Direction
I've come to a striking realization over the last few months (well, really, over the whole of my lifetime, but of late for sure): I was born to be a writer. Despite my typical anti-social tendencies, I'd actually be a great guy to have at a cocktail party. I know about all sorts of stuff. Wanna hear about econ? Done. Sociology? Done. Pop culture, music, politics, travel, movies, books, food, drink, or not much of anything at all? I'm all over all of it. I've never had a problem commenting on the things I see happening around me. How hard is it to react and/or respond? I guess that poses a problem for some people, but it's never been a problem for me. I need to channel that talent into something financially rewarding.
I'm sure that many of you are wondering, "If this guy thinks he's such a great writer, why hasn't he published anything yet?" The simple answer is: despite my usual laissez-fair approach to life, a perfectionist thrives somewhere deep down inside me, and he refuses to let go of creations before they're 100% ready to go. Life grants us the opportunity to strive to make things better until the day we stop breathing, and I've heretofore taken a similar approach to my writing. For example, I started a book during college; it's (more or less) about the wonder of youth. Though it isn't nearly finished, the few people I've shown pieces have responded very positively. Today, when I sit down and read it 10 years later, I think to myself, "Man, that's some good stuff." But I just can't sit down and finish it. Maybe I'm waiting for the perfect frame of mind that will allow me to recapture the correct tone essential to the telling of the story. I found it over and over again when I was inspired to begin writing out the story, back when I was maybe less cynical and slightly more open to the belief in wide-open possibilities, but I have yet to reclaim that place and take it for all it is worth. I will find that space at some point, but not just yet. (Incidentally, that's one of the themes of the story--waiting for the right timing.) I won't force the right time to happen--not like I could if I tried.
Getting to the point, Dahlgren came to Chitown for work tonight. I haven't gotten out to Jersey much since I moved back to Chicago a few years ago, and he's tied up with living his own life, which is completely understandable. But, the great thing about old friends: They see your strengths and your weaknesses, and they're unable to let you forget about either. I miss seeing my guys with great frequency because I miss the unique ability for self-examination presented by those interactions. I think that's why I so enjoy spending time with my family. Those closest to me know me so much better than I could ever know myself; despite my natual inclination toward isolation, I know deep down that these people hold the missing puzzle pieces to my life.
My brother, Dahlgren, Seamus, Bill, and I went to Ditka's for food and to watch the Yankees-Angels game. Needless to say, we drank a lot and it was a great time. I admit that in the past I've gone out of my way to be overly-flirty with our punky (not to mention considerably older and decidedly not hot) waitress. Tonight, however, Nellie called me out as a Ditka's regular (which I am), alluded to the fact that I stiffed her on the tip the last time I was in there (which I did), and then promptly rubbed her ass against my dangling hand. It was a big-time "woah" moment. Dahlgren had a great laugh about it.
Dahlgren and I recently discussed certain steps I might to take in order to get my life back on a successful track. I floated to him the idea that I was thinking about taking on freelance projects, so as to scrape together a living.
Brian said, "Why don't you just just write?"
"Write what?" I said.
"Write books," Dahlgren said.
"I have been all summer," I said. He looked at me with suspicion.
"I'd like to be an author as an occupation and earn enough money to pay for food and rent. But until that happens, I feel like I need to freelance for the time being. Inspiration doesn't really pay for itself."
In the end, he agreed. He's the most recent of the many people in my life who have said that I should be writing for a living, and I've always received positive feedback from him about my writing, be it this blog or any of the myriad other projects I've undertaken.
So, to prove to him and to you that I do, in fact, write with some regularity and discipline, I submit to you three synopses for the projects that have largely occupied my summer.
The first is definitely a movie. It's tentatively entitled "Scenes," and it lays out a web-like series of chance encounters that ultimately result in telling the stories of three good people trying to make their way three very different worlds. I'll withhold details of the particulars of these stories for the time being, but I will say this: the story is set entirely between the Gold Coast and the River North, because those are the neighborhoods I can recall with the greatest clarity. Another thing: you'd never see the ending coming. It's a cross between "Singles" and "Trainspotting," without the messy topics of drug addictions or twentysomething-angst-driven theatrics, neither of which I can relate in a convincing way.
