An end to madness

After eight days of writing, I finished the project I was working on. For those out of the loop, my brother has kindled in me an interest in writing a television pilot. When he told me that I should have a plan for what happens in the first season, I wrote up a synopsis of every episode. As I said, this took eight days.

I must say that after the first few days my passion for the project faded, so that I no longer felt like the only obsessed fan for a show that didn't exist. Don't get me wrong, I still like it. Every time I sat down at my computer to plot out a new show, the anticipation moved through me like a strong wind in an enclosed space. It was a feeling I haven't had since I first watched Joss Wheadon's "Firefly" (a show that my own concept resembles more than a little). The point is that I'm no longer sitting, staring hungrily at the screen of my computer, waiting for new words to appear as if it were someone else's hands doing the typing.

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, as half of the supposed audience for this blog should already know. In a strange way, I find that I look forward to it every year, in that it prompts some of the bizarre behavior for which I am well known. For most people fasting means a small breakfast and lunch and a reasonable dinner. Since this is pretty similar to what I always do, I instead adopt the approach of eating nothing for about twenty-eight hours. Factoring in that dinner often ends at eight o'clock around here, that means that I begin eating once again at midnight following Ash Wednesday. The ritual, as it has become, is to go to Mexico Viejo (the best local Mexican restaurant, in my opinion) at around 11:15, take home a plate of carne asada fries, and wait for the stroke of midnight, at which point, I attack the food like the Mogwai in Gremlins. With the shrunken belly of someone who has not eaten in a full day, this is an ascetic experience in itself, the pounds of meat and french fries stretching at my insides.

This year I had to settle for Philibertos super nachos, as Mexico Viejo started, at some unrecorded point in the past, closing at ten.

What is the point of this excercise? Perhaps I seek closure to such a day. Perhaps I do it in memory of my dear brother, Gregory, who initiated the ritual and is sadly no longer with us (having moved to northern California). I think that the most likely reason is that somewhere out there, Gregory knows that I am doing it and cannot do it himself because he now lives eight hours from the border, where no one knows how to make decent mexican food.

What can I say? You only hurt the ones you love.

Madness Journal day three

(written on Friday)

It seems to have come to this. Plainly, I am going insane. Not slowly or subtly but with the worrying speed of mud rushing into a flash flood. With the rapidly vanishing mind of one walking down this path, I feel it somewhat necessary to document the process.

While my own dimming resources are a source of amusement to me, the reason for it is something I am loathe to discuss. Many people know that I am a writer by habit, and almost as many know that it pains me to speak of it, but here is the root of the problem. That’s a lie. The root of the problem is that I have no job, and when I am bored, I write to take the edge off. I’ve written three books and had one published by the delightful scam artists at Publish America. The problem for me is that a writer of books is an author, one of screenplays is a screenwriter, one of newspaper columns is a journalist. A writer that falls into none of these categories is a failure and the name “writer” is a euphemism for it.

Knowing that I was a writer, my baby brother bought me a book on how to write a screenplay. Its pages are now darkened and bent by my reading them and referencing them. I wrote two screenplays, almost entirely for practice at the form. Then one day, Brian told me I should write a television pilot. I was not quite done with the second screenplay, and tend to give my projects the single minded attention of a buzz saw, so I politely ignored him then. When I finished the project, however, my mind wandered to what kind of show I might write.

Brian gave me a number of pointers and I have begun work on my “Bible” (apparently a synopsis of every detail of the show before you begin). That was three days ago. I’ve now written a full synopsis of five episodes, notes on nine more and full bios of the seven person ensemble cast. I wouldn’t say they’re real to me, but they’re no longer vague mishmashes of traits either. They have form and substance, and I can almost hear the dialog.

So here I am, three days into madness, and wondering where to go from here.

The big switch

Well, here we are. My intention is to put a link to this on facebook for anyone that feels like reading it, we'll see how that works out. I know, it's a symptom of our bizarre 21st century egotism that everyone believes that people read their blog, though they don't read anyone else's. I feel I have a bit of an edge in that department, however. I do read other people's blogs on occasion (email me a link) and I very rarely talk about myself or keep in email contact with anyone. Thus, if you want to know what's going on in my life, my infrequent posts here is pretty much all you get.

So why am I here, as opposed to my old Myspace blog? There are a number of reasons. First, I'm on a dial up connection here. Even connecting to Myspace was a hassle. Second, what is it about Myspace that makes everyone want to change their name and put up a picture of a teddy bear or a truck engine and make all of their personal information so vague that I can't even recognize the people on my friends list? And D) [sic] you know that feeling you get when it says there's a new friend request? That breathless, anticipatory charge that makes you wonder (for a couple of minutes on dial up) just who it was that found you out of all the millions of profiles? A friend from high school? Or work maybe? Someone close to your heart that sadly has faded from view? No, sorry, it's just somebody wanting you to check out the great pictures that Myspace won't let her post because she's "expressing her natural beauty" or some rot like that.

The short version of the above is that I deleted my Myspace account, not as a personal affront to anyone (except possibly the photogenic young ladies mentioned) but as a practical necessity. Other than that, not a whole lot seems to be going on. I'm still looking for a job, with slightly less hope and zeal than a couple of months ago. My latest writing projects are a couple of screenplays that my brother convinced me I have the talent to put together. The trouble there is that I have no idea where to send them. And that's about it. Perhaps next time I'll have more to report.