No More Anal

Blogs suck.

I feel compelled to update this stupid thing even when I don't have anything going on.

I used to tell stories to plug in the gaps, but let's face it, how many times can one man talk about anal sex before it just becomes weird? I'm betting we crossed that line months ago, anyway.

So instead, I'm telling you guys if I'm eating healthy and whether or not I'm writing anything - I couldn't be more fucking boring if I tried. What comes next? Updates on whether or not I'm eating enough fiber? A live 24/7 colon cam?

I envy guys like Ken Levine who can update their blog every single damn day and have something interesting to say in most of them. I guess that's why he's a working writer and I'm not. I just don't have that kind of fortitude.

Anyway, I think the point is I'm not sure if I'm cut out to be a writer.

Maybe it's time to go back to marketing.

Bored. Bored. Bored.

I'm bored off my balls, people.

Eating healthy and living the good life is gonna kill me, no doubt about it.

I miss the old me. The old me who didn't pass up opportunities to go out and have a good time.

Twice this week I've snubbed really nice fellow aspiring screenwriters when they asked me to hang out. Sure, I had stuff going on - I've been dealing with a sick Dad (who just got hit by car) for months now - but the old me would have made time.

What's the point of going out if you're not going to end up shit-faced with a strange pair of titties in your face? Hell, what's the point of life without those things?

The flip side to the boredom is should I ever fall back into my old lifestyle, that too would be the death of me. And there's your catch-22 for the day - die of boredom or die of reckless abandon.

How do most people live in the middle? What is the middle?

There are days, much like this one, where I would give it all up for one last year of debauchery.

One last year of copious drugs, innumerable women, and non-stop self-indulgence.

But on most days I'm content with where I'm at.

Today just isn't one of them.

Cerebral Posturing

I wanted to write an incredibly long rant here today about how much I hate people, and how I'd like to take a flamethrower to the entire human race sometimes - but I just couldn't do it.

Every time I'd start to write about how we're such annoying creatures who do nothing but posture day in and day out, a little voice in the back of my head would ask, "What about you? Are you including yourself in that list?"

And I'd try to answer. Yes, fucko. I'm including me.

But he wouldn't let me. A hostage to my own cerebrum.

It's like being trapped in a prison full of toddlers whose first words are of the ten dollar variety, and they like to use them. A lot.

So, instead of telling you how much joy it'd bring me to watch you get punched in the face seventeen times in a row, I have to sit here and listen to your insufferable discourse about how the Wu Tang Clan was ahead of its time and how incredible it would be for you to see David Lynch tackle the subject of snow.

But what can I do. For better or worse, I'm one of you.

Just another cog desperately trying to find greater meaning in what will almost inevitably be a meager existence.

Managing Expectations

See this? I'm updating almost regularly again.

Every time I watch a new movie, I want to write something new and different.

I saw RockNRolla the other night, and the only thing I could think of for the next twenty four hours was how much I wanted to write like Guy Ritchie.

When I saw Transformers for the first time, plot holes and movie snobs aside, I wanted to write something as epic as it for like a week.

I'm finding more and more than I need to manage my own expectations when it comes to writing. I'm so stuck on writing something great, that I'm not writing anything at all.

That's not entirely true - I have been writing for an hour each day - but they're all bits and pieces of ideas and scenes, and not so much part of anything whole yet.

I think a lot of people were expecting me to write something better than I did in my freshman debut, and now that I'm writing solo for the first time, I'd really hate to disappoint again.

But then what's the alternative? Not write at all and be stuck in this constant loop of "I can't find my story."

Well, fuck that. No. Motherfuck that.

I'm just going to work on one of the mediocre ideas I have - and if inspiration should strike, then I'll put the trite aside and work on something of substance - but until it does, I'm going to crank out the best piece of shit I possibly can.

Regular Updates. For Realz.

