Out to Readers

After an embarrassingly long gestation period, a first draft of Psycho Ex (with a name change) has finally gone out to its first round of readers. I should get feedback Tuesday after the long weekend.

This always feels weird. I am happy and satisfied and exhausted and not convinced it’s really happening – like the first week after college finals.

But there is a whole different additional dynamic at play with this one than usual, because – due somewhat to the original “Challenge” - it is much more an exercise than a passion project. Don’t get me wrong, the story was my idea, and I take its execution very seriously, but now that a draft is complete I feel “outside” the thing more than I ever have.

The thing I love/hate about writing is that when I work on something this big and all-encompassing, I get overwhelmed and lost inside it. I fall in love with it, and I don’t know if this is a blessing or a curse. It’s wonderful because I think/hope it adds heart and soul to the piece, but it’s terrible because I lose all objectivity and get lost. For long periods. With almost every script, I can vividly remember THE EXACT MOMENT when everything shifts and I come up for air, when I get back “on top of it,” when I get back outside and un-consumed by it and I start cutting and shaping and whacking at it with no emotional attachment whatsoever. This is when the work really gets done. But this is also when I feel guilty, like I’ve stopped loving someone simply because it is no longer the pragmatic thing to do.

I don’t think I was ever in love with this one. I spent a lot of time in the depths with it, don’t get me wrong, but it was never a passion project like Aftershocks was or Dead Guy is. I was more objective with this one all along, so there are parts of it (Act Two hopefully, Act Three definitely) that I think are better executed than my usual output. I would say I’m very happy with the execution on those (this Act Three is probably the best I’ve ever written). But it never took on a life of its own really.

Does this mean it will be less “alive” than it should be? Than it could be? Does this mean there won’t be enough “there” for the reader?

Will the reader know that it has less of a “soul” than it could have had? Or will it just be me?

Or have I finally shaken off the indulgent crap of falling in love with your material? Have I finally got on with the real business of writing?

Update: Just got my first feedback (thanks Tammy!). The weekend is off to a good start…

Definition of Insanity

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting a different result. But they also say “if at first you don’t succeed, try try again.” So what do they know?

Look, you’re not going to get lucky. Nobody does. Whatever it is you’re trying to do, you need two things to succeed: a great idea and the skillful execution of that idea. One without the other isn’t enough. Where do you get these ingredients? The short answer is this: trial and error.

You try and try, over and over, discarding the weak ideas and refining your execution, going through your process. Always hoping for a different result this time.

Sometimes – too many times – you get one without the other. On the one extreme you have the killer idea that goes nowhere. On the other there’s the immaculately-polished turd.

How do you get past these? You work through them, all the way, as deeply and as completely as you can, then throw them away and keep going. Keep driving. Keep moving. Send your stuff out if you’re happy with it, but move on. The clock is ticking and you still need more practice. 

There’s a saying in the writers room: “You’ve got to kill your babies.” Harsh? Definitely. And that’s the point.

You’ve got to be willing to throw away everything, even the ideas you’re most in love with. Especially the ideas you’re most in love with. You’ve got to keep cranking. You’ve got to keep yourself honest. You can’t hang on to anything that can slow you down, that can keep you from moving forward, from driving the process along. Hanging on to one idea is just going to keep you pinned down and preoccupied when the next idea – a better idea – comes along.

When I think about creative people who have been successful, their success has almost always come from a steady progression of projects through which they’ve practiced and improved and reached a critical command of their skills. Then at some point that key idea comes along, and BAM! the idea gets executed with these skills and the rest is history. It is rare to hear of a creative person coming across his killer idea at age 19 or 23 or something and then spending years sheltering and nurturing and protecting that same idea until a miracle happens and the skills of execution arise out of nowhere. 

But you see people – talented people – clinging forever to that one thing. That one pet idea. For years, wasting time. And it breaks your heart. Forget about doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result – these people do NOTHING and expect a perfect result. Now that’s a definition of insanity. 

These skills are learned. You have to earn them, from stretching. From work. Not from babying that same idea you’ve held onto forever. In love with your idea? Terrific. Now go write that idea. Then write another one. Just do it. Kill your babies.

This from the guy who’s been working on Dead Guy and Psycho Ex for about 2 years now.

Random Question #44

What can you tell me about Jens Lekman?

Random Question #38

What does your partner find attractive about you?

“Confidence, Man” or “The Genius I Was”

I used to know this girl, years ago. We were in love with each other. We never talked about it, we never said a word, but we both knew: we were in love with each other. You could just tell.

We both had steady “significant others” at the time. Well, I did. I think she did, but maybe not. I can’t remember. This was years ago, back in film school, and because we were working on the same movie we spent a lot of time together. A lot of time together. Much more than we spent with our “significant others.”

Don’t worry, nothing happened between us.

Well, that’s not exactly true. Nothing physical happened (I’m not a jerk), but it didn’t have to. We were in love, and in the best possible way. “Best possible” because, well, we didn’t have to live up to anything. Nothing was going to happen between us. There was no chance. Nothing could possibly happen. And that was the beauty of it.

Nothing physical happened, but sometimes the physical stuff is the least important.

It was like high school. On the set we could share knowing smiles, make secret eye contact, or just sit together alone silently during breaks. Falling in love is so easy – every raised eyebrow is a valentine, every smile is electric, each eye contact a caress. Everybody could see us, everybody knew. Or maybe they didn’t, I don’t know. It sure felt like it then. It felt great.

And then we didn’t have to go home to each other. We never had a chance, so we never had to live up to anything. We could be perfect – all potential, no obligation. I could flash a devil smile of promise but never had to deliver anything. All ambition, no reality. No gravity. I was a genius because I said I was, because I acted like one, because she believed I was – because I believed I was.

