Wading into the Sea of Life for Some Peace and Quiet

I'm working on both new material and revisions for my work in progress, which presents a challenge for someone like me. Revisions pretty much have to be tackled at the computer. New material I find easiest to do longhand in a notebook, which I then type into the computer later.

I've been tightening previous chapters to get ready for submission, which takes a certain head space for me. I took a little break from writing new stuff while I did that, but I needed to get back into the story and get chapters ready for my critique partners. We meet every two weeks, which really puts the drive on to produce.

Unfortunately, all the tweaking of my previous material was taking up the lion's share of my creative thinking. But I wanted to get more than a scene to my prolific critique partners, which is about all I was putting out for the last few meetings. This week I was determined to get some new writing done.

Several distractions later and I still hadn't forged ahead very far. But I noticed I was getting somewhere when I pulled out my notebook on the bus and got down to business. So tonight I decided to head to the mall to kick my writing into high gear. It worked like a charm.

First I wrote on the bus heading out to the mall after work. Then I dropped off my film for processing, the initial impetus for going to the mall in the first place. Then I headed for the food court, ordered dinner and continued writing as I ate. I looked around a bit, found some great picture frames at Dollarama, six of which I bought. Then I headed home, which involved waiting for the bus, taking the bus across the bridge, waiting for another bus, and taking that one home.

That translates into writing. Lots of it. Standing and waiting for the bus is twenty minutes of writing. And there's no one to distract me with talking. Riding the bus is more writing. The whole evening was a nice break for myself, wandering around thinking. Looking at stuff and thinking. I go to the mall to regroup and re-energize. Seeing all the displays sparks my creativity. People-watching sparks my creativity. And enforced solitude during travel really gets those words down on paper. There's no one to ask me 'what do you think about this or that problem?' No one to tell me all the things they've been doing. No one to remind me we've got this and that coming up on the calendar. Nothing to use up my time and energy like the dreaded housework.

My evening at the mall was a little oasis of sanity. And I came out from tonight's meanderings with a scene that really gets some momentum going for my female character. Plus when I got back, I still had time to visit with my mom and grandma, do a load of laundry, wash some dishes, talk to my sister on the phone, and take my dog Xena for a short walk. Somewhere in there I have to get some sleep before tomorrow...

The Heart of Me

Several friends of mine have offspring who want to pursue filmmaking. I find it very revealing that I'm thrilled with their decisions. Currently I'm writing novels because my filmmaking life went off the rails twelve years ago. But like any self-respecting director, I've never let the cold light of reality interfere with my creative plans. I can still see the tracks. I have a number of projects that are idling while my Inner Creative Spirit Crew works to get my film train rolling.

I sent an email this afternoon to one of my oldest friends, whose daughter is interested in going to the Vancouver Film School. One of the women in my writers' group remembered that I went to Ryerson, because her son is thinking of going there. And another longtime friend has a son who already posts his short films on YouTube. 'How wonderful', I think, when I should be warning them off of such a life choice.

If that's what beats in their hearts, of course, it's already too late. I can only hope the very best for them.

I did warn the woman from my writers' group about the financial extremism involved. My own personal experience won't happen to everyone but I feel it's only fair to mention it. My husband and I suffered a massive financial setback when he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder the same summer I graduated with my film degree.

Keeping myself employed and being there for him trumped any steps toward the life I'd started to build. Having job experience in low-paying customer service snagged us onto the poverty merry-go-round. I started writing novels because I could get my stories down without needing millions in financing.

But our personal odyssey - seeking my husband's wellness - took all the courage and unwavering faith that normally would go into the filmmaking process. Time well spent. Now we are maintaining health and finances both. We even managed to keep a tiny glowing ember of our creative ambition somewhere. At one point I was certain it had gone cold.

But the Atlantic breezes found their way into the true heart of me. One playful gust was all it took. Now the fire burns steady and unwavering. I write my novels and plan my shots, and in the meantime I work, give thanks for my paychecks and laugh with my partner in crime.

79th Oscars

Yesterday's excitement knocked my Oscar blog back by a day. But it can't wait too long. Oscar Night is my second favorite night after Christmas Eve.

My husband had to work so I started taping things from the red carpet, the Barbara Walters special and the main event. Luckily he got home in time for the Big Three at the end - Best Actor, Best Director and Best Picture. Luckily, because just as Martin Scorsese approached the podium at long last, the tape ran out.

I'd been distracted during the first half because I was tidying up the living room, knowing the technician would arrive the next day to hook us up to the Internet. And I knew I was taping it, so I could catch up on it later. But by the second half I was laying on the couch, my heated Magic Bag on my neck, two blankets over me and my dog curled into my feet at the other end. I was just in time for the gorgeous montage of foreign film - it filled me with the joy that brought me to study filmmaking in the first place.

I absolutely love the film scores of Ennio Morricone, who received a special Oscar and gave such a stirring and heartfelt speech. I was struck by how much affection and respect Clint Eastwood has for Morricone. I loved how easy it was to get the emotional tone of the Italian speech, even before Eastwood's translation. But I was grateful to hear what the composer had actually said, because his words were poetic and filled with generosity.

The genuine love and comradeship between Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg as they presented the directing award to their decades-long friend Martin Scorsese was the highlight of the broadcast for me. Those four filmmakers have been so influential to my generation, and sometimes people can forget that they started into the biz as friends who shared the same passion. The fact that they have remained friends for over thirty years and have retained their passion for film is a very beautiful thing.

