october 22.

I retreated to the office today for quiet and focus, figuring that if I stationed myself where I do five days a week, perhaps I'd trick myself into forgetting it was Saturday and keep some momentum. I'm here now, realising I should probably leave now that it's getting dark outside - time seems to evaporate when you're staring at computer screens. This could easily become a habit however - there's something that's very thought-conducive about empty offices. Another plus, desk space for scribbles:

Best investment so far: $3 pack of graphite pencils. No better feeling than smudgy fingers, I think I tell myself every time I use them. Plus, they're good for angry black what-were-you-thinking lines as well - so many benefits from them.

I'm so close and yet so, so far. Our deadline is 23 days away, which is really no time at all when I think about how quickly this year has gone. It's really just in work left that it's far away - all I can do is keep going and trust that, as always, it WILL get done. I'm a terrible deadline pusher. It's like if there's no date looming I will get about 20% done of what I could have otherwise. There's nothing like looming finality to kick you into gear. My problem is that every time I sit down to write I find myself in the middle of one of 'those moments', the ones you can't easily fly through. They're gritty and draining and sometimes I find myself about to lose it because I'm so desperately trying to get in their frame of mind, and it's not always a pretty one.

Which is where the other perk of empty offices come in - dance breaks! I think I can now make a big over-generalisation in that if anyone says they've ever written a film without pausing for some of these, they'd be outright lying.  I'd go so far as to call them essential, even. Granted, my music bill has increased ten-fold with an addiction to new album and iTunes at my fingertips, but I'm putting them down as investments and so far they've proved worthwhile. Recent buys include...

more magic from the masters

ironically named beauty from grouplove

lovely moments from the kooks

and a long-overdue buy from The Middle East. Still so sad they've thrown it in (and being there to witness it has given me the impression that it's a pretty permanent decision, what with the mandolin throwing and et cetera).  I'm starting to think of music and media as a cyclical product (duh) and it's intriguing to wonder which albums and films have been influential in the creation of others. I wish every movie came with the screenwriter's playlist, much the same as novels should include mix CDs from their authors - a nod of appreciation to everything that's been thrown into the mix to spin this new piece, which in turn will find its way into the next person's melting pot. Crazy to think how everything is just begged, borrowed, stolen and then re-interpreted.

Oh, and this clip falls into that notion as well. It's what first sparked a thought that tumbled into a scene that spread itself out into a major piece of the puzzle, and I'll be forever grateful. (Excited to see it in context as well.)

october 11.

I sat down on my back deck with my laptop and good intentions over three hours ago.

Thankfully, it worked.

I'm telling you. This deck is magic. I had to write a story for an assignment when I was thirteen. I sat out here with one strong, resilient candle and by the time I went back inside, fingers cramped from scrawling, the pivotal moment in it, the part around which everything else fell, was finished. First try. Sure, not that cool when you're thirteen - but that story and that moment is haunting me to this day, over five years later, and I know it's ready to be revisited. Taunting me to take it on and bring it into now and write it the way it was designed to be created. This scares me more than it excites me, mainly because the characters scare me in much the same way, but sometimes there's voices in your head you've got no choice of outrunning and I'd say five years is a fairly decent fight. I'll give in when I can. Soon.

I've spent the last week stuck in this one conversation, lying down on her kitchen floor over and over again, writing and deleting and rewriting and deleting again until I was ready to scream or cry and give up (sound familiar?). And then, sitting out here tonight, a blanket wrapped around me in this half-spring, there was a moment through all of the pushing where something clicked inside me and I quite literally started crying and I knew, I knew, I knew why this was so difficult to write, couldn't believe how long it took me to catch on in the first place. You know what scares me, about all of this? You really do write what you know, but you do it without knowing you know it. You create these people and situations and pains and triumphs and as you chisel away at it line by line there's certain moments where you take a step back and get blown away by who you suddenly see emerging in them. The moments from your own life that slipped themselves in, taking on a new form but retaining their power. I don't know how to explain it and it was honestly like a revelation before when I realised. It's not a cliche or a lie made up to tease us. These words and pages become outpourings, whether we invite them in or not.

But now. Now I'm up off the floor. I haven't sent this version of the conversation (8.34923232 or whatever it's up to by now) to the scratchpad (yet... Oh, please, I hope not). And, once again, I have this sanctuary to thank for it. I know it won't be mine for much longer but I know it'll continue to serve its inhabitants, giving whatever they need to take from it.

october 10.

