wilderworks

We're All Sherman Oaks Adjacent, Now Last night, I waited much longer than usual to walk the dog. When I finally went out, it was dark. I don't generally care about that sort of thing. I lived happily in Harlem, and now I live in the similarly regarded Van Nuys. Luckily, I don't believe the local news represents the world, and neither do cop shows, so I've never acquired any appreciable fear of city streets or dark alleyways. Instead, I've found for myself that “bad” neighborhoods are full of nice people. No, it's the well-off places that you gotta worry about. Those people are monsters. My particular sliver of Van Nuys is a little, densely-populated cityscape hemmed in by post-industrial-wasteland sprawl to the north, and suburbanized-hipster-family sprawl to the south. I'm right on the border of Sherman Oaks, which used to be the southern part of Van Nuys, until the brown people started moving in, which encouraged the white people to flee. They hi

Irrational Anxieties Well, the blog visits are down 65% for the last two-week period; which means I'm averaging about zero visitors a day. Why do I look at these things? I know that it can only frustrate me, and clearly the size of an audience has nothing to do with the quality of the work! Clearly! To quote Bullets Over Broadway : SHELDON FLENDER Hey, look who's here! The big Broadway success. I don't write hits. My plays are art! They're written specifically to go unproduced. The decline in readership is discouraging not because it's unexpected, and certainly not because readership was the aim of the blog, but because the decline coincides with the premiere of the real aim of the blog: screenplay pages. Here it is, the main event. A new screenplay by J Wilder Konschak. *crickets* *crickets* *tumbleweed* *creepy religious militia settles in area* Sometimes, a fellow can't help but wonder whether he should be taking a hint. From Bullets O

Horror Movie Viewing I'm thinking of changing the doctor's name again. In honor of The Abbott & Costello Show, I may name him Dr. Bacciagalupe. Or maybe just Dr. Galoup. INT. LIVING ROOM - SHORTLY LATER The four sit together in the dark, sipping drinks, watching a HORROR MOVIE on the big TV. DISSONANT MUSIC builds. Jon, Ollie, and Finch are tense, attention rapt - but Maggie is a zombie, eyes glazed, body slouched, barely upright. She looks like she's about to drool, she's so pale and spacey. LOUD MUSIC STING! The others JUMP. Finch lets loose a little shout. Ollie and Jon LAUGH at the great scare. But Maggie still glares glassy-eyed. She doesn't move at all. MAGGIE Why did he do that? I thought he was in love with her. Everyone freezes. The air is gone from the room. JON Honey, that wasn't her boyfriend. Maggie scowls at the screen, befuddled. MAGGIE But... Who was it? JON It was the Octopus Man. MAGGIE Ooooh. Righ

Running Long, or Short on Gags? I'm running a page over again. I hope I can cut a page from the next segment to compensate, but I have my doubts. As usual, there will be a long phase of painful trimming at the end of this road. Here's the hard thing about writing a comedy alone: there is nothing more nerve-wracking and doubt-inducing than trying to guess which jokes to cut, having almost no feedback from an audience (and apparently, it's very hard to force detailed, joke-by-joke feedback from one's readership). Nobody, no writer, no one, can ever guess what joke will play - only readers and viewers - only the sharp reality of an audience - can say for sure. But you have to make a thousand Sophie's choices all the same, without a shred of useful input from experience or fact or any sort of guidelines. It's a time when self-delusion can be beneficial. You call it instinct, and you go with it. But it's a sickening sensation all the same. You may be