All over the bloody map (not literally)

Ok, so much for using the blog to keep up with writing. This post is now seven days late. This week has been ho-hum. Still working my Being Erica script. I believe this is my fifth re-write of the plot. It's been a good learning experience. I completely underestimated the difficulty of writing for this show. I even discovered the creators themselves are quoted as saying that the show is incredibly difficult to write, and these are people with tv experience under their belt! Story of my life - given the choice between a lifesaver and paddling through the water with my hands, I always choose the latter.

Today I wrapped up my grad school application to Pratt's Arts and Cultural Management Program. I have no idea what I am doing. A few months ago, I was all over this. I thought - yes this is what I am meant to do with my life, arts administration! I've finally found my calling, hallelujah. Flash forward three months later and I am re-thinking the whole thing, after I get all three of my references lined up. Bravo. I am a genius. Mind you, a mere six months ago I thought my calling was to a photographer. And today I posted a call-out asking people to collaborate with me on creating a documentary. I mean, seriously. I am all over the map! I wish I could just pick one thing and stick to it.

Ottawa.is.a.small.town

If you stop labelling Ottawa a city, you can appreciate it that much more. I've lived here for (gulp) a whole seven years now and it's taken me this long to realize it. I don't know if I love living in Ottawa, but I don't think it really matters at this point. Perhaps I would prefer living in Toronto or New York, but who can say? I have a lot to thank this city for - my career, meeting my husband, my degree, our condo, a stable income, yada yada. Two years ago I could not get enough of ragging on Ottawa and sometimes the resentment still lingers. I wonder if I made the wrong choice after graduating. I stayed here because I was offered a relatively well-paying, permanent job. It was the obvious choice. I didn't have a long-term plan. I just knew I needed full independence (no way would I move back in with my parents) and financial stability and here I am.

If I did live in Toronto or New York, I would be taking a huge risk. I chose a degree in communications, which isn't terribly lucrative. Plus, when I graduated I had no idea what I really wanted to "do" with myself. I am not particularly talented in any one area. If had a strong talent as a musician at least there I could get into the scene in an urban capital and try to "make it". But even then I wonder. I can't remember who said it, but there was an artist who said that the people trying to make it in New York were a dime a dozen and what is more important, spending your whole life as a waiter, putting all your money into rent, hoping to one day find success? Or putting in a lot of hard work and proving yourself to the world, even if you are from some small town no one has ever heard of?

My whole take on Ottawa now is, I have the stable, steady income, a simple lifestyle and I know I'm a creative person. Now all I have to do is buckle down, work hard and prove myself to the world.

Adventures in Babysitting

In the next few days, my husband and I will be babysitting our niece and nephew, while their parents are busy getting married in the tropics. This is the first time either of us are taking on a project like this, never mind together. We've only been married for *counts fingers* seven months now and both child rearing and a move to the suburbs are distant thoughts, so this should be an interesting challenge of sorts. We will be familiarizing ourselves with the art of scheduling pick-ups and drop-offs to daycare, creating meal plans, coordinating bath time and bed time, and the usual assortment of other tasks the average parent faces daily. We had our orientation and overview of how everything works in the household yesterday and we are told a manual will be awaiting us once we arrive.

The whole scenario reminds of a cliched episode of a sitcom. Take downtown/urbanite childless couple, plunk in suburbs with car, charge with caretaking a three-year-old and one-year old. What hilarious results will ensue? Find out next time! I'm sure everything will be fine, but there is no doubt mistakes will be made and the whole thing will provide great anecdotal fodder for the next family gathering. Of course this is all part of my sister-in-law's grand scheme to encourage us to have children, which she openly and regularly acknowledges. Good times.

Writing a Spec Script

I'm trying to crack into screenwriting these days. It all started with a brilliant idea I have for a Canadian television show - while I can't share the idea online (for obvious reasons), I've discussed it with a few people and I've always received an enthusiastic response. As a newbie in the industry though, you need to show you've got the writing chops to show credibility. And even then it's not a guarantee that I can create this show - it takes years for highly qualified tv industry professionals to perform this feat. But, it's an exciting project to work on and I want to take the chance.

Part of providing credibility is showing you can write for an existing series. Based on my extensive research via Google (ahem), I have learned that it's tricky determining which series to pick. Apparently it is a terrible idea to go with Canadian shows (even if you're pitching within your own country), as there is less of a chance that the tv exec reading your script will be familiar with its premise. On the other hand it is good to "write what you know" and what I know these days is Being Erica. As a bonus it is reported that a U.S. remake of Being Erica is in the works, so maybe I have a chance.

