time since my schedule has been full. That was my element. How, again, did I do this to myself? And how, again, can I get a life? Thursday, I fly to Los Angeles. I don't know what I'll do there. I say that I'm scouting for apartm

I cracked into the long-ignored file folder for Storybook Park and found a two-page snippet of prose that I'd completely forgotten having written. It seemed so unfamiliar, I wondered for a moment whether I'd actually written it. Maybe I'd just clipped it from online for inspiration. But no. I wrote it. I recall doing so. In Princeton. In Marguerite's bed. On her laptop. It's quite good in parts (awful in others), but somehow it captures the thrill I had about the idea that night. These words that I looked at only once, half-asleep, more than a year ago, capture the seed of the story I now need to tell. In those two pages, the stale concept that's been stewing on my back burner is fresh, intact, and exciting. I am grateful to have it. I hope it will drive me to begin, and guide me to finish. My ten thousand dollar short is shot. My fifth screenplay, which took almost a year, which I swore would make or break me, is off to competitions and agent

It's technically September 13th, but until Cynosure announces its winners as promised, it's still the 12th in all ways that matter to me. I have absolutely no reason to believe that I'll win or even place - quite the contrary. But waiting gives the night character. It makes my passing of time goal-oriented I spent about half-an-hour ironing socks. I just set the iron on each folded pair and let it hiss and gurgle while I searched out the next match. They stack better steamed and flattened. As I once again begin cutting my smoking back to "only from bumming," I speculate that my lethargy might be better alleviated by coffee than by will power. A tall cup today pulled me through the tedium of 3 PM, the third 3PM in as many days. This allowed me to put together a few more script packets, as well as preparing for cold-calling and query-lettering. I also bathed my dog, sent some mail, brushed my dog, put air in my tires, bought milk, and had an ATM refuse t

Since I can't find a love to motivate me, I suppose that I should start writing for its own sake again... Momentary Engineering sure is finished. As of yet, the film has left no permanent marks of change on my daily life. It was a brief vacation from the status quo, but I'm now quite sure -- it will be virtually impossible to repeat. It was a sweet spot. A moment when compromise was in the air. A project we all cared about. Now, everyone wants to move onto their personal pet project, but personal pet projects rarely inspire group love. You are the only person who wants to kiss your pet. I watched Shawshank Redemption , and kept thinking that surely I would write if I were in prison. But somehow, I can't write now, here, presently. I suppose, here, as in prison, I have to come to grips with the fact that writing can not free me. Writing will not free me. But I don't know what else to do. Is Los Angeles just another nostrum -- an arbitrary event towar

Momentary Engineering is wrapped. It ballooned to a $10,000 shoot. Massive. Overwhelming. Exhausting. And absolutely wonderful. We were blessed with a better cast than I could ever dream. The D.P. and gaffer, though sometimes on the slow side, gave us spectacular lighting. Box-trucks full of equipment. Parking passes, permits, and the RNC protests. Now that it's gone, there is a vacuum. This is what I want to do. This is why I write screenplays instead of novels. To see my story inspiring these people, to see them all excited and working their asses off in 120 degree humidity, until 8 in the morning -- that's what keeps me going. These moments are brief, and the work is hard, but what else could I possibly live for? I am sad that I'll be moving to Los Angeles before Misplaced Planet can produce another short. I am particularly interested in co-directing a short with Shaun Boyle. However, soon enough, there will be bickering and squabbling amongst the

Immediately after composing that last entry, I stayed up all night and finished A Darkling Plane . It was one of those crazed, 16 hour runs. When noon came, and the finished, printed script sat beside me, I covered my head in pillows and couldn't sleep. I remember a time when that was a weekly occurence. I remember, dimly, a time when it seemed nightly. So. It is done. I may have slipped it in just under a year's time. My last screenplay, Occult Blood , was finished only weeks after arriving in Harlem, and A Darkling Plane started up a few days later. Late last August, I estimate. Thus. I wrote four screenplays in my first year out of college, and a fifth in my second. I cannot place what happened there, except to imagine that it's somewhere around fear and disappointment. Doubt and discouragement. How will a fifth screenplay (or, now, a sixth) do what the previous have failed? How can I believe this is requisite to entering a new life? How could writin

