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November 08, 2004

60-Minute Man.

Before I left the office, I sent The Woman a text message, letting her know I was planning to spend some time writing when I got home. It's part of my new lifeplan of actually doing the things that give me pleasure, instead of merely talking about them, or coming up with creative ways to complain about the lack of time.

When I got home, she was soaking in the tub with a Neil Gaiman novel. Appropriately, she'd left her device in the living room and so did not receive my message. I kissed her, and went to work.

Well, not really.

I searched the apartment fruitlessly for my Final Draft CD so I could polish my last screenplay. I found the script in the apartment yesterday while cleaning, and read it in the tub.

(The Woman has shown me the value of soaking in hot water.)

I was surprised by the script. I found myself laughing out loud occasionally and was pleased by the economy of words. I've finally learned how to get in and out of scenes quickly. But, the script needs work.

I need to explore the themes of identity with more care. I need to replace some of the deus ex machina with character action that ties things together more neatly. There's plenty of humor, but there are missed opportunities for jokes, as well. Overall, it's tight. But it could always be better.

Energized and optimistic, I set about to find the Final Draft 5.0 CD, as the stupid program will only run in demo mode if you don't have it in the drive, and will not save your changes. I found the disk improperly stored, crammed between a box of books and several loose CDs. The foil label had rubbed off, which meant that several sectors of data were ruined, so that was a no-go.

Couldn't find the backup CD I made anywhere, and I even searched the car. It's probably in the office, on my desk in a CD wallet that's bursting with music -- a wallet that hasn't been opened once since The Woman gave me her 10G iPod. She upgraded to the 30G some time ago.

So, here's me: frustrated and feeling silly. The plan was to come home and work on the screenplay.

Instead, I find myself writing about the thwarted plan, and the characters and events in the script remain just as they were yesterday; frozen, and in a constant state of becoming -- in my head.

Writing for myself feels good. I write all day for my corporate masters, but it's just rote bullshit and marketingspeak designed to allay concerns and convey obvious matters to inattentive audiences (inside and outside the company). It's far, far better than not having a job, so how much can I complain?

Quite a lot, apparently.

In my mind, I picture the building falling into a sinkhole some evening as I walk to the car. In the fantasy, I watch the multi-story structure subside in seconds before disappearing with a burp, thanking my lucky stars that:

- I'm outside;
- I've got my laptop;
- I won't have to go back tomorrow.

But I must go back tomorrow, because I must work. Since I was 13, I've either had a job, or was looking for one. I should have taken the cash from my after-school jobs and purchased Intel or Microsoft, but I was young and foolish.

I will grab the CD tomorrow, and if I can't find it, I'll shell out for FD7. I'm going to finish the script, and I will use it to get an agent. The agent will be immediately struck by my original voice and the way I've played with convention to come up with a wholly new take on the genre.

This will open up doors for writing assignments, and perhaps a spec sale that will establish me in the industry. A steady stream of rewarding work that builds my rep and fulfills me creatively will ensue, and The Woman and I will enjoy the fruits of my labor.

After all, I will not have been able to do it without her unswerving love and support.

Posted by Your Protagonist at November 8, 2004 09:01 PM