Lately I've been thinking about the screenwriting industry.
Not that screenwriting industry. Not the one where people actually write and sell screenplays to get made into movies.
No, I've been thinking about the other screenwriting industry; the one where people pay lots of money for classes, workshops, books, seminars and coaching so they can learn how to write.
It's not limited to screenwriting, of course. Pretty much any type of writing has its associated industry of writing education. I've seen workshops and whatnot for poets and novelists and game writers and song writers and you name it. I suppose they probably exist for things like technical writing, but I don't think to the same degree. Who aspires to be a tech writer? Damned if I know.
But teaching people to write is a big business. I have no idea how big. There's probably no easy way to track it, but if I had to guess, more people make a living off the "teach you how to write" industry than actually make money by actually writing actual stuff.
A lot of people want to be writers, for whatever reason. I'm one of them. And probably, most of us will never "make it," not in the fame and bright-lights sense of the term. For every JK Rowling, there are probably 10,000 hacks sweating away over their laptops, dreaming about a big break that's never going to get broke. I have the creeping sensation that I'm one of them, too.
Is there any real value to this writer education industry? How much do we get out of it, collectively? I've taken some classes and seminars that I've enjoyed, and I've read some books that I got a lot out of. But I can't shake the idea that a large part of this industry is just a parasite that feeds on the dreams of would-be writers.
Lord knows I've spent my own share of money on this stuff, some of it very unwisely.
I wonder what would happen if every aspiring writer in the world just boycotted the entire writer education industry and spent their money on vacations and museum memberships and bicycles. We could all live the good life instead of chasing down the fame monster and trying to get it to eat us.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
I Was Going to Write About...
I read an interesting review in Salon this morning, in which critic Andrew O'Hehir runs through the new Conan O'Brien documentary, Conan O'Brien Can't Stop. The review basically confirms one of those things you vaguely worry about with someone like Conan O'Brien -- that deep down, beneath the nice guy persona, fame has done to him what fame does best: turn him into a jerk.
Then I was going to talk about my own experiences growing up ad wanting to be famous, change the world, surf around on crowds signing autographs, and so on. I was even going to talk about Lady Gaga.
But FUCK THAT, because Windows needed to reboot. And what Windows wants, Windows gets.
I come not to trash Windows, or Microsoft. I worked at Microsoft for years, and I have nothing but good things to say about my experience there.
I'm also not here to get into a Windows vs. Mac pissing match, because honestly, even through the application of theoretical physics, I could not care less. They're two giant corporations and neither one of them needs me to like them. We've got Macs and PCs in our house, and I basically use whichever one is closest to my swollen, lazy ass at the time. So until one of them incorporates a user-seeking hovercraft into the OS, it's not going to matter much to me.
No, what I'm going to say is, for several teeth-grinding moments, I thought to myself "Maybe I should start using a typewriter."
I used to use a typewriter. I mean back, wayyyyy back, when I was like five. Literally five. My dad had a behemoth IBM electric typewriter that he either borrowed or stole from work, and I would sit happily in front of it, typing little stories into the bottom half of a sheet of paper, then adding crayon drawings to the top half. Then I'd use a three-hole punch and some yarn to bind pages together (along with a construction-paper cover, natch) and voila! I was zining before zining was cool.
I don't remember much about the books I used to write when I was five. As far as I know, none of them exist anymore. I do remember that one of my stories was about a flea-breathing dragon. I also remember that before I brought one of these stories into show-and-tell, my older brother and his friend recommended that I add a twist to my character, in that he smoked grass.
Since I was five, I thought they meant grass, like the stuff in the lawn. I knew my dad smoked cigarettes, and the idea of smoking blades of grass was just the sort of silliness that cracked me up at that young and tender age. So sure, I added it. I mean hell, all I needed to do was untie some yarn and pop in a new page.
I read that story at school. I remember my teacher asking me where I got the idea about smoking grass, and I told her that my brother John had suggested it. She nodded, and I never heard anything else about it. But I have to imagine she tracked him down in his fifth-grade class at some point that day.
Anyway, this was pretty much just one big digression, huh? Brought to you by Windows 7!
Then I was going to talk about my own experiences growing up ad wanting to be famous, change the world, surf around on crowds signing autographs, and so on. I was even going to talk about Lady Gaga.
But FUCK THAT, because Windows needed to reboot. And what Windows wants, Windows gets.
I come not to trash Windows, or Microsoft. I worked at Microsoft for years, and I have nothing but good things to say about my experience there.
