wilderworks

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

I've been making phone calls, pacing hands-free in the backyard. I wore a track in the grass and emptied a final half-pack of cigarettes. I smoked enough to make myself ill, and caught Stirling in a momentof drunken confession mania. His rant was an odd balance for someone so inebriated. It sounded like a break-up from the, "It's not you, it's me," school. On one hand, he claimed to have given up film-making; on the other, he's pushing Mark D'Agostino's newest script on his boss for production, even if it lacks an ending. He said that I'd be successful and inspire the next generation of filmmakers and artists, but seemed to dismiss my work as pandering and shallow. He apologized for ditching Ladies and Gentlemen , but said he'd had different, political aspirations for it, aspirations that conflicted with mine and doomed the project. He apologized for not contributing to Momentary Engineering , but expressed his distaste for the script

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 cracked into the long-ignored file folder for Storybook Park and found a two-page snippet of prose that I'd completely forgotten having written. It seemed so unfamiliar, I wondered for a moment whether I'd actually written it. Maybe I'd just clipped it from online for inspiration. But no. I wrote it. I recall doing so. In Princeton. In Marguerite's bed. On her laptop. It's quite good in parts (awful in others), but somehow it captures the thrill I had about the idea that night. These words that I looked at only once, half-asleep, more than a year ago, capture the seed of the story I now need to tell. In those two pages, the stale concept that's been stewing on my back burner is fresh, intact, and exciting. I am grateful to have it. I hope it will drive me to begin, and guide me to finish. My ten thousand dollar short is shot. My fifth screenplay, which took almost a year, which I swore would make or break me, is off to competitions and agent

It's technically September 13th, but until Cynosure announces its winners as promised, it's still the 12th in all ways that matter to me. I have absolutely no reason to believe that I'll win or even place - quite the contrary. But waiting gives the night character. It makes my passing of time goal-oriented I spent about half-an-hour ironing socks. I just set the iron on each folded pair and let it hiss and gurgle while I searched out the next match. They stack better steamed and flattened. As I once again begin cutting my smoking back to "only from bumming," I speculate that my lethargy might be better alleviated by coffee than by will power. A tall cup today pulled me through the tedium of 3 PM, the third 3PM in as many days. This allowed me to put together a few more script packets, as well as preparing for cold-calling and query-lettering. I also bathed my dog, sent some mail, brushed my dog, put air in my tires, bought milk, and had an ATM refuse t

Since I can't find a love to motivate me, I suppose that I should start writing for its own sake again... Momentary Engineering sure is finished. As of yet, the film has left no permanent marks of change on my daily life. It was a brief vacation from the status quo, but I'm now quite sure -- it will be virtually impossible to repeat. It was a sweet spot. A moment when compromise was in the air. A project we all cared about. Now, everyone wants to move onto their personal pet project, but personal pet projects rarely inspire group love. You are the only person who wants to kiss your pet. I watched Shawshank Redemption , and kept thinking that surely I would write if I were in prison. But somehow, I can't write now, here, presently. I suppose, here, as in prison, I have to come to grips with the fact that writing can not free me. Writing will not free me. But I don't know what else to do. Is Los Angeles just another nostrum -- an arbitrary event towar

Momentary Engineering is wrapped. It ballooned to a $10,000 shoot. Massive. Overwhelming. Exhausting. And absolutely wonderful. We were blessed with a better cast than I could ever dream. The D.P. and gaffer, though sometimes on the slow side, gave us spectacular lighting. Box-trucks full of equipment. Parking passes, permits, and the RNC protests. Now that it's gone, there is a vacuum. This is what I want to do. This is why I write screenplays instead of novels. To see my story inspiring these people, to see them all excited and working their asses off in 120 degree humidity, until 8 in the morning -- that's what keeps me going. These moments are brief, and the work is hard, but what else could I possibly live for? I am sad that I'll be moving to Los Angeles before Misplaced Planet can produce another short. I am particularly interested in co-directing a short with Shaun Boyle. However, soon enough, there will be bickering and squabbling amongst the