Anyway I have spent the last month just trying to come with ideas for the plot of my "spec" script - a whole month! I couldn't believe it would be that difficult. It's tricky with serial drama like Being Erica, because you need to work your episode into the show's timeline...and if you know Being Erica you know that it progresses pretty quickly in plot and character development. Ah, character development. That has been a major challenge for me, because so much of the show is based on that. Honestly this process has given me a whole new appreciation for the tv business - even the crappiest tv shows out there, with the worst dialogue (hello, Two and a Half Men) take a lot of effort and dedication to put together.

I've finally started writing my episode and have in fact just finished writing the teaser. But it's a first draft, so naturally the dialogue reads like something out of an elementary school textbook. I keep procrastinating on it, because I hate going back to the computer to look at my words and acknowledge those are my own words. But I am determined to get this bloody thing done. Many seasoned scriptwriters talk about re-writes - the reality of the television industry is that there is no room for writer's block, which is good for someone like me who often pretentiously philosophizes about the need for inspiration. Which, as everyone knows, is BS talk for procrastination. Writing scripts requires practice, so I better get used to this, if this is something I want to seriously pursue.

Girl and Therapist

Here is another excerpt of a short story I wrote a while back. Never got around to finishing it, but not half bad! Again, I love starting them off...usually my motivation for writing a story will happen because the opening line or phrase will pop in my head.

The girl cried out, 'I'm not talking about the rose-coloured kind. I just want to view the world through Normal glasses!'

The therapist sat back, thoughtful, pen to mouth.

“You mean the kind that come with a prescription, of course? Or are you pursuing this metaphor further?”

The girl was now even more exasperated. Her thin, bird-like face was becoming unpleasantly distorted as she struggled to reveal her innermost thoughts. She squawked, “No! I mean yes…(heavy sigh)…what I’m trying to say is that I want to feel and act as Normal People do. I…don’t feel “Normal” in the least. I mean, I don’t think I’m especially weird, but I just don’t quite fit in as other people do.”

Well there’s no denying THAT, the therapist thought, straining to not roll her eyes in front of the patient. Instead, she tipped her head back and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, the patient was slumped forward, breathing heavily, her delicate brow furrowed in the direction of the chipped coffee mug resting on the rounded table between them.

MARLON / The 9-5er

Here is an excerpt of a short story I wrote a few years back. I was pretty miserable at this time and it is reflected in the writing. Considering I hadn't written for years before I penned this, I'd say it's pretty good. I always enjoy writing the beginnings of stories, but it's harder trying the beginning, middle and end together. I've sent this to a couple of publications, but have never heard anything back. ANYWAY, here it is:

Marlon Wright was twirling in his chair, dully staring into the greyed floral pattern that adorned his cubicle walls when he was struck by a sudden realization.

He hated his life.

He was utterly lost in a dead end job. It barely covered his month’s rent, never mind the sky-high student debt rotting his budget, leftover from a worthless education now only signified by a flimsy piece of paper.

Oh, he was bitter, all right. Like every other goddamned 20-something scurrying about this measly town.

David’s eager, bespectacled face popped up above the cubicle frame. “Hey Marlon, you got those papers stamped yet?”

Marlon slowly and wordlessly handed over the pile.

“Thanks, buddy!” David flashed him a 1000-watt grin, and trotted off, his black patent shoes clicking down the hall with purpose and poise.

Marlon had both resented and envied David’s enthusiasm from the moment he had step foot in the Federal Tax Bureau. David was one of those types who tacked Dilbert cartoons along the edges of his cubicle in order to present the image of being slightly hip, edgy and “against the MAN”. But really, Marlon knew that David slept pretty soundly at night, tightly tucked underneath his crisply ironed, white IKEA bed sheets (500 thread count), pleased with the distinctly non-rebellious contribution he had to made to the world, within his allotted nine to five time slot.

PAKI

I was six years old when I remember the first time someone calling me one. I was rounding the corner on my way home from school when I looked up to see an older kid smoking a cigarette. He was young and I was in awe. He looked like a badass, so I stood there gaping up at him, fascinated. He sneered at me and said, "what are YOU looking at, Paki ?!" before stomping off. I felt the sting of the words and the moment has remained with me ever since. Here is something I wrote a few years ago, in the hopes of developing it into a story, based on this moment:

I was chewing and snapping gum while in a heated exchange with Sonia and barely felt the nudge at first. But it came again, this time harder and more insistent.

“Move out of my way, Paki.”

My jaw dropped. A wrinkled wad of gum bounced out of my mouth and onto the pavement.

“You heard me. PAKI.”

I couldn’t believe it. Which year was I living in? Last time I checked, it was 2008. So why the hell was this jerk calling me that word?

Sonia looked equally bewildered.

It wasn’t until he’d turned the block that we finally found our words again.