My brain is damaged. Nothing has ever given me so much trouble as A Darkling Plane , and I being to wonder if I'll really ever enjoy writing again. It is so slow-going. It feels vastly unrewarding. I've come to that dreaded page 60, and I fear that it's just a dud. In fact, at times like this, I hope it's just a stinker - at least that would explain the horrendous difficulty I've had for the last YEAR. Either the screenplay is damaged - or I am. The struggle to CARE is at times (like this) insurmountable. My mind refuses to enter the story. The moments refuse to play. The characters refuse to speak. Either it is dead, or my mind is broken. Neither seems a pleasant alternative. I am tired. Inexplicably but inescapably tired. My head is empty. And I feel like I could lay here on the floor, empty-headed, for eternity.

I am back in New Jersey, with a broken backspace button. I'm living in a room that allows me no space to roll my chair backward, because I'd hit the bed. But that's okay, since my chair has a broken wheel. Most of my posessions are in storage, and it's hard to not feel like my life is in storage as well. Of course, that's a foolish thing to feel: everyone knows I don't have much of a life to store. You could throw it in a shoebox and shove it under the bed ... as long as you weren't sleeping on an inflatable mattress, like I am. I'm not sure if I should hang things on my wall, and pretend this is a home, or instead continue to live out of boxes, as though this were a hotel room, just a long road-side rest-stop while I try to dig myself out of debt and pile up enough cash to finish the trip. Should I continue spending my days playing on the computer, or should shape myself into that writerly routine that I imagined? I can't decide if I should

I was sucked into a cheesey sci-fi flick last night. It was called Frequency . As a result, I've been considering what I could tell myself, myself of five years ago, what I could warn, were I able to communicate through my cell phone, or maybe my livejournal... You know, something like, "Don't take Flight 567 to LA," or "Buy Stock in Prince," or "Don't Eat the Striped Cheese." But, honestly, I can't think of much... only, I could keep it simple and just transmit, "Nah, She Won't Love You Neither." That'd basically cover it. Hell. Maybe I'll write it now, and send it - to the future! Nah, She Won't Love you Neither.

I went to Staples, sulked, and spent over $200.00. I now have a 19" monitor. I must be compensating for something. Now, here comes that unique, earthly loneliness, the one that stumbles into Jersey at one in the morning. I think it's the bastard what made Bruce Springsteen so full of blood and fire and hope and self-loathing. Yet, knowing that it hangs here like smog over LA, somehow I always end up, here, late at night, alone, watching a movie - that makes me feel unloved. I'm like the guy in the horror movie that suggests splitting up. I'm the girl who takes her shirt off, because, hey, I'm all by myself, what could the danger be? So, once again, I watched another cry-for-myself movie. You know, old standards like The Matrix or First Contact . Except, shit, the embarrassing truth is, it was Love Actually , and shouldn't have been effective - but was. And shouldn't have been watched - but was. The title - isn't that a dead give away? Lau

Yesterday was not fun. Today was. After cleaning my house in frenzied anticipation of spending my evening curled before my laptop, finally working on A Darkling Plane , avoiding my webpage obligations, I discovered the laptop covered in cola. One little dog, name of Bacon, had gotten himself up onto the coffee table, and overturned a cup of coke. Now the laptop was dead. I spent the remainder of the evening both fuming and waiting on hold with customer support. I accomplished nothing, particularly relief of stress. So, I'm pissed at Bacon all night. This morning, I woke up at around 9am, which is bizarre. I took Bacon outside, and it was the most beautiful day of the year, which was bizarre. He mopes, behaves, and does his business right away, which is bizarre. When we get back from the walk, and I go into the kitchen to make some coffee. He slinks into the corner of the couch and lays down. Five minutes later, I come back out into the living room, and he's

