Let's go blog-surfing today, shall we?
Anyone who's reading this from Canada will doubtless find the blog Chained to the Keyboard interesting. He's a guy writing children's shows in Australia. It sounds like Aus has much of the same cultural malaise and structural problems in its TV industry as Canada. To which I would only add: try living next door to the greatest exporter of culture the world has ever known, buddy.
What bridges could be built here? We Canadians don't mind Australian accents. In fact, I'd dare say that every one of our women has slept with one of your men at least once, usually while backpacking through Italy.
Let's bring on those co-productions!
Read Chained here
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Questions from Newbies
It takes a while to learn how to throw your feces really effectively, and become a real, gush-durned word monkey. So as a public service, I will be periodically answering questions from you, my readers. This is the first in an occasional series.
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
Is it acceptable to accept other forms of payment besides cold hard cash?
Good question. In the beginning, before you have credits, you might find yourself doing all sorts of work, non union style. It's good to become a pro writer and join the union and all, and if you find yourself competative for union jobs, you should join the union. But once you do that, you can never go back. In both Canada and the US, once you're union, you can't take non union gigs. Timing when to join is very important.
Until you join, you may find all manner of payment awaiting you. I know someone who got paid in clothing. Someone else had to defer their salary, but got four or five pairs of hockey tickets right away. That's pretty sweet, if you ask me.
I once offered to do spec field producing work for a show I was on for the price of six pints of Guinness. And they turned me down. The fools.
But here's one thing to always keep in mind. It's very important. Never, ever agree to be paid in conflict diamonds. That shit will come back and fuck you up proper. Make no mistake. Karma IS a bitch.
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
What is with Robert McKee's eyebrows?
They are fearsome and awe-inspiring. The way they pick up the chemicals from the more or less constant chain-smoking he engages in on breaks, sometimes makes them shimmer in the gloaming like those wondrous images of oil wells burning, burning in the Iraqi desert. They hold shaman's power. Do not look directly at them, lest ye shall be lost utterly.
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
What's your favorite screenplay, and why?
Dramatic screenplays, it's a tie. Chinatown, and Network. For comedies, I'd probably say Broadcast News. And if you have to ask why, you haven't seen those movies. And if you haven't seen those movies, you should be ashamed of yourself. No banana for you.
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
Do writers masturbate as much as Charlie Kaufman seemed to indicate in Adaptation? Because that's nasty.
Fine sociological query. The answer is no. Most writers actually would rather keep their masturbation keystroke related, like, say, answering fake letters from readers.
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
Seriously, what's with the Geena Davis thing?
Oh for crying out loud, it's a thing, okay? Same with Mary Louise Parker. It also extends to Rachel McAdams, okay? I'm a man. I'm a straight man. I'm a straight man who lives by myself. Who died and made you Judgey Judgerson?
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
I'm writing a spec for Two and a Half Men--
I'm sorry.
...Uh, I wasn't done.
Yes you are.
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
Is it acceptable to accept other forms of payment besides cold hard cash?
Good question. In the beginning, before you have credits, you might find yourself doing all sorts of work, non union style. It's good to become a pro writer and join the union and all, and if you find yourself competative for union jobs, you should join the union. But once you do that, you can never go back. In both Canada and the US, once you're union, you can't take non union gigs. Timing when to join is very important.
Until you join, you may find all manner of payment awaiting you. I know someone who got paid in clothing. Someone else had to defer their salary, but got four or five pairs of hockey tickets right away. That's pretty sweet, if you ask me.
I once offered to do spec field producing work for a show I was on for the price of six pints of Guinness. And they turned me down. The fools.
But here's one thing to always keep in mind. It's very important. Never, ever agree to be paid in conflict diamonds. That shit will come back and fuck you up proper. Make no mistake. Karma IS a bitch.
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
What is with Robert McKee's eyebrows?
They are fearsome and awe-inspiring. The way they pick up the chemicals from the more or less constant chain-smoking he engages in on breaks, sometimes makes them shimmer in the gloaming like those wondrous images of oil wells burning, burning in the Iraqi desert. They hold shaman's power. Do not look directly at them, lest ye shall be lost utterly.
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
What's your favorite screenplay, and why?
