waltersgirl
06-07-2002, 01:04 PM
for anyone who's ever picked up a pen, booted a computer, or ever contemplated putting a single thought to paper....red and i attended a pre-conference craft workshop at the Hilton Universal, Universal Studios. writers discussing writing. wow. anyway....they put together a program and in it, among other things, were reflections on writing by writers. i share the funniest, truest, most essential one here. we are not alone, and i don't mean that in a Mulder kinda way.;)
this is from Stephen Gaghan, winner of the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay for Traffic and winner of the Emmy for Best Dramatic Writing in 1997 for an ep of NYPD Blue.
This is the dread time, the in-between time, dead time, my time, time. A time I loathe time. A word I loathe, time. An ugly, clipped word, insignificant and unfinished. Stare at it for longer than an instant and it begins to look like an herb or a piece of thread brushed off a sweater in a waiting room. Anything and nothing. Time. Time. Time. It's seven-thirty in the morning and I haven't started, eight-oh-five and I haven't started, it's nine-thirty, what is wrong with me? Where's the timer? I'll set it to five minutes and when it rings I'll be started, no matter what. I'll set it to one minute and that's it, one minute and no matter what I'll be started.
Obviously, the problem is the idea, the job, the pay, the people, the underlying material, the lack of underlying material, too much research, not enough research. Obviously, the problem is me. I am the problem. I am a fraud. The problem is I am a fraudulent human being who has lucked out completely up to now and now the luck is completely run out. The problem is I am a phony with no ideas and logorrhea, that is the problem that got me into this. I am a phony who talks the talk without walking the walk, constructed of smoke without any fire, wearing a large hat, but owning no ranch: a blabbing homeless smoke figure with a large head made of hat.
Obviously, I should never have signed on for this, but I can get out of it. I can quit. I'll call them up and explain. I'll explain I've had a change of heart, a seizure of confidence, I've grown confused from all the reading. I'll recommend other people, I'll bow out gracefully. If it was my idea, it's a bad idea, if it was their idea then I never understood it, if it was my idea that I've told no one about then this hasn't even happened. It's almost ten. It's ten o'clock in the morning. This day is shot.
Obviously, I have other things to do. There are myriad important things that have been left hanging, just hanging around, loose ends, errands. Errands are good. I'll just hurry out in a huff, a self-important huff, with the air of a man hurrying on his way to do important things that must get done. No, impossible, I refuse. I refuse to be that person, that person on the sidewalk in a daze clutching his little list of important errands, talking on the telephone while trying on new shoes.
Obviously, the problem is my desk. My desk is such a mess if only you could see my desk: there are piles stacked sideways on top of piles, unread biographies written by people whose other biographies I have loved, biographies of people who have specialized in the writing of biographies, there are gifts to be delivered, pictures of children, books to be adapted, books to be returned, information on voting the primary elections, notebooks, legal pads, mounds of legal pads filled with notes, tiny scraps of paper scribbled with dialogue, a variety of devices used for the writing of notes while walking around, driving, doing anything other than what I should be doing. Yes, the problem is the desk. When the desk is orderly I will begin. It is a present to me from me about me. A neat desk is a gift to me. The books go on shelves. The notebooks are stacked. The little grubby scraps of brilliant dialogue go in a shoebox and that shoebox can be lost somewhere in the future betwen moves like all the rest.
You should see this desk. It's beautiful. The grain of the wood is beautiful. The pens in the silver julep cup are beautiful. The stapler and pencil sharpener and translucent tape are in a perfect little north-south row. The laptop sits on its ergonomically correct platform. The chair with breathable mesh and lumbar support and technology used in spacecraft is exactly the right height. My elbows are at my sides, my wrists extended in delicate, anti-carpal harmony. The light off the water through the windows is cheerful but not too bright, playing on the ceiling. I breathe deeply and stare, stare, stare at the blank screen, the flashing cursor. Finally, I get down on my knees and beg God to allow me to write the worst sentence ever written; Please God help me write one lousy sentence, the worst sentence ever written by man, please.
reprinted without permission from Words into Pictures 2002 program
this is from Stephen Gaghan, winner of the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay for Traffic and winner of the Emmy for Best Dramatic Writing in 1997 for an ep of NYPD Blue.
This is the dread time, the in-between time, dead time, my time, time. A time I loathe time. A word I loathe, time. An ugly, clipped word, insignificant and unfinished. Stare at it for longer than an instant and it begins to look like an herb or a piece of thread brushed off a sweater in a waiting room. Anything and nothing. Time. Time. Time. It's seven-thirty in the morning and I haven't started, eight-oh-five and I haven't started, it's nine-thirty, what is wrong with me? Where's the timer? I'll set it to five minutes and when it rings I'll be started, no matter what. I'll set it to one minute and that's it, one minute and no matter what I'll be started.
Obviously, the problem is the idea, the job, the pay, the people, the underlying material, the lack of underlying material, too much research, not enough research. Obviously, the problem is me. I am the problem. I am a fraud. The problem is I am a fraudulent human being who has lucked out completely up to now and now the luck is completely run out. The problem is I am a phony with no ideas and logorrhea, that is the problem that got me into this. I am a phony who talks the talk without walking the walk, constructed of smoke without any fire, wearing a large hat, but owning no ranch: a blabbing homeless smoke figure with a large head made of hat.
Obviously, I should never have signed on for this, but I can get out of it. I can quit. I'll call them up and explain. I'll explain I've had a change of heart, a seizure of confidence, I've grown confused from all the reading. I'll recommend other people, I'll bow out gracefully. If it was my idea, it's a bad idea, if it was their idea then I never understood it, if it was my idea that I've told no one about then this hasn't even happened. It's almost ten. It's ten o'clock in the morning. This day is shot.
Obviously, I have other things to do. There are myriad important things that have been left hanging, just hanging around, loose ends, errands. Errands are good. I'll just hurry out in a huff, a self-important huff, with the air of a man hurrying on his way to do important things that must get done. No, impossible, I refuse. I refuse to be that person, that person on the sidewalk in a daze clutching his little list of important errands, talking on the telephone while trying on new shoes.
Obviously, the problem is my desk. My desk is such a mess if only you could see my desk: there are piles stacked sideways on top of piles, unread biographies written by people whose other biographies I have loved, biographies of people who have specialized in the writing of biographies, there are gifts to be delivered, pictures of children, books to be adapted, books to be returned, information on voting the primary elections, notebooks, legal pads, mounds of legal pads filled with notes, tiny scraps of paper scribbled with dialogue, a variety of devices used for the writing of notes while walking around, driving, doing anything other than what I should be doing. Yes, the problem is the desk. When the desk is orderly I will begin. It is a present to me from me about me. A neat desk is a gift to me. The books go on shelves. The notebooks are stacked. The little grubby scraps of brilliant dialogue go in a shoebox and that shoebox can be lost somewhere in the future betwen moves like all the rest.
You should see this desk. It's beautiful. The grain of the wood is beautiful. The pens in the silver julep cup are beautiful. The stapler and pencil sharpener and translucent tape are in a perfect little north-south row. The laptop sits on its ergonomically correct platform. The chair with breathable mesh and lumbar support and technology used in spacecraft is exactly the right height. My elbows are at my sides, my wrists extended in delicate, anti-carpal harmony. The light off the water through the windows is cheerful but not too bright, playing on the ceiling. I breathe deeply and stare, stare, stare at the blank screen, the flashing cursor. Finally, I get down on my knees and beg God to allow me to write the worst sentence ever written; Please God help me write one lousy sentence, the worst sentence ever written by man, please.
reprinted without permission from Words into Pictures 2002 program