No matter how faithfully the viewing audience has followed someone's career, there is always the private world that only that actor's or director's intimate relationships can fathom. Yet we sometimes catch a glimpse of that inner sanctum, and last night I felt that I'd seen it with that presentation of the Best Director Oscar.

'Film is a collaberative effort' they always say, but revealing to the world that one's life is Film, and that one succeeds only because of collaborating with the best, that illustrates the sort of life that I consider well-lived. Humble acknowledgement of joint effort even in the face of personal mastery - that's my ideal filmmaker. Something to emmulate. Now, to get back to that short subject I've been working on...

I'm In!

Yes, I'm blogging to you from the magnificent living room of my very own apartment. To say this feels strange might give the impression that I'm not giddy with glee. I'm luxuriating in the timeless pleasure of typing my thoughts at whatever pace I choose. No twenty-minute time frame for my break. No hour-long limit at the library. It's glorious.

But I do have an impatient dog here, who believes very strongly that because I've finished eating my supper, it's now time to take her for a walk. I don't understand why she's come to this conclusion. Could it be our mutually agreed-upon pact of several years' duration? Is there no flexibility in our verbal agreement? Doesn't she notice the serene joy emanating from me as I sit and type away at my blog?

She's splayed across her cushion covered by her blanket, looking up at me with an expression that can only be read as coy. Her body language says 'happy to continue splaying.' Her face says 'hey writer - aren't you tired of sitting in front of a computer? I've got a stress-busting walk with your name on it.'

Now she's abandoning that tack for a labored sigh and a put-upon hanging of her head off the cushion. But I know her hunting style, not that she does any of that. But she's adapted centuries of hunting behaviors to her urban lifestyle of play. The more bored she looks while maintaining eye contact, the more she's trying to draw me in. She could spaz out on me at any second, a coiled spring ready to sprint or leap or run circles around me. I won't let her get too worked up or our walk will be like trying to get Jim Carey to keep his interview answers to one syllable.

Now she's circled around behind me, obviously sensing that I'm considering wrapping this up. I guess I'll have to work out a time for my blog that is satisfactory to both of us. Otherwise I may have to go back to the peace and quiet of my work-break blogs.

Sitting at Starbucks, Waiting for my Critique Partners

This was written a few evenings ago.

It's nearly 7:30. I'm sitting one table over from our new favorite spot, watching the couple that currently occupies it. There's been a pattern of conversation, punctuated by long silences. Not angry silences, but gaps where it's not obvious who should speak next, or even what they should say.

It's a slushy night, and Starbucks' other tables are filled with patrons. Animated chatter gives the room a contented hum. I sip my African red bush tea with honey, glad to be out of the bone-chilling damp. I wait, hoping the young couple finds the awkwardness compels them to leave so I can snag that spot for our critique session.

Their non-conversation continues. There's not even a lot of glancing over at each other. I'm looking for clues that might tell me what sort of relationship they have, but they're rather mystifying. They sit across the wide table from each other, the one we would prefer over the tiny version that barely holds my tea and my notebook. He faces her but hunches into the table, gazing at its surface or past her shoulder. She sits stretched out with her legs up on another chair, angled away from him. She cradles her cup in both hands and gazes at it, a smile playing over her features.

They don't seem upset or bored or enamoured with one another. But they do spend an awfully long time sitting at that lovely large table, even after my two critique partners arrive. We balance our 8 1/2 x 11 manuscript chapters and our hot drinks on the over sized dinner plate of a table. Our hands gesture broadly, we talk, we laugh, we go over one of the critiques, all hunched forward in earnest participation.

The couple lingers until I forget about them entirely. Until they leave. The other partners smoothly snag the spacious, inviting corner spot. That must be the problem, I guess. It's such a lovely, cozy corner on a damp February night. Not even an ambiguous couple with nothing much to say can tear themselves from its embracing charm.

Blogger Block

Until I'm wired into the world wide web, I've been blogging on my breaks at work or stopping by the library for an hour on the way home. Yesterday I planned to blog on my afternoon break, so I brought my bag with my snack and water bottle into the boardroom where my team is allowed access to an Internet-friendly PC.

But I wanted to wash all the grime from my hands before eating. The old deed books we handle coat my fingers in black after an hour or so. I washed up and strolled contentedly back towards the boardroom, to my blog and my snack.

The door was shut and the sign said 'Occupied.' Great. No blogging. No snack. I returned to my scan team work station, grabbed my notebook and used my break for longhand writing instead.

Unfortunately I had other errands to do on my morning break and lunch break. After work was no option because my sister and I were heading over to see my dad and step mom. So Feb. 21st became the Great Blog Thwarting of 07. You see how much drama lurks in even the most mundane of afternoons?

Techno Woes

At one point last night, my sister simply turned to me and said, "You're cursed."

As far as my relationship with technology goes, she is on the money. My software, as is everything about my home computer set-up, is very old. I'd brought my first three chapters over to her place to print them off and get them ready to be mailed out. But there was something wonky about the header. She tried to correct it but there was a ghost page number too near the top of the page that wouldn't go away.

She got on the phone to her boyfriend, and he figured that my old WordPerfect program is having problems being converted back and forth into Word. So he can give me an upgrade, but not until next week. That's okay, because by then we'll be hooked up to the net. New updated software and a printer will be like a magic wand waved over my life. My sister's boyfriend happens to have a spare printer he doesn't need. And my sister needs to move the spare printer out of the house. Talk about win-win!