writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. - e.l. doctorow
when you tell anyone you’re a writer, they kind of look at you. there’s a long pause and then they say, “have you written anything I might have seen?” and then you proceed to say that on top of it, you’re a screenwriter. to which they immediately reply (eyes widened), “have you written any movies I may have seen?” and then you take a long pause and say, probably not.
true, I have written all sorts of things that have been published. but published in periodicals for writers or artists or those seeking out and hungry for creative fare. I’ve written poetry that was part of an exhibit at an art gallery. I’ve sold work. I’ve been promoted. I’ve written creative ad campaigns. I’ve reviewed plays, films, art shows, food. and now I’m writing two screenplays. one of the screenplays I’m writing, well, everyone (ok, not everyone, but anyone with a literary longing) has at least read the book I’m adapting. a book by the ever misunderstood, overly ignored, highly under-appreciated, Oscar Wilde. the screenplay to follow that one is a very intense, highly researched, fabricated story that will - in every conceivable way - take down child predators. after I come out of the darkness for which I will inevitably creep into, I have four more screenplays to complete. one of which is an animated feature. a very very good one. another is a twisted love story/satire. another is thought provoking tale of genocide. another is a forgone story of therapy and self exposure.
but you see, in the mind of a writer - correction. in the mind of me, I find thoughts fester and swell and often form some sort of strange bacteria or growth before I allow them the freedom to tackle oxygen and life. I think things that I often wish I didn’t. I have an imagination that soars so incredibly high and left and right and sideways, it can, if I let it, grasp tightly around my neck until the words nearly choke me. I can close my eyes and see truth. (that can be scary) I find that words are in fact the vessels to which my blood flows. they are the source of all things essential. at least to me. they give the power to release every single intangible emotion on the verge of suicide and they literally tangle themselves around my veins until the only choice I have is to give in and regurgitate. it sounds sort of gross but really, there is nothing tastier than creative vomit.
and so there. these are the confessions of a writer (this writer) - part one. I say part one because if I’m going to be honest and reach into my soul, I better be willing to cut through the thick layer of bullsh*t to level with you. eventually we will get to part one billion three hundred eighty seven million two hundred thousand and five.
