Yesterday the thought of working on the "Crooked..." rewrite almost brought me to vomit. The best I did was read what I had so far. Eh. Even right now I feel I'm adding one more sour drop of whine to a keg of artistic whining & whimpering about the craft, our struggles, what we feel we HAVE to do, etc.
While enjoying my morning constitutional in the solitude of the bathroom these thoughts were in my mind. I landed on Robert McKee. You know, the overzealous screenwriting guru from that movie, "Adaptation". The "Fuck you and write." guy? He really exists if you don't know. I took his seminars. He's thorough, passionate, giving. He won a Bafta award for his work, "Je Accuse Citizen Kane". It's not a movie. No. God forbid a guru have an actual piece of his own that stands alone as they pontificate how to do what they've proven they couldn't. No, it's an assault, a deconstruction of the movie, Citizen Kane. Good for him. Why was this thought in my head on a toilet in a safe and solitary bathroom?
Because he DIDN'T have a movie to his credit. Maybe he wrote scripts. Maybe even some were bought; even produced. I don't of any if there are. He didn't, doesn't, have a movie done and he now basks in a niche of the industry. He's validated by paychecks and sold out lecture dates. His success is the deodorant that keeps the puke smell of his not writing stories away from his finely groomed, old man nose hairs.
Good for him, I guess. Good for me too the day when I write enough of these blogs that I'm calculated by a Scriptologist.com algorithm as the most active, most recent, most whatever blogger in the virtual west. Then I'll be relieved the nausea of writing and not writing. |
