wilderworks

Fake Real Problems Easter weekend found me performing the role of Charlie Kaufman in a presentation of the voice-over monologues from Adaptation , brilliantly delivered, full of the self-loathing and crippling doubt that made it famous, three shows a day. Click on those links up there. I'm not sure I'll be posting what I wrote while in that role. Yes, I started this blog to record the process of screenwriting. And yes, those carefully constructed rants of despair are certainly an aspect of it - at least for me, and apparently for Charlie Kaufman, too. But no, I don't think I'll be sharing them just now. Not without some sort of framing device or additional perspective to add. They require something more to make them less... redundant. One thing is for sure: I'm going to start keeping track of these profoundly angry times. I have two on record now. I'm curious whether they are periodic, and if so, whether I can predict them. I'd like to know when th...

Bored It drizzled on the drive down, but not even enough to wash away the dry white smear on my windshield. It's another overcast day, but this one has less charm than the first one, somehow. Perhaps this is all becoming routine, and the small daily variations are losing their power to excite. On that theme,I had pancakes today. They're always fantastic. But the coffee is a little weak, and the crowd is a little noisy. For a couple days, I've been constructing the movie in outline form on a website called checkvist . And now, having worked on it for another morning, I can say for confidently: it is tedious, and not helpful. I'm losing information, and I'm wasting time encoding the story into an outline form. I'm too methodical to make a sloppy outline, and I'm too bored to finish a thorough one. The only realization I've come to while doing it? I probably don't need Jon to go to work on the first day. And that means Maggie's poo-fli...

Left 7:06 AM | Arrived 7:42 AM I was stupid and lazy last night and neglected to plug in my Asus Linux netbook, and so I'm on this vastly over-sized Apple laptop, which reduces my focus and - still, after almost a year of using it almost daily - feels like I'm typing with my thumbs tied to my wrist. Let's be honest here, folks, Apple spaces their keyboard keys too far apart, and their text navigation hot-keys are insufficient for intense writing and revision. There's no question that their keyboards look good. The question is, why don't they type good? Why must I suffer? My roommate has a new Apple laptop, and the keys are spaced so far apart that I can't rest my fingers comfortably on all the home-keys at once - and I have relatively longish fingers. I have similar feelings about the operating system itself. I find it clumsy in many complicated multitasking situations, particular with any software that utilizes multiple windows. In particular, it is vastly ove...

I find myself often wishing that people around me would get out of their own way, take down the defenses and allow themselves to be happy. And today I wonder where I'm standing in my own way. What defense, what fear, must I drop, to make the things I desire materialize. I need a psychiatrist to point it out, because there's no one left to see except me. I'm thinking of you/ And think you're/ Not thinking of me/

I need to stop reading horoscopes. They make too many promises. Or join an astrological sign that gets a daily dose of "nothing much is gonna happen today."

I hate to give the impression that I spend my days sulking, but this ridiculous journal has become the place for me when I have some woe to spew. So many of my complaints about life are summarized by that: I have no one to share my troubles with, and that is the whole of my troubles. However, writing has always been soothing to me, and every writer scribbles in hope that it will someday be read by the right person. Another potential companion (the one I mentioned earlier) jumped ship on me this past weekend. I must have done something wrong during the conversation, failed to amuse, because she begged off the call by saying she was going "away." And that was the last I heard of her, despite e-mails and contact attempts. Immediately following that, my closest female friend expressed long-hidden romantic intentions for me, intentions I did not share. If I do not draw a line, I will be stringing her along. I must separate, cause myself pain, in order to avoid her contin...

Here comes the heartache and drama.

I want to know where you get those friends that people have in romantic comedies. You know, the single-lead's happy-couple-friends, the ones that see their romantic happiness, paired with their sense of friendship, as an imperative to set the single up with someone special. You know, the couple that quietly gets ready for bed, actually thinking about the loneliness of their good friend. I am about to throw a fit. Hold on tight!

I am worn down to the nub. And shortly, it will be two years since I've been in a romantic relationship.

I have a terribly virulent strain of writer's block, and it seems like I've had it for months. It seems that way because I have. Since at least December. I'd be willing to start smoking again to crack it open. It's reached its roots and shoots into every nook of my life. For me, the block is never caused by a problem I can't solve. Writer's block is always an inability to find a problem I care to solve. It's always a question of care. A problem of passion. And this year, this year, this year so far, I can't seem to care about writing another screenplay, or another short, or another contest runner-up-ship, or another disappointment. I don't care to meet people, I don't care to date, I don't care to write. I only get excited about paying off my debt. "When you get old, your heart dies." I was fooling with my picture phone and took some photos of myself, quite similar to some I took in Harlem three years ago. I loaded them on...

I've been spending a lot of time with old Darwin's Kids raw footage this week, searching for stuff for our reunion in May, getting ready to patch together some treats for the DVD. And I return to an old state of mind. Four years later? I am quite a pitiful thing. I do not like what I'm doing with my life. I preferred life then. And I don't know how the fuck I can get life to be anything better than this, anything even vaguely similar to what it was then. There is a shortage of resources for doing the things I love, and the jobs that would allow me access to those resources are snatched up by the children of those who have it already, by the connected and well-born. And of course, by the lucky. And of course, by the charming. One of which, I am not. I don't know how to get there from here. I'm out of tricks and schemes. I'm out of ideas. I can't think of anything I want to write, because I have faith in none of it. None of it will get me ...

Welcome to January 23rd. I hope today's not your birthday. So says Cliff Arnall, a British psychologist who made headlines last year when he unveiled the results of a formula that used weather, debt, time since the holidays and a few other factors to determine the most melancholy day. In Britain, and places like the U.S. Northeast that have roughly similar climates, it's the Monday closest to January 24, Arnall says. I'm starting to feel it too. I thought it was just because I was doing so well at becoming an alcoholic (and becoming an alcoholic has been my most successful goal in years), but it seems that I'm not the only one feeling like a loser this time of year. I wanted to write more, but it's all either perverse or self-pitying. I try to restrain the amount of self-pity I write, and I'd hate to waste perversity on a livejournal entry, when it's much preferred in my actual writing. I am putting in an official request for a woman in my life. ...

I think, instead of a writer, I'm going to become an alcoholic. I know, I know. It's not as easy as all that. Hell, I've tried before, and failed. The headaches. The expense. But now that I've quit smoking, I somehow learned to like beer. I can drink one rather fast. I can drink two rather fast too. And that's gotta be the first step. I can get myself a little tipsy every night. Easy. I'm watching a lot of Burt Reynolds movies. If I watch enough, soon I'll be able to listen to football on the radio. Eventually, baseball. Then I'll be up to a six pack a night. And I can switch over to the hard stuff without noticing much. I think I'll be better at being an alcoholic than being a writer. I seem to enjoy it more. And it's natural. Failing as a writer leads to a life of disappointing solitude. Disappointing solitude leads to drinking yourself to sleep. And so, the circle of life. My calendar, it says on Friday, "Epipha...

I want pity only if it moves someone to save me from this pitiable position.

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...

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...

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 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...