I'm also not here to get into a Windows vs. Mac pissing match, because honestly, even through the application of theoretical physics, I could not care less. They're two giant corporations and neither one of them needs me to like them. We've got Macs and PCs in our house, and I basically use whichever one is closest to my swollen, lazy ass at the time. So until one of them incorporates a user-seeking hovercraft into the OS, it's not going to matter much to me.
No, what I'm going to say is, for several teeth-grinding moments, I thought to myself "Maybe I should start using a typewriter."
I used to use a typewriter. I mean back, wayyyyy back, when I was like five. Literally five. My dad had a behemoth IBM electric typewriter that he either borrowed or stole from work, and I would sit happily in front of it, typing little stories into the bottom half of a sheet of paper, then adding crayon drawings to the top half. Then I'd use a three-hole punch and some yarn to bind pages together (along with a construction-paper cover, natch) and voila! I was zining before zining was cool.
I don't remember much about the books I used to write when I was five. As far as I know, none of them exist anymore. I do remember that one of my stories was about a flea-breathing dragon. I also remember that before I brought one of these stories into show-and-tell, my older brother and his friend recommended that I add a twist to my character, in that he smoked grass.
Since I was five, I thought they meant grass, like the stuff in the lawn. I knew my dad smoked cigarettes, and the idea of smoking blades of grass was just the sort of silliness that cracked me up at that young and tender age. So sure, I added it. I mean hell, all I needed to do was untie some yarn and pop in a new page.
I read that story at school. I remember my teacher asking me where I got the idea about smoking grass, and I told her that my brother John had suggested it. She nodded, and I never heard anything else about it. But I have to imagine she tracked him down in his fifth-grade class at some point that day.
Anyway, this was pretty much just one big digression, huh? Brought to you by Windows 7!
Monday, June 13, 2011
My Horrible Reading Habits, Revealed Via Kindle
I love my Kindle. I remember vividly swearing (that is to say, both my memory and the swearing were vivid) that I would never get one because I would never be willing to trade in the tactile pleasure of an actual physical book. I would never compromise the pure, aesthetic reading experience.
Y'know. That bullshit.
Here's the thing. There's really no tactile pleasure involved in carrying around a dozen books, much less the thousands of books that a single Kindle can handle. I get to bring a library with me on the bus, people. A library.
So, anyway, since books on the Kindle still cost money, I've not only been catching up on my reading, but I've been catching up on my reading of the classics. There are tons of free, Kindle-ready books out there that you can download for no charge. Namely all the books you were supposed to read in high school. Or college. Or ever.
Which brings me to my point: every time you finish a book on the Kindle, it invites you to tweet the fact to the world, or to share it on The Facebook. This is probably something I will never do, because:
A: It will reveal all the books that I'm just now reading that I feel like I should have read before now. I mean, I'm nominally a writer here. I feed my wife and kid with words. Not in the literal alphabet soup sense, but you know what I mean.
-and-
B: It will show just how damn slowly I read the books that I should have read like a million years ago.
I mean, I thought I had read like a hundred books in the nine months since I got my Kindle. Then I counted.
Twelve. I've read twelve books.
I feel like an idiot, honestly.
I know this guy (and fellow writer) named Richard Dansky, and the guy reads books like I read soup labels. He writes book reviews, and sometimes he has to start over because he's just finished another book in mid-sentence.
There! You hear that? That was him finishing another book right now.
So, anyway, don't hold your breath for my tweet about Anna Karenina.
Though, spoiler, she dies at the end.
Y'know. That bullshit.
Here's the thing. There's really no tactile pleasure involved in carrying around a dozen books, much less the thousands of books that a single Kindle can handle. I get to bring a library with me on the bus, people. A library.
So, anyway, since books on the Kindle still cost money, I've not only been catching up on my reading, but I've been catching up on my reading of the classics. There are tons of free, Kindle-ready books out there that you can download for no charge. Namely all the books you were supposed to read in high school. Or college. Or ever.
Which brings me to my point: every time you finish a book on the Kindle, it invites you to tweet the fact to the world, or to share it on The Facebook. This is probably something I will never do, because:
A: It will reveal all the books that I'm just now reading that I feel like I should have read before now. I mean, I'm nominally a writer here. I feed my wife and kid with words. Not in the literal alphabet soup sense, but you know what I mean.
-and-
B: It will show just how damn slowly I read the books that I should have read like a million years ago.
I mean, I thought I had read like a hundred books in the nine months since I got my Kindle. Then I counted.