The second is definitely a novel, or a novella at the very least. As yet, I have neither a title, nor the names of the main characters. I've continued on, however, because these details are easily inserted into the flow of a well-devised plot. Basically, it's the story of two people who are madly in love and live together, much to the chagrin of almost everyone around them. It's the story of why they love each other so much, and how they can find the tenacity to continue loving each other without the understanding of those around them. I know it sounds a little bit more chick-ish than you might expect, but for some reason it reads very well. I've walked by the building that I've decided will be their home every single day for the last month. One of the problems is, since that neighborhood was mostly farmland until 100 years ago, all of the addresses follow an even-odd sequence common to the metropolitan grid plan. Therefore, I am unable to assign a cutesy fictional number, such as Arthur Conan Doyle did with 221b Baker St. I fear that I will have to change either the street name, which will destroy some of the essence of the story; or use a real address, to the certain chagrin of the residents of those apartments. I informed my brother about this problem by pointing out a particular oak tree-central to the setting of the story, during our walk home from dinner this evening. He said he'd think of something, which I am sure he will. At any rate, whereas the other two projects are more artistic and creative, this one will be much more personal but very much works of the imagination. The location of their house is a necessary hang-up, because it will contribute to the story in a highly alliterative way. These people are utterly incapable of seeing the best of themselves, but together they propel one another to heights the other could never realize on their own.
Third, and finally, comes a story I have been toying around with on and off for the last several months. It is a concept for a play, and I've spent so much time with it that I'm already in love with it. My friends came up with this name over the summer: "The Death of Richard Pratt." It's about the events leading up to the last moments of someone's life. It will not be dark, or sad, or even the least bit spectacular, for that matter. It is simply the story of the main character's demise, and he goes out of his way to downplay this most ultimate human happening. Rich is, in fact, perfectly amused by the fact that he's suddenly dead, finding himself free from the burdens of material life. My goal is to convince the audience of feeling bad for Rich, insofar as we will fall in love with him and feel terrible about his death for him, because he doesn't appear to be too distraught about it himself. Two players will will have to be cast as Rich: Dead Rich will serve up commentary on the events leading to Live Rich's demise. None of these events will be particularly extraordinary, mind you. The point is not ultimately about Rich or his story, but rather serves to force the audience into inventing emotions about a fictional everyman. In that way, it's a study in psychology, and I want to see if I can pull it off. Also, I think it'd be fun to let my mind wander and wonder about the concept of what happens to us when we die. For those of you who know me very well, you know that my personality is less than dark or desultory; this will actually be a story revolving around self-discovery and illumination, set against the darkest event humans would typically care to imagine. I love playing with contrasts.
So, those are my three babies at this moment. Granted, any one of them could be shelved or abandoned on a whim. But I hope that turns out not to be the case, because I think they will work if I give them the opportunity. I know that I need to take a screenwriting class, because I don't have the innate ability to polish these stories correctly. There's a screenwriter's workshop at a theater in Lincoln Park; I swear that I'll sign up for it soon.
In the meantime, as I seek out a way to polish my skills, I'm going to abandon hope of finding a career in finance (it's just not me, regardless--maybe in spite--of my schooling) and work toward stringing together an income through multiple freelancing projects. Writing is what I do best; this is the thing I do better than anyone else I know. I have a strong desire to entertain, to educate, to shed light onto the things that people normally ignore in their everyday lives. There are so many of great moments in everyday life that are dying for greater attention and, even though I hate forcing people to do much of anything, I feel need to point the spotlight onto these moments, even if it's for just a quick second.