Besides arriving half-an-hour late for work, entirely due to hiding beneath the covers for an extra half-an-hour this morning, little has of note has happened today. However, I used the lull in irritations to work through a pretty extensive revision of my short screenplay, Twenty Feet Less Dead . I feel unusually positive about the characters -- and unusually lost at resolving the story. The premise and plot that motivated the creation of the characters is entirely useless to them now that they're speaking on their own. Once again, I've sent it out in search of responses. This weekend I will be putting together another screenplay packet to Fed-ex to a producer in Los Angeles. I will be trying to build some momentum on A Darkling Plain , and tinkering with Misplaced Planet's website. Monday, with my cast, I will be viewing another draft of the short-film I directed and wrote, Anniversary Dinner .

When I began this job, a Quiznos Sub opened on 34th street. I was amongst the first customers, and got a little "Frequent Customer" stamp-card. Ten purchases of $5.00 or more, and I would earn a $5.00 discount. Now, many months later, ten Q's stamped, and the card twice chewed (by dog), I have handed over my card, and received my discount. I had a Misquite BBQ Chicken with Bacon on a Flat Bread Pita, with Salt-n-Vinegar chips and a large coke. My constant companion is gone. There is no new card to replace it. I feel a little choked up about it. My little, solitary source of pride has been traded for a measly five dollars.

The train was filled with little children -- two classes I beleive, all of them eleven or twelve years old. One girl was repeatedly asked by her teacher to take various seats as they became vacant. The peculiar girl would obediently sit, then jump up, and refuse to sit there again - because the seat was "hot." Either she was referring to the residual heat left by the former occupant's butt, or she be coo-coo. In the station, an old man looked like Grampa from The Muensters. He played on a keyboard, played a song like a Merry-Go-Round. In front of him, dozens of little toys - clowns, cowboys, robots, cars - danced and danced under battery power. Beside the toys, a round-bellied, round-faced Arab man, with a tiny mustache, danced as well. He held one hand open on his round belly, and the other hand above his head. He moved only his feet. He wore a beige, too-tight shirt, with a big horizontal stripe, clearly from the early 70s. They had my donut. And work b

It was a god-rotten day at work, and the week promises more. As I wrote in my imagined resignation letter, "they continue to pile on new work, but fail to pile on new pay." I escaped early and blew money on things I didn't need, including a pack of cigarettes. For these splurges, I go to Staples. Once home, I took up the dog-clippers, and cut off most of my hair. I'm not sure what I think of the results, but the cutting was therapeutic. I now have a subtle understanding of women and random hair-dying. My appearance alteration hasn't changed the world, or even me - but it has certainly made a monument to my frustration. And since I'm largely lacking people to witness my explosions, a monument to my explosion is appreciated. Even if most won't understand its significance. Since then, I've chatted on the phone with Sodini and Boyle. The latter provided much needed feedback on the short screenplay I'm tickering with. I think now that I h

The whole sleepy subway trip in, I composed my resignation letter. I work on the tenth story of a 14-story building, on 32nd street, Manhattan. The Empire State Building throws its shadow across us. Today, the fire alarm lights (but does not ring) every five minutes. It goes off four times, flashing a bright, diode strobe, like quick, tiny bursts of lightning -- FRINK! FRINK! FRINK! FRINK! -- like a minuscule camera were taking my picture. I wonder how hard it is to convincingly fake an epileptic seizure. And if I could do it, would they let me go home, or just prop me up in the shredder closet, biting my wallet? There it goes again... I don't think the building is burning down. But I'm not sure. Could be terrorists. My fortune cookie reads, "How can you have a beautiful ending without making beautiful mistakes?" But it can't read anything else. I couldn't open the clear-plastic wrapper on a box of "Tension Tamer" tea. I got very