See this? I'm updating regularly again.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

Still writing an hour a day and eating healthy. I think the stars have aligned in 2009 - for this first week, at least. Don't expect this streak continue for much longer, I can already feel boredom creeping up on me.

I feel like I broke the opening of a script I've been trying to work on, and it feels really good right now.

There are still several sticking points I need to work on until I feel like it works well enough in my head to crank it out, but at least I now have the beginning in place.

At the end of the day, though, the idea I'm developing is still a comedy - and one of the issues I've been struggling with is whether or not I'm cut out for comedy.

I'm not sure if I have what it takes to be funny for 90 pages. I barely think I'm funny as it is - so trying to get someone else to believe it for an entire script might be a stretch.

But if not comedy, then what? I'm terrible when it comes to dealing with reality - so a drama is out. What does that leave me with if not comedy or drama? Action?

I wonder if those films on Skinemax need writers. I could write the fuck out of pseudo porn.

Three-peat!

Still trying to find my story, but I'm continuing to write for at least an hour a day and eat healthy.

That's three days in a row, gotta be some sort of world record for me.

And I know, I know - I'm totally being a fag when it comes to this whole "I need to find my story" thing. Believe me, I know. It pains me to be such a slobbery vag like this.

There's a little voice on one shoulder, "Just fucking write! Sit down and write, Jesus!"

And I am. I am writing.

Everything I'm churning out is crap in my opinion, but I'm writing. And I think I'll eventually stop dropping pablum nuggets and get to something real, or I'll just throw in the towel.

Maybe I need to go out and have a new adventure, something that'll get the juices flowing - literally and metaphorically.

Back to Back

That's right, people. Two days in a row of eating healthy and writing for at least one hour.

I feel like Hercu-fucking-les.

Now that we're done with the sunshine and rainbows, let's get to ugly truth.

I have no story to tell.

I think this has been my biggest hurdle all along. While there are ideas floating around in my head that occasionally (and temporarily) tickle my fancy, there's no story I want to tell.

I read a couple of the 2008 Blacklist scripts over the past few days, and no matter how outrageous the premise, it always felt like these people wanted to tell these stories.

Does that make sense?

I want to -want to- tell a story. I don't want to just write. I have a blog for that.

I want to tell a story that's going to inspire you.

And there's the rub. I have no story that I want to tell.

I'm trying to find my story, but in the meantime, I'm sticking to my promise - I'm writing every day. I have stuff on paper, but it's crap. I hate it.

But I'm writing. That's more than I could say last week.

Resolutions, Bright and Early

Who knew this would be so difficult? This is now my second third page one rewrite on this post.

Maybe it's because I'm not used to trying to form coherent thoughts this early.

I've never been one to get into the whole New Year's Resolution thing, but I'm nothing if not conformist - so here I am, resolutions in hand.

Only two of them:

1 - Write for an hour a day. I've talked about how much I hate to write ad nauseum, so I'm not going to get into this one too much. Suffice it to say that I'm going to try to write for an hour a day - every day. We both know there's no chance in hell I'll actually be able to do this for any length of time, but sometimes it's fun to pretend.

2 - Stop trying to get into shape and actually fucking do it.

There's a lot in my life I don't talk about in this blog - despite it not seeming that way. One of those things is this stupid, lifelong struggle to get into shape. It's such a cliche and something I should have been able to do years ago, but I underachieve like a mother fucker.

I even had surgery, thinking it'd just take care of the problem for me. But life is never that easy, is it?

Fucking life. Full of adversity and contradictions.

I've set up a calender, directly across from my desk - each day has been divided into two halves. There's two highlighters hanging next to the calender. One pink. One yellow. I'm not ashamed of using gay markers.

A day gets filled in with yellow if I actually write for an hour, and with pink if I manage not to stuff my face with that last Cheeto.

So let's do this, people. It's a new year.

Let's get all fucking excited and act like we're going to make huge, sweeping changes in our lives so that we feel like shit in six months when we realize we can't change who we are.

Who's with me?