Writer's Block

WHAT I'M LISTENING TO: Enjoying some "These Things That I've Done" by The Killers. Awesome tune. Plus, I got soul, but I'm no soldier either.

WHAT I'M READING: A book on Buddhism, called "The Big Questions" by Lama Surya Das. It's supposed to help me find my own damn answers to life's essential mysteries, or so the cover tells me.

WHAT I'M WATCHING: STILL working my way through 2007 films. More on that soon. Today it was Rescue Dawn, which is dawn good. Plus, X-Files and English football. So the usual.

THIS past week I finished an outline for a new original screenplay. This is a big deal, because I haven't written a completely new original screenplay since 2004, and before that it was 2001. Sure, I've done some rewrites. But nothing entirely new. And now I've got a outline.

And it's good.

See, I always have ideas kicking around in my head. Always. Right now, if I had no fear of a reader (there is really only one, isn't there) stealing an idea and making it not only better but actually getting it sold, I could toss out four or five original new ideas for scripts that I've got stored in there, always working and reworking them in preparation for writing them.

But that has been my problem. I'm always reworking, but not writing. Recently, the reality of it all hit me in the face like a slimy salami (or sweaty spaghetti if you like the alliteration). Without even realizing it, I had given up (this being the malaise I foreshadowed last blog out). In my head, I gave up the dream of writing a screenplay and actually seeing it make it into a movie on a big screen somewhere (even if it was only somebody's 32 TV). I settled for the fact that I wasn't a writer. That I wasn't any good. That it was all just a...well, a dream. A dream I'd never bring into reality.

It hit me hard. See, I've always had sucky retail jobs because in my mind, I was a writer (a writer of fiction, for you Decembrist fans). So these jobs were just temporary. Something to pay the bills until daddy sold his baby for cold hard sheckles.

Tangent, but could a sheckle be anything else but cold and hard? I can't picture a soft sheckle for the life of me.

But at some point recently, those temporary jobs became my (and I hate to even type the word) career. And writing? That was just a fantasy that would never happen.

It really tore me up. Close to depression. To give up something I've always dreamed about. Well, not always. But since fourth grade when I "wrote" my first book, a fifteen page illustrated tome called "Attack of the Sludge Monster", in which my friends and I defeated (take a guess)...the Sludge Monster.

Throughout school, and even into college, whenever I was asked what I wanted to be, the answer was a writer. Coupled with my love of film, and screenwriting was the goal. I even wasted four years studying to be a secondary education teacher because I thought having all the time off would allow me to write. I didn't love teaching, but that wouldn't matter because very soon I would be a professional writer.

The dream died. But now it's back. One day I woke up and realized that my plight would fit perfectly into the antagonist of one idea floating in my head. Because he was already a writer (in his head), why not give him my problems. They say you should write what you know. This is what I know, so why not write it?

Now, I've got a completed outline. I've burned a CD of music to inspire me. Most importantly, I'm not only ready to write the damn thing, but confident that it is good enough to make some agent's job easy.

I've even got an opening line. "They say you should write what you know. This is what I know." (is there an echo on this blog? Actually, with so few readers, there might be).

It's good stuff, and I'm excited. The dream is back. So now I just have to write this cinematic masterpiece and sell it. But that's the easy part. Getting here was the hard part.

The title? "Writer, blocked".

Wish me luck.

Be seeing you.