Dramatic screenplays, it's a tie. Chinatown, and Network. For comedies, I'd probably say Broadcast News. And if you have to ask why, you haven't seen those movies. And if you haven't seen those movies, you should be ashamed of yourself. No banana for you.
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
Do writers masturbate as much as Charlie Kaufman seemed to indicate in Adaptation? Because that's nasty.
Fine sociological query. The answer is no. Most writers actually would rather keep their masturbation keystroke related, like, say, answering fake letters from readers.
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
Seriously, what's with the Geena Davis thing?
Oh for crying out loud, it's a thing, okay? Same with Mary Louise Parker. It also extends to Rachel McAdams, okay? I'm a man. I'm a straight man. I'm a straight man who lives by myself. Who died and made you Judgey Judgerson?
Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
I'm writing a spec for Two and a Half Men--
I'm sorry.
...Uh, I wasn't done.
Yes you are.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Waiting for the other shoe...
Okay. So here's the scene:
It's 1974. The summer. I have a vague memory. My father, who it freaks me out to say was then younger than I am now, is shaving, the mirror steamed up, the hot water running, the smell of Barbasol permeating the entire bathroom. I used to love to watch him shave. Though now that I think about it, I'm not sure he was very good at it. He managed to cut himself every morning. I remember, too, looking at the stiptic pencils he used -- is that the word? I don't remember now -- whatever happened to those things? Does anyone use them anymore?
Anyway. I'm six. Or wait. Not yet. I'm five. Each morning, as he does to this day, my Dad would get up and make the coffee in the perculator. Sometimes, if I was up -- oh let's be serious, I was always up -- sometimes he'd let me watch the pot perk for him and I had to come get him when it was ready. Until then, I'd wait in the kitchen. Just after he put the coffee on but before he went up to shave, shower, and put on his suit, he'd switch on the radio.
We lived in New City, New York. About thirty miles outside of Manhattan. We'd been living there for about two years, since just before my little sister arrived. Now there was a new baby, but the radio station was still the same from when we lived in the Bronx: 1010 WINS. "You give us 22 minutes and we'll give you the world."
On this particular day, after the coffee pot started making the perking noise, and I turned the dial on the stove all the way down (which he let me do, because he'd shown me how, and had told me how I was to never to do anything else, and I wasn't an eejit and it was the 70's and things weren't quite so uptight,) I really listened to what they were saying on 1010 WINS. I didn't understand much of it...but I knew that I'd been hearing stuff kind of like it for weeks. So I went up to the bathroom and I sat down on the toilet beside the sink, with the seat down so I wouldn't fall in, and I looked at my Dad shaving and I just asked him:
"Is the President a bad man?"
I have infinite sympathy for my father at that moment, looking back on it now. Poor bastard probably thought he'd be spared the political questions til number one son was, oh, I don't know, at least seven.
He sighed, not missing the down stroke on the razor, and explained to me how the President wasn't necessarily bad, but he had done a bad thing, and he'd tried to protect his friends, and most of the time that was a good thing, but not when you lied about it. Lying about it was the thing that made it bad.
"And that's why he's going to resign today?"
My Dad reached for a towel and wiped off the rest of the shaving cream. And he didn't say anything. He just nodded and went down to grab his coffee.
I wonder now about how it felt in those days before. Did everyone know? Was there a sense of dread or excitement? Was everyone just so tired? Did it feel this bad to feel vindicated?
I ask because I don't remember it too clearly. And because it's all happening again and it seems like we didn't learn very much.
We're a long, long way from the stain on the blue dress, here, kids. A long way.
It's 1974. The summer. I have a vague memory. My father, who it freaks me out to say was then younger than I am now, is shaving, the mirror steamed up, the hot water running, the smell of Barbasol permeating the entire bathroom. I used to love to watch him shave. Though now that I think about it, I'm not sure he was very good at it. He managed to cut himself every morning. I remember, too, looking at the stiptic pencils he used -- is that the word? I don't remember now -- whatever happened to those things? Does anyone use them anymore?
