wilderworks

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.