I was a genius because I never had to prove that I was.

All we shared was our best – funny, charming, lovable – because that’s all we could share: the make-believe. It seems like too often our “significant others” get only the worst: the reality, the having to prove, day-in, day-out, who we are. You know, the crap. I don’t know about you, but my killer devil smile doesn’t get too much mileage in the real world.

And I’m not just talking about the people in our real-world lives, I’m talking about our “art” and our passions, too. Our ambitions. It’s easy to be a genius when you’re young and naive and you tell yourself you’re a genius: you just get up and do it, because you don’t know any better. Magic happens because you let it happen. You believe it is possible, so therefore it is. You don’t have to prove anything because you don’t recognize even that obligation. If you wrote something, it was genius. It just was. End of story.

But then you grow up. And before you know it, it’s hard to see anything but the obligation. Is this any good? Can I sell this? How bad does this suck?

It’s not really “negativity” I’m talking about, it’s not about “just think positive,” it’s bigger than that. It’s about, I don’t know, how do I put it… ambition? Magic? Self-delusion? No, it’s about one thing:

Confidence. It’s about confidence.

It’s about the work being good and energetic because you believe it is and that makes it – magically – get better. How could it dare not be good? It’s about that girl being in love with you because you’re being you, because you are loveable, and that makes you more loveable because that makes you even more “you” than you can usually dare to be. And it’s about you knowing this but not needing it – not needing anything at all. It’s about you knowing this so well you don’t even have to dream about living up to anything. You wouldn’t even conceive of the idea of having to live up to anything, not in a million years.

I haven’t seen her in years, which is the perfect end to the story.

I’ll never forget her. Or my devil smile.

Random Question #32

If your partner decided s/he wanted to look up an old ex and restart a platonic friendship, how would you respond to your partner?

“Playing With the Pieces” or “Why It Takes Me So Long”

I don’t like to outline. I used to, I may again, but not right now.

In school I outlined – we all did. I wrote 3 features this way, with each outline getting better and more detailed than the last. I would refine the outline first and then write. If an idea came to mind while I was writing, I would stop writing, add the scene to the outline, and then tweak the outline again and again before resuming writing. By the third feature, my process was disciplined and precise.

And completely lifeless.

It was actually a chore to complete that third feature. Part of this was because I was writing the script on spec for a producer (based on his idea) who bailed halfway through, but the other part was because the writing was so lifeless – all the “fun stuff” had been explored and laid out before, at the outline stage, so the writing itself felt like dictation. The script turned out okay I guess, but the process was an exercise in drudgery, without life or spark or energy. Without discovery.

So with my fourth feature I decided to try an experiment: I would take the 4 structural chunks of the script and only look at 1 at a time. I could outline, use index cards, anything I wanted, but I could only work on 30 pages at a time – thinking about anything beyond that 30-page unit was off limits until it was done and polished. To challenge myself, I consciously tried to write myself into a corner every 30 pages. And each section would end with an ambitious climax or cliffhanger, one which I had no idea how to top or get out of. It was great.

The good news is that this fourth feature ended up being Aftershocks, still the script I am most proud of. The bad news is it took 7 years to write. I honestly had no idea how to end the thing as I would set it down and then pick it back up months or even years later, letting it breathe as I worked on other scripts and other ideas in between. False starts and dead ends on the second and third acts took years. But once I figured them out… well, as I said, I’m pretty proud of it.

Something changed when I started writing Aftershocks: I started writing an idea that

Random Question #27

Have you ever been totally clueless that someone was in love with you?

Non-Random Question

How would you describe the direct experience of falling in love? What does the “falling” really, truly feel like? The actual physical experience, the “hot flashes” and “weightlessness” below. From Dead Guy (page 29):

[Note: Hooker is Pete's best friend, NOT a prostitute.]

                              HOOKER  
                Look, I know you guys love each
                other, but…                   
                        (he shakes his head)
                Are you seriously telling me that
                you will NEVER fall in love again?
                For the rest of your life? Is that
                what you’re saying?

                             PETE
                Yes.

                             HOOKER
                You’ll NEVER get that feeling
                again? That newness and the hot
                flashes and the, you know, feeling
                weightless, being lifted up out of
                yourself, like bunny hills on a
                roller coaster? You’re never gonna
                feel that again? You can’t turn
                that off, that’s just not how it
                works. Why would you want to,
                anyway? That feeling, like when you
                discover your new favorite song,
                that’s what life is…

     As he speaks, Hooker reaches under his seat, pulls out a
     record store bag full of new CDs, and shakes it for effect.

                             HOOKER (CONT’D)
                …being totally surprised. Finding
                your new favorite song and loving
                the hell out of it before you get
                to find another one. That’s what 
                life is.

                              PETE
                Your life, maybe.

                              HOOKER
                Damn straight.

It’s still way too long and speechy, but I think I’m getting closer. Suggestions? How would you describe it?

Why I Didn’t Love Sweeney Todd

Last time I mentioned my opinion that Sweeney Todd was a good movie, but not a great one. It is probably Tim Burton’s most accomplished film. I liked it, respected it, admired it… but I didn’t love it.

Why not? Just like with Steely Dan, I didn’t find anything there to get attached to emotionally. I didn’t fall in love. And because of that, the ending, while inevitable and satisfying and ironic, pretty much failed. Why? Because it didn’t feel tragic – it didn’t emotionally devastate me, and I doubt it devastated anyone else in the theater either.

And this time I think I have some answers why. They don’t unlock the writing secrets to emotional involvement or anything, but they are helpful (at least for me).

Sweeney Todd is an obsessive protagonist. His all-encompassing obsession to exact revenge is