Anyway. I'm six. Or wait. Not yet. I'm five. Each morning, as he does to this day, my Dad would get up and make the coffee in the perculator. Sometimes, if I was up -- oh let's be serious, I was always up -- sometimes he'd let me watch the pot perk for him and I had to come get him when it was ready. Until then, I'd wait in the kitchen. Just after he put the coffee on but before he went up to shave, shower, and put on his suit, he'd switch on the radio.
We lived in New City, New York. About thirty miles outside of Manhattan. We'd been living there for about two years, since just before my little sister arrived. Now there was a new baby, but the radio station was still the same from when we lived in the Bronx: 1010 WINS. "You give us 22 minutes and we'll give you the world."
On this particular day, after the coffee pot started making the perking noise, and I turned the dial on the stove all the way down (which he let me do, because he'd shown me how, and had told me how I was to never to do anything else, and I wasn't an eejit and it was the 70's and things weren't quite so uptight,) I really listened to what they were saying on 1010 WINS. I didn't understand much of it...but I knew that I'd been hearing stuff kind of like it for weeks. So I went up to the bathroom and I sat down on the toilet beside the sink, with the seat down so I wouldn't fall in, and I looked at my Dad shaving and I just asked him:
"Is the President a bad man?"
I have infinite sympathy for my father at that moment, looking back on it now. Poor bastard probably thought he'd be spared the political questions til number one son was, oh, I don't know, at least seven.
He sighed, not missing the down stroke on the razor, and explained to me how the President wasn't necessarily bad, but he had done a bad thing, and he'd tried to protect his friends, and most of the time that was a good thing, but not when you lied about it. Lying about it was the thing that made it bad.
"And that's why he's going to resign today?"
My Dad reached for a towel and wiped off the rest of the shaving cream. And he didn't say anything. He just nodded and went down to grab his coffee.
I wonder now about how it felt in those days before. Did everyone know? Was there a sense of dread or excitement? Was everyone just so tired? Did it feel this bad to feel vindicated?
I ask because I don't remember it too clearly. And because it's all happening again and it seems like we didn't learn very much.
We're a long, long way from the stain on the blue dress, here, kids. A long way.
Time's a Wastin
The trifecta that kills most effective writing days:
On those days when you have all three, (hell-oooooo, Denis...) it helps to remember some of the very basic writer tools that get us through the day:
"My dialogue is crappy and I'm feeling like maybe I'm writing a bunch of cliches..."
Solution:
Google your line in quotes. See the number of hits. If there are any, or ...thousands... you could be channeling old Mary Tyler Moore episodes. Back to the drawing board.
"I can't keep my head off the keyboard..."
Solution:
Get out and go for a walk. Of course, if you live in L.A., you're pretty much screwed. I suggest sitting on the 405 as an alternative.
"I've been stuck on a name for an hour."
Solution:
Biff for boys, Sally for girls. Go back to it later, dumbass.
"I'm a no-talent, unmitigated hack who's incapable of satisfying a woman."
Solution:
Uh oh. You're in the working writer K-hole. You need something to convince you that your talent isn't as elusive or non-existent as you think. I suggest Soap Operas...but only ten minutes' worth. Do NOT, under ANY circumstances, watch something good like The Sopranos, or any of those early Mary Tyler Moore episodes. Also, if you come across Jerry Springer, turn it off. I can not stress this enough. Otherwise, you'll be looking for neckties that will support your swinging body weight as you kick off the chair.
Oh, and for the other thing? Levitra.
"It's not working. I'm still a no-talent, unmitigated hack."
Solution:
Okay...time to pull out the big guns. Reach for your well-thumbed copy of Stephen Pressfield's The War of Art.
"Okay, that's better, but it's still going so slowly. I've been working for four hours and I only have two pages."
Tough toenails. Welcome to the NFL. Sit your ass down in that chair and make the magic happen, binky.
"I've had one coffee too many and everything's shaking."
You're so totally on your own. But you may be screwed.
If you make it to six hours, I suggest the following:
Dream about being asked in effusive terms to work on Aaron Sorkin's new series.
Imagine he loves your work and doesn't rewrite your every word. Ahhhhh.
See...happy place.
1) Lack of restful sleep
2) The need to work on several projects at once
3) Personal baggage
On those days when you have all three, (hell-oooooo, Denis...) it helps to remember some of the very basic writer tools that get us through the day:
"My dialogue is crappy and I'm feeling like maybe I'm writing a bunch of cliches..."
