And for this week, we take a little foray into the musical theatre. For context, I was imagining the song as performed by Helena Bonham Carter and Edward Sanders in the Tim Burton movie.
It's a little long(ish), so I'm sticking it behind the cut.
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Out of My Element
I've been avoiding drafting out a short film idea, presumably because I've never written a script before and I'm not sure how to start. The feel of it in my head has me enamored, though, so today I set to work writing it as a short story.
I found myself out of my element again when I realized that half the subject matter required me to break out of the old write what you know comfort zone. I was writing an intense narrative about an experience I only knew peripherally.
When I'm evaluating an artist, versatility is one of the first qualities that comes to mind. When I watch American Idol or So You Think You Can Dance (no spoilers! I haven't watched the SYTYCD finale yet), contestants can really only impress me one of two ways: make the hair on my right arm stand up or give an amazing performance outside of their style. I love Chuck Palahniuk, but I'm often disappointed that his style and plot structure remain so constant across his body of work. The worst thing an artist can do is fail to evolve, grow, test new boundaries.
That said, write what you know is such ubiquitous advice it's become cliché. It's how I wrote 50,000 words in one month last November.
But it's important to remember, Annie Proulx wrote Brokeback Mountain as a 60-something-year-old woman who had spent all but a few years of her life in the northeast United States. She won an O. Henry award for the story, and the movie adaptation won a slew of prestigious film awards. That's pretty amazing, and it reminded me how important it is to stretch my artistic muscles.
I found myself out of my element again when I realized that half the subject matter required me to break out of the old write what you know comfort zone. I was writing an intense narrative about an experience I only knew peripherally.
When I'm evaluating an artist, versatility is one of the first qualities that comes to mind. When I watch American Idol or So You Think You Can Dance (no spoilers! I haven't watched the SYTYCD finale yet), contestants can really only impress me one of two ways: make the hair on my right arm stand up or give an amazing performance outside of their style. I love Chuck Palahniuk, but I'm often disappointed that his style and plot structure remain so constant across his body of work. The worst thing an artist can do is fail to evolve, grow, test new boundaries.
That said, write what you know is such ubiquitous advice it's become cliché. It's how I wrote 50,000 words in one month last November.
But it's important to remember, Annie Proulx wrote Brokeback Mountain as a 60-something-year-old woman who had spent all but a few years of her life in the northeast United States. She won an O. Henry award for the story, and the movie adaptation won a slew of prestigious film awards. That's pretty amazing, and it reminded me how important it is to stretch my artistic muscles.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Breaks.
Lately I've been wondering about my creative process, wondering if breaks are a necessary gear keeping the process spinning or whether breaks are just that, a break in character. A skip, a foible. Between Christmas and New Year's I took an honest and true break. Though I carried my notebook to Pennsylvania for Christmas, its pages remained largely undisturbed for the length of the trip.
But now I'm typing this with my laptop on the kitchen counter, reheating the last of the Christmas leftovers, and really telling myself -- it's over. Break's over.
While I was home from work (lucky us, our office closes between Christmas and New Year's) I stayed up late, mostly slept late, drank champagne and played board games, spent whole days in my pajamas watching movies and playing World of Warcraft. Occasionally I'd feel a twinge and think, "I should be working on my novel," but then I'd realize I'd let writerfriends take it away, force this break.
By Sunday, though, the last Sunday before returning to the office, I was finished. Even on Saturday I had an inclination to start planning a zine, got out a sketchpad and some old stuff and laid in my writing room, back on the floor and eyes glued to the ceiling fan. So much of the creative process can be laying on the floor surrounded by papers and books.
But on Sunday I was full-on done with breaks. I twisted an incense burner out of tin foil and struck out to the basement to sort through some of the boxes down there, thinking I might find inspiration in purging, sorting, making plans for the space after I empty it of clutter. I watched Angels in America and relished the way it put my soul through a wringer, lost myself in it as an artist and a human. I started writing again in earnest, returned to my daily practice. I had a significant personal revelation.
My question is, did my break pave the way for all this? Did it prepare me to work again on my novel after I receive it back full of red pen? Did it leave my heart open for new ideas, new inspiration, did it give me new eyes? Or was it just a delay, a hiccup, a missed opportunity to immerse myself in a project?
We have such a need to create, but I'm feeling oddly guiltless about taking some time away from "real" things, "productive" things. Accomplishments. I'm feeling like the past week left me open to realize even after taking so much time out for myself, I still voluntarily return to my words. I miss them, need them. I can take a break from them, go on vacation, and know full well I'll be more than happy to come back.
But now I'm typing this with my laptop on the kitchen counter, reheating the last of the Christmas leftovers, and really telling myself -- it's over. Break's over.
While I was home from work (lucky us, our office closes between Christmas and New Year's) I stayed up late, mostly slept late, drank champagne and played board games, spent whole days in my pajamas watching movies and playing World of Warcraft. Occasionally I'd feel a twinge and think, "I should be working on my novel," but then I'd realize I'd let writerfriends take it away, force this break.
By Sunday, though, the last Sunday before returning to the office, I was finished. Even on Saturday I had an inclination to start planning a zine, got out a sketchpad and some old stuff and laid in my writing room, back on the floor and eyes glued to the ceiling fan. So much of the creative process can be laying on the floor surrounded by papers and books.
But on Sunday I was full-on done with breaks. I twisted an incense burner out of tin foil and struck out to the basement to sort through some of the boxes down there, thinking I might find inspiration in purging, sorting, making plans for the space after I empty it of clutter. I watched Angels in America and relished the way it put my soul through a wringer, lost myself in it as an artist and a human. I started writing again in earnest, returned to my daily practice. I had a significant personal revelation.
My question is, did my break pave the way for all this? Did it prepare me to work again on my novel after I receive it back full of red pen? Did it leave my heart open for new ideas, new inspiration, did it give me new eyes? Or was it just a delay, a hiccup, a missed opportunity to immerse myself in a project?
We have such a need to create, but I'm feeling oddly guiltless about taking some time away from "real" things, "productive" things. Accomplishments. I'm feeling like the past week left me open to realize even after taking so much time out for myself, I still voluntarily return to my words. I miss them, need them. I can take a break from them, go on vacation, and know full well I'll be more than happy to come back.
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