This--what you're reading now--is what I really love to do, and so I will be the best at it. I've had people say that reading what I write is like listening to me talk, but I think I'm a much better writer than a speaker. My brother--now he's the talker, the natural performer. At this point in my life, I'd rather be Larry David circa 1995 than the fictional Jerry Seinfeld. That's the direction I'd love to pursue with my life, the primary task that I've felt a calling for since I was five years old. It's about time I get to getting it done and, if you're still reading, you'd likely agree with me.
I'm sure that many of you are wondering, "If this guy thinks he's such a great writer, why hasn't he published anything yet?" The simple answer is: despite my usual laissez-fair approach to life, a perfectionist thrives somewhere deep down inside me, and he refuses to let go of creations before they're 100% ready to go. Life grants us the opportunity to strive to make things better until the day we stop breathing, and I've heretofore taken a similar approach to my writing. For example, I started a book during college; it's (more or less) about the wonder of youth. Though it isn't nearly finished, the few people I've shown pieces have responded very positively. Today, when I sit down and read it 10 years later, I think to myself, "Man, that's some good stuff." But I just can't sit down and finish it. Maybe I'm waiting for the perfect frame of mind that will allow me to recapture the correct tone essential to the telling of the story. I found it over and over again when I was inspired to begin writing out the story, back when I was maybe less cynical and slightly more open to the belief in wide-open possibilities, but I have yet to reclaim that place and take it for all it is worth. I will find that space at some point, but not just yet. (Incidentally, that's one of the themes of the story--waiting for the right timing.) I won't force the right time to happen--not like I could if I tried.
Getting to the point, Dahlgren came to Chitown for work tonight. I haven't gotten out to Jersey much since I moved back to Chicago a few years ago, and he's tied up with living his own life, which is completely understandable. But, the great thing about old friends: They see your strengths and your weaknesses, and they're unable to let you forget about either. I miss seeing my guys with great frequency because I miss the unique ability for self-examination presented by those interactions. I think that's why I so enjoy spending time with my family. Those closest to me know me so much better than I could ever know myself; despite my natual inclination toward isolation, I know deep down that these people hold the missing puzzle pieces to my life.
My brother, Dahlgren, Seamus, Bill, and I went to Ditka's for food and to watch the Yankees-Angels game. Needless to say, we drank a lot and it was a great time. I admit that in the past I've gone out of my way to be overly-flirty with our punky (not to mention considerably older and decidedly not hot) waitress. Tonight, however, Nellie called me out as a Ditka's regular (which I am), alluded to the fact that I stiffed her on the tip the last time I was in there (which I did), and then promptly rubbed her ass against my dangling hand. It was a big-time "woah" moment. Dahlgren had a great laugh about it.
Dahlgren and I recently discussed certain steps I might to take in order to get my life back on a successful track. I floated to him the idea that I was thinking about taking on freelance projects, so as to scrape together a living.
Brian said, "Why don't you just just write?"
"Write what?" I said.
"Write books," Dahlgren said.
"I have been all summer," I said. He looked at me with suspicion.
"I'd like to be an author as an occupation and earn enough money to pay for food and rent. But until that happens, I feel like I need to freelance for the time being. Inspiration doesn't really pay for itself."
In the end, he agreed. He's the most recent of the many people in my life who have said that I should be writing for a living, and I've always received positive feedback from him about my writing, be it this blog or any of the myriad other projects I've undertaken.
So, to prove to him and to you that I do, in fact, write with some regularity and discipline, I submit to you three synopses for the projects that have largely occupied my summer.
The first is definitely a movie. It's tentatively entitled "Scenes," and it lays out a web-like series of chance encounters that ultimately result in telling the stories of three good people trying to make their way three very different worlds. I'll withhold details of the particulars of these stories for the time being, but I will say this: the story is set entirely between the Gold Coast and the River North, because those are the neighborhoods I can recall with the greatest clarity. Another thing: you'd never see the ending coming. It's a cross between "Singles" and "Trainspotting," without the messy topics of drug addictions or twentysomething-angst-driven theatrics, neither of which I can relate in a convincing way.