Solution:
Google your line in quotes. See the number of hits. If there are any, or ...thousands... you could be channeling old Mary Tyler Moore episodes. Back to the drawing board.
"I can't keep my head off the keyboard..."
Solution:
Get out and go for a walk. Of course, if you live in L.A., you're pretty much screwed. I suggest sitting on the 405 as an alternative.
"I've been stuck on a name for an hour."
Solution:
Biff for boys, Sally for girls. Go back to it later, dumbass.
"I'm a no-talent, unmitigated hack who's incapable of satisfying a woman."
Solution:
Uh oh. You're in the working writer K-hole. You need something to convince you that your talent isn't as elusive or non-existent as you think. I suggest Soap Operas...but only ten minutes' worth. Do NOT, under ANY circumstances, watch something good like The Sopranos, or any of those early Mary Tyler Moore episodes. Also, if you come across Jerry Springer, turn it off. I can not stress this enough. Otherwise, you'll be looking for neckties that will support your swinging body weight as you kick off the chair.
Oh, and for the other thing? Levitra.
"It's not working. I'm still a no-talent, unmitigated hack."
Solution:
Okay...time to pull out the big guns. Reach for your well-thumbed copy of Stephen Pressfield's The War of Art.
"Okay, that's better, but it's still going so slowly. I've been working for four hours and I only have two pages."
Tough toenails. Welcome to the NFL. Sit your ass down in that chair and make the magic happen, binky.
"I've had one coffee too many and everything's shaking."
You're so totally on your own. But you may be screwed.
If you make it to six hours, I suggest the following:
Dream about being asked in effusive terms to work on Aaron Sorkin's new series.
Imagine he loves your work and doesn't rewrite your every word. Ahhhhh.
See...happy place.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Never, Never
Strange breakdown yesterday that's continued today. Just hit a wall of fatigue and distraction that would not be denied. Part of the problem of being freelance is that you always feel like you should be working, and part of the problem with living alone is that there's nothing to stop you from doing that -- not until you smack up against your own wrung-out grey matter.
So instead it's coffee and a bit of Dylan and Johnny Cash and reading in the Times of the many sins of Judith Miller. (I wonder if Karl Rove is sweating yet.)
It was also a chance to recharge the creative batteries. A little more of John Doyle's book, and a few movies. I finally watched the DVD of Marty's Dylan biopic, No Direction Home, and it was as good as I expected. One quote from Dylan that just left me on the floor:
Then last night I finally saw Finding Neverland. Kate Winslet, of course, is right there in Mary Louise Parker and Geena Davis territory, but the great Scot Kelly MacDonald as Peter Pan was a bonus.
I don't know how I missed this movie; it's the one that I intended to see last year and never got to. The number one question any writer ever gets from relatives, friends, kids, and others is "where do your ideas come from?" To me it's always been a troubling and upsetting question -- having to answer it is kind of like wanting not to speak the name of God, or having to stand still while someone take a picture that steals your soul.
Well, watch Finding Neverland. That's my answer from now on. A lovely film.
So instead it's coffee and a bit of Dylan and Johnny Cash and reading in the Times of the many sins of Judith Miller. (I wonder if Karl Rove is sweating yet.)
It was also a chance to recharge the creative batteries. A little more of John Doyle's book, and a few movies. I finally watched the DVD of Marty's Dylan biopic, No Direction Home, and it was as good as I expected. One quote from Dylan that just left me on the floor:
"You can't be wise and in love."
Then last night I finally saw Finding Neverland. Kate Winslet, of course, is right there in Mary Louise Parker and Geena Davis territory, but the great Scot Kelly MacDonald as Peter Pan was a bonus.
I don't know how I missed this movie; it's the one that I intended to see last year and never got to. The number one question any writer ever gets from relatives, friends, kids, and others is "where do your ideas come from?" To me it's always been a troubling and upsetting question -- having to answer it is kind of like wanting not to speak the name of God, or having to stand still while someone take a picture that steals your soul.
Well, watch Finding Neverland. That's my answer from now on. A lovely film.
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