Twelve. I've read twelve books.
I feel like an idiot, honestly.
I know this guy (and fellow writer) named Richard Dansky, and the guy reads books like I read soup labels. He writes book reviews, and sometimes he has to start over because he's just finished another book in mid-sentence.
There! You hear that? That was him finishing another book right now.
So, anyway, don't hold your breath for my tweet about Anna Karenina.
Though, spoiler, she dies at the end.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
The Sarah Palin History Hour
My Fellow Americans,
As most of you know, today sure is an extra special day in American history. It was on this day in nineteen forty-(inaudible) that the Allied troops launched the mama grizzly of all beach assaults on the Kaiser's armies, which was known as D-Day, with the D standing for "Doggone it You Nazis, Enough is Enough Already!"
On that day so many centuries ago, American troops lined up with troops from other countries such as Britain and the Iraq and gave those pasta-eating Germans a good old U.S. of Ass-kicking. Brave American heroes such as Sgt. Nick Fury, President Ronald Reagan, and Tom Hanks did their darndest under the leadership of General George Washington to cross the Delaware and make that perilous landing on the beaches of Norway.
And it's a good thing they did, for if they hadn't, the spread of communism would have spread unabasted, covering the world with an evil crimson glow, kinda like one of those Sherwin-Williams paint logos. But instead of a paint can, it would be the hammer and wheat-cutter thingy, and instead of paint it would be the red, red blood of freedom-loving people everywhere. And bald eagles.
But with a little pluck and American know-how, our boys in blue easily won the war that day, and forced Hitler to renounce his famous oath: Ich bin ein Berliner.
Ich bin indeed, Hitler. Ich bin indeed.
Today, we must remain as vigilant as ever, which is why Todd and I spend at least 13 hours a week patrolling the Aleutian Islands. Like any blue-collar American family, we rely on nothing but our rugged individualism, our trusty Winchester 30-30 rifles, and our Sikorsky 300C helicopter, which we call Stinger, which was a name we had in our back pocket just in case I got pregnant again.
We haven't tagged and bagged any commies yet, but rest assured that if we see any of those pinko freedom-haters crawling through the scrub toward American soil, our wolf-hunting skills will not go to waste.
In conclusion, I'd just like to ask God to bless all 47 of these United States, and to quote the famous Paul Revere in saying: I'll be back.
(Also, please be sure to tune in for syndicated reruns of Sarah Palin's Alaska, broadcasting every Thursday at 3am on a local access cable channel near you.)
As most of you know, today sure is an extra special day in American history. It was on this day in nineteen forty-(inaudible) that the Allied troops launched the mama grizzly of all beach assaults on the Kaiser's armies, which was known as D-Day, with the D standing for "Doggone it You Nazis, Enough is Enough Already!"
On that day so many centuries ago, American troops lined up with troops from other countries such as Britain and the Iraq and gave those pasta-eating Germans a good old U.S. of Ass-kicking. Brave American heroes such as Sgt. Nick Fury, President Ronald Reagan, and Tom Hanks did their darndest under the leadership of General George Washington to cross the Delaware and make that perilous landing on the beaches of Norway.
And it's a good thing they did, for if they hadn't, the spread of communism would have spread unabasted, covering the world with an evil crimson glow, kinda like one of those Sherwin-Williams paint logos. But instead of a paint can, it would be the hammer and wheat-cutter thingy, and instead of paint it would be the red, red blood of freedom-loving people everywhere. And bald eagles.
But with a little pluck and American know-how, our boys in blue easily won the war that day, and forced Hitler to renounce his famous oath: Ich bin ein Berliner.
Ich bin indeed, Hitler. Ich bin indeed.
Today, we must remain as vigilant as ever, which is why Todd and I spend at least 13 hours a week patrolling the Aleutian Islands. Like any blue-collar American family, we rely on nothing but our rugged individualism, our trusty Winchester 30-30 rifles, and our Sikorsky 300C helicopter, which we call Stinger, which was a name we had in our back pocket just in case I got pregnant again.
We haven't tagged and bagged any commies yet, but rest assured that if we see any of those pinko freedom-haters crawling through the scrub toward American soil, our wolf-hunting skills will not go to waste.
In conclusion, I'd just like to ask God to bless all 47 of these United States, and to quote the famous Paul Revere in saying: I'll be back.
(Also, please be sure to tune in for syndicated reruns of Sarah Palin's Alaska, broadcasting every Thursday at 3am on a local access cable channel near you.)