The second is definitely a novel, or a novella at the very least. As yet, I have neither a title, nor the names of the main characters. I've continued on, however, because these details are easily inserted into the flow of a well-devised plot. Basically, it's the story of two people who are madly in love and live together, much to the chagrin of almost everyone around them. It's the story of why they love each other so much, and how they can find the tenacity to continue loving each other without the understanding of those around them. I know it sounds a little bit more chick-ish than you might expect, but for some reason it reads very well. I've walked by the building that I've decided will be their home every single day for the last month. One of the problems is, since that neighborhood was mostly farmland until 100 years ago, all of the addresses follow an even-odd sequence common to the metropolitan grid plan. Therefore, I am unable to assign a cutesy fictional number, such as Arthur Conan Doyle did with 221b Baker St. I fear that I will have to change either the street name, which will destroy some of the essence of the story; or use a real address, to the certain chagrin of the residents of those apartments. I informed my brother about this problem by pointing out a particular oak tree-central to the setting of the story, during our walk home from dinner this evening. He said he'd think of something, which I am sure he will. At any rate, whereas the other two projects are more artistic and creative, this one will be much more personal but very much works of the imagination. The location of their house is a necessary hang-up, because it will contribute to the story in a highly alliterative way. These people are utterly incapable of seeing the best of themselves, but together they propel one another to heights the other could never realize on their own.
Third, and finally, comes a story I have been toying around with on and off for the last several months. It is a concept for a play, and I've spent so much time with it that I'm already in love with it. My friends came up with this name over the summer: "The Death of Richard Pratt." It's about the events leading up to the last moments of someone's life. It will not be dark, or sad, or even the least bit spectacular, for that matter. It is simply the story of the main character's demise, and he goes out of his way to downplay this most ultimate human happening. Rich is, in fact, perfectly amused by the fact that he's suddenly dead, finding himself free from the burdens of material life. My goal is to convince the audience of feeling bad for Rich, insofar as we will fall in love with him and feel terrible about his death for him, because he doesn't appear to be too distraught about it himself. Two players will will have to be cast as Rich: Dead Rich will serve up commentary on the events leading to Live Rich's demise. None of these events will be particularly extraordinary, mind you. The point is not ultimately about Rich or his story, but rather serves to force the audience into inventing emotions about a fictional everyman. In that way, it's a study in psychology, and I want to see if I can pull it off. Also, I think it'd be fun to let my mind wander and wonder about the concept of what happens to us when we die. For those of you who know me very well, you know that my personality is less than dark or desultory; this will actually be a story revolving around self-discovery and illumination, set against the darkest event humans would typically care to imagine. I love playing with contrasts.
So, those are my three babies at this moment. Granted, any one of them could be shelved or abandoned on a whim. But I hope that turns out not to be the case, because I think they will work if I give them the opportunity. I know that I need to take a screenwriting class, because I don't have the innate ability to polish these stories correctly. There's a screenwriter's workshop at a theater in Lincoln Park; I swear that I'll sign up for it soon.
In the meantime, as I seek out a way to polish my skills, I'm going to abandon hope of finding a career in finance (it's just not me, regardless--maybe in spite--of my schooling) and work toward stringing together an income through multiple freelancing projects. Writing is what I do best; this is the thing I do better than anyone else I know. I have a strong desire to entertain, to educate, to shed light onto the things that people normally ignore in their everyday lives. There are so many of great moments in everyday life that are dying for greater attention and, even though I hate forcing people to do much of anything, I feel need to point the spotlight onto these moments, even if it's for just a quick second.
This--what you're reading now--is what I really love to do, and so I will be the best at it. I've had people say that reading what I write is like listening to me talk, but I think I'm a much better writer than a speaker. My brother--now he's the talker, the natural performer. At this point in my life, I'd rather be Larry David circa 1995 than the fictional Jerry Seinfeld. That's the direction I'd love to pursue with my life, the primary task that I've felt a calling for since I was five years old. It's about time I get to getting it done and, if you're still reading, you'd likely agree with me.
posted by Pat at 1:00 AM
1 Comments:
Amen, Piotsche! Wrting is what you do best!
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