Getting to know Feist's new album 'Metals' while pondering the mountains ahead and, surprisingly, taking my own advice about not getting stressed. There's a simple fact I'm quick to forget so often, but it would save me a whole lot of nail-biting - things always end. No matter how far away it feels or how impossible that goal seems from where you're sitting, if you're like me, it'll get done, and everything really will be ok.

Oh my word. She's beautiful. Every time.

So, interesting case study. I heard Feist (Leslie Feist, in the real world) talking away on the radio on my drive home from work tonight and for a woman whose songs lilt and float the way they do, she's got this incredible strength. She doesn't sound like she's made out of china, even though you almost get that impression through her music. (Tough china, mind you, but china nonetheless.) But no. She's funny, and raw, and can talk about mating sheep just like the best of them. She's not isolated in the worlds she creates. For some reason, it was so refreshing to hear her talk and chat just like any one of us. People who create & define our perception of what's beautiful can seem untouchable. Otherworldly. Hearing them just as present in the same universe as myself - it gives me hope for reaching similar levels of creation. Feet firmly on the ground and head off in the clouds.

Oh, what a find! The perfect illustration. I downloaded the album yesterday and chose the (slightly more expensive) iTunes LP version, and I've never seen how one of those works before now. Once you open it, there's all kinds of goodies... like this behind the scenes Metals Microfilm... there's a moment in this that feels like you're watching dancing lomography in film form. It's stunning.

Later.

'Of the light, you were the strongest follower.'

Oh, how envious I get of these musicians. The power they have in these lines. To take a whirlwind of thought and moment and sum it up in minimal syllables is a talent I'll never stop letting myself be in awe of. And I think, actually, that it's more intrinsically linked to all of the rest than most people stop to continue. Story is story, no matter the form, and if you can write with such force and eloquence in so little words, you shouldn't have any problems when you've got mountainous paragraphs at your disposal. It's something I constantly use to challenge myself with - how would I have said this if it were in lyrical form? Considering I want to write stories that soar and plummet and ebb and pull and roar and lull, with all of the beauty & mire & profound & simplistic attached to that, what better way to learn just how that looks than to sit yourself down for 3 minutes, 30 seconds and experience the same rushes other people take ninety minutes to build up to?

Ugh. Time for bed, not for expansion, unfortunately.

october 3.

Fresh rain scent drifting in through open windows and soft shadows locking me in sleepiness. Nothing could be more beautiful than that smell right now. Smells like newness. Very much, I imagine, like what hope would smell like if it could transcend into tangibility. (Who's to say it can't, though? And doesn't?)

Mm. In that little moment of distraction (which was actually a hugely helpful one - I've stumbled across a website I'm saving for exploring later, it looks really useful) I decided to hold myself back from placing one large, expensive bookdepository order and load up on books I've been meaning to all year over in New York. Genius, right? Ones I've needed anyway (screenwriting basics and the like... probably should have read them all before beginning...) and also, the thrill of hunting for them over there. If I'm lucky I'll find most second-hand, with someone else's scrawls and thoughts already seasoning the pages for me. Books really should never come entirely clean. Or, at least, shouldn't finish with you the same way they started. I have one book I've lent to people over and over throughout the years and now when I pull it out the spine falls open without argument, worn down to softness from so many immersions. It makes me even happier knowing it's been in so many hands (many of these hands over and over as well).

The rain's kicked in with commitment now. Bliss. Pair that with Alexander's gusto (not the first time I'll link to this and by the looks of it most definitely not the last),  a bed so warm you can't help but push your feet around a little and last night's all-night-drive still bringing the drowsiness, and I'm just a little bit content.

There's some nice moments in the mix of this. Where self-loathing disgust at any word you've written down falls away, and you can look at something you've just created without judgment or perfectionist critique. You read something you worked on a little while ago and for one blessing of a moment it rings true. It's not contrite or bland. You recognise now the feeling you aimed to capture, which is more important than it seems. When you're in the middle of writing it, it's easy to know what's going on. You're there, right down to the hand waves and gesturing (a good reason writing should be done in solitude. It can get embarrassing). But when you can look back and instantly acknowledge what that same feeling is - for a minute, it's a little bit overwhelming. At the very least, it's something to return to in the midst of absolute frustrations, when dialogue comes out sounding like it'd be better off left with the five year olds for Barbie play time. Yeah, those moments happen a lot as well.

-- Whoops. Got so distracted it's now tomorrow. It happens.