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Fun With Mary Sue
A few years back, I wrote a book. A book I loved. Except for one minor problem.
I hated my main character.
The idea was to take a normal kid, normal in every sense of the term, and put him into extraordinary circumstances against his will. His job was to survive these circumstances with nothing but a little street smarts and truckload of determination. And even though everyone around him was gifted in a way he wasn't, he still managed to conduct a thorough campaign of butt-kicking and census-taking.
But I hated my character. He was like Poochie -- all construct and no substance. Designed to be cool, engineered to be awesome, and utterly lacking in anything resembling a soul.
On the other hand, I love my supporting characters. For the most part, they're absolutely awful human beings; self-absorbed, delusional, neurotic. But hilarious. And they feel like real people, enough so that I actually miss "working" with them since I stuffed my manuscript in the proverbial drawer.
So why is my main character such a tool (literally), when my other characters feel great?
Enter Mary Sue.
Mary Sue is a term for a character that a writer puts into a story for the sole purpose of living out some fictionalized, usually idealized, fantasy life. Mary Sue (or Gary/Larry/Harry Stu for guys) is basically the person the author wants to be. Prettier, faster, smarter, stronger, more lusted-after, but at the core, the very same person.
I think my unfortunate protagonist, Wilson, is a Gary Stu. He's never at a loss, always ready with a quip, iron-willed, resourceful, level-headed, and of course, ultimately victorious. He's the kid I would want to be if I were ever in a situation like his.
And he's about as compelling as wallpaper paste.
A secondary problem, but related, is that Wilson was thrust into his situation not out of choice, not as the result of some action he took, but almost by accident, against his will. He's innocent. A victim of fate.
I don't know that victims are that interesting, story-wise. Or protagonist-wise, at least.
So I've struggled now for years with this story, which has so much stuff I love and one major thing I hate. I debate whether it can be salvaged, or if it just needs to be tossed on the Bonfire of Experience and forgotten.
In the meantime, I work on other stuff, but lately I find myself more and more preoccupied with that 400-page elephant in my writing room.
I hated my main character.
The idea was to take a normal kid, normal in every sense of the term, and put him into extraordinary circumstances against his will. His job was to survive these circumstances with nothing but a little street smarts and truckload of determination. And even though everyone around him was gifted in a way he wasn't, he still managed to conduct a thorough campaign of butt-kicking and census-taking.
But I hated my character. He was like Poochie -- all construct and no substance. Designed to be cool, engineered to be awesome, and utterly lacking in anything resembling a soul.
On the other hand, I love my supporting characters. For the most part, they're absolutely awful human beings; self-absorbed, delusional, neurotic. But hilarious. And they feel like real people, enough so that I actually miss "working" with them since I stuffed my manuscript in the proverbial drawer.
So why is my main character such a tool (literally), when my other characters feel great?
Enter Mary Sue.
Mary Sue is a term for a character that a writer puts into a story for the sole purpose of living out some fictionalized, usually idealized, fantasy life. Mary Sue (or Gary/Larry/Harry Stu for guys) is basically the person the author wants to be. Prettier, faster, smarter, stronger, more lusted-after, but at the core, the very same person.
I think my unfortunate protagonist, Wilson, is a Gary Stu. He's never at a loss, always ready with a quip, iron-willed, resourceful, level-headed, and of course, ultimately victorious. He's the kid I would want to be if I were ever in a situation like his.
And he's about as compelling as wallpaper paste.
A secondary problem, but related, is that Wilson was thrust into his situation not out of choice, not as the result of some action he took, but almost by accident, against his will. He's innocent. A victim of fate.
I don't know that victims are that interesting, story-wise. Or protagonist-wise, at least.
So I've struggled now for years with this story, which has so much stuff I love and one major thing I hate. I debate whether it can be salvaged, or if it just needs to be tossed on the Bonfire of Experience and forgotten.
In the meantime, I work on other stuff, but lately I find myself more and more preoccupied with that 400-page elephant in my writing room.
Monday, April 19, 2010
A Gradual Whittling of Culinary Options
I have this stomach thing.
Long story short, there's about a million things I can no longer eat, and the list just happens to line up pretty much exactly with a catalogue of my favorite foods. Coffee, chocolate, garlic, tomato sauce, onions, spicy anything, and booze.
I actually found out about my stomach thing (which is, I think, the clinical term for the condition) about half a year ago. I went through this process wherein they knock me out, stick a balloon-thingy (more medical jargon) down my throat, and inflate it to break up a bunch of scar tissue in my esophagus. It cured the main symptom of my thing, which is that food gets stuck halfway down my gullet and just lodges itself there like some ill-mannered houseguest.
But the fix is only temporary, and my doctor, my very good doctor, gave me a prescription for an entire phalanx of acid-control products, as well as the following rules:
1. None of the above-mentioned foods.
2. No eating within two hours of going to bed.
3. Never, ever get myself wet.
Actually, that last one is from Gremlins I think, but the first two are legit. And since we now go to bed around 8 to maximize sleep, and I get home at 6:45, I just kinda don't get to eat dinner anymore.
Theoretically speaking, anyway.
In reality, after two weeks or so of diligently following Doctor's Orders, I started getting a bit indignant. I hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye to coffee. And chocolate has been such a boon companion, how could I give it the kiss-off without so much as a last lingering look, maybe with "Don't You (Forget About Me)" playing in the background?
But what started as a last walk down Culinary Lane turned into a six-month rebellion against medical science, during which I not only continued eating my forbidden foods, but actually reversed course and began feasting upon them like Azrael at a Smurf hospital for paraplegics.
I had the right, didn't I? I was barely sleeping. All my leisure activities had been traded in for changing diapers. I deserved a little indulgence.
Fast forward six months. My stomach is a mess.
I yield, kids. I yield. Bring on the oatmeal and stewed prunes and water crackers.
Will I give up everything, all the time?
No. I don't really have to. I have enough medically-prescribed chemicals to indulge in the occasional slice of Hawaiian style, or to slurp a very occasional soy latte. But this time, occasional actually means occasional. The way Christmas is occasional. Not the way, say, Thursday is occasional. Or, like, breathing.
The part of me that is lured by the positive thinking movement would like to see this as an opportunity, maybe a chance to clean up my diet in a way I haven't tried since I lost all my, ahem, baby fat in high school trying to impress Traci Whatsherface (didn't work, btw. She was more impressed by her pot dealer. But I digress...)
Maybe it will be.
I'll keep you posted.
Long story short, there's about a million things I can no longer eat, and the list just happens to line up pretty much exactly with a catalogue of my favorite foods. Coffee, chocolate, garlic, tomato sauce, onions, spicy anything, and booze.
I actually found out about my stomach thing (which is, I think, the clinical term for the condition) about half a year ago. I went through this process wherein they knock me out, stick a balloon-thingy (more medical jargon) down my throat, and inflate it to break up a bunch of scar tissue in my esophagus. It cured the main symptom of my thing, which is that food gets stuck halfway down my gullet and just lodges itself there like some ill-mannered houseguest.
But the fix is only temporary, and my doctor, my very good doctor, gave me a prescription for an entire phalanx of acid-control products, as well as the following rules:
1. None of the above-mentioned foods.
2. No eating within two hours of going to bed.
3. Never, ever get myself wet.
Actually, that last one is from Gremlins I think, but the first two are legit. And since we now go to bed around 8 to maximize sleep, and I get home at 6:45, I just kinda don't get to eat dinner anymore.
Theoretically speaking, anyway.
In reality, after two weeks or so of diligently following Doctor's Orders, I started getting a bit indignant. I hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye to coffee. And chocolate has been such a boon companion, how could I give it the kiss-off without so much as a last lingering look, maybe with "Don't You (Forget About Me)" playing in the background?
But what started as a last walk down Culinary Lane turned into a six-month rebellion against medical science, during which I not only continued eating my forbidden foods, but actually reversed course and began feasting upon them like Azrael at a Smurf hospital for paraplegics.
I had the right, didn't I? I was barely sleeping. All my leisure activities had been traded in for changing diapers. I deserved a little indulgence.
Fast forward six months. My stomach is a mess.
I yield, kids. I yield. Bring on the oatmeal and stewed prunes and water crackers.
Will I give up everything, all the time?
No. I don't really have to. I have enough medically-prescribed chemicals to indulge in the occasional slice of Hawaiian style, or to slurp a very occasional soy latte. But this time, occasional actually means occasional. The way Christmas is occasional. Not the way, say, Thursday is occasional. Or, like, breathing.
The part of me that is lured by the positive thinking movement would like to see this as an opportunity, maybe a chance to clean up my diet in a way I haven't tried since I lost all my, ahem, baby fat in high school trying to impress Traci Whatsherface (didn't work, btw. She was more impressed by her pot dealer. But I digress...)
Maybe it will be.
I'll keep you posted.
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