Everybody Knows Your Name
Kinkos sucks and their customer service sucks but everyone goes there anyway.
Because you’re running late for a workshop or a meeting and you need to quick copy some sides or a bit of your screenplay. And the mom-and-pop print shop closes at 6 PM, which doesn’t do anything for you.
At all.
You slide your debit card in and get ‘er going… Then the machine skips pages, runs out of paper, jams, eats your hand…
But you don’t have time to complain about it because you’re on a mission to save the world one story at a time. You get even more overcharged trying to correct the problem by printing more pages.
Now you’ll never make it to Starbucks on the way.
The world is ending.
Last night I needed four copies of a 140 page manuscript in a hurry, so I wasn’t taking any chances.
Instead of my usual mad copy dash, I asked the Sr. staff member behind the main counter, the one I see every week, to help me with self-printing my pages.
His nametag said Jack Langsten. And he helped me.
He showed me which machine he trusted most, gave me tips on avoiding paper jams and told me he’d look after me to see when I was ready for the next step. Left alone, I watched people come and go at the copiers beside me. I met many of them. (Having a script in hand will do that for you.)
“Did you write this yourself, Miss Stover?” Mr. Langsten asked, after we had spent about thirty minutes copying and hole punching and bracketing to perfection.
I see him every week, but I have never talked to him. His station is usually swarmed--
“Yes, Mr. Langsten, I did.”
“Smart and talented,” he said with a country-time wink.
All the while actors printing resumes came and went calling out, “Hey Jack!”
“I’ll fight you for him,” I said.
And he laughed, “I’m popular.”
He is. And for an hour, he made me The Queen of Kinkos.
Today, while driving, I thought about my Kinkos adventures and Mr. Langsten and realized that his first and last names are two of the exact first names of characters from my screenplay.
Which doesn't mean anything.
Except that my life is pure magic.
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I’ll Never Thank the Academy
One of my past coaches is called Mr. Trainer. Seriously, that is his name.
He was in the Navy.
He is from Boston.
He looks like Captain Piccard.
He listens to classical music in his truck and plays conductor while he drives.
He coached the outfield for 12&U Steel Blue when I was 10. I was on that team. I am an outfielder. I was tiny and sometimes sat the bench because, at that time, this ball club was well known on the east coast for kicking ass and taking names so that we could look you up at the next tournament and kick your ass again. Most of the team had big talent with the attitude and trophy case to match. Our pitcher was a rock star.
Mr. Trainer put up with us all.
Two years later, he retired when the ball-club owner moved to Florida. I moved on to another good club and another great coach.
But he never yelled to me like Mr. Trainer.
Loud.
As a matter of fact, centerfield is pretty far out, so he had to.
“Where’s your piss and vinegar, Jessicar?!”
“You gatta be full of piss and vinegar!”
“You gatta have spock!”
(That was Boston for “spark.”)
(That was Sage for life.)
I told him:
I am. And I do.
He was always my favorite.
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I Can See a Clearer Picture
There comes a threshold when an individual has studied enough craft and has to start making their own artistic decisions. If they can’t do that by said point, then something isn’t working in the first place. This is the point I have reached on my screenplay.
This does not mean that one is beyond feedback or the need for assistance. Film is not an individualistic medium by far. I have had help on the writing via the rad professional screenwriting workshop in which I take part and feedback from other professionals. On the next step I will need help. I will have to find someone to ask. And I will have to learn how to ask.
But, in the meantime, after getting run over quite a few times by bad industry advice, I have learned how to choose which feedback to take. Especially as a storyteller.
I trust myself.
So as far as the final revisions go, to those who do not (trust me as a storyteller, that is) and advise that I water something down or dumb something down or gloss something over because it’s too sad or violent or real, or because it will sell out better that way a la Pirates of the Caribbean or some other movie for 8 year olds that is only watchable because Johnny Depp is allowed to re-write his lines, well, screw off.
This movie is not for you.
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Served
Hey, I called you twice today. Where were you? –Matt
One perk to being my friend is that you get your e-mails answered in front of the entire galaxy (including Gluxnar 7). All of my friends love this. All of them.
TODAY I swam. I swam in the Pacific Ocean for three hours. This is standard and is only notable because it was immediately pretty big out there. Upon realizing this, I ignored life, the undertow and everything and kept swimming. This lead to me getting crushed in sets of four and five.
Repeatedly.
The water was sometimes semi-shallow on a longer break, so at times there was little space to dive under. To deal with these sorts of waves, you must run-swim to meet the wave head-on, dive hard, lie flat on the sand at the bottom, swim forward and hold it there in space for a moment because the back-end/trough is the worst part. Then, there’s a moment where the backwash will near stand you up again. And drape you in seaweed. (Beautiful.) You take a breath–
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat–
Until you can’t take it anymore. Breath control will eventually get you if the sheer force of the waves does not drive you out. Or a panic factor, if you’re lame like that (C.Sto). At the point of I-wanna-return, you have to repeat some more until the set is done and you can body surf a minor bit of water out of the tug.
An onlooker on the beach told me that she thought I was going to die.
Awesome. (Sorry M.Sto)
While I admit that the water was challenging, I never once felt like I was in trouble. The onlooker’s reaction was probably due to the fact that little girls look even littler with big waves towering about. And because the backwash on those things was strong and long, so I was under for quite a bit.
The web report said the water was "dull with one to two footers." Clearly, the web report lies. I was there from 9AM to 4 PM and saw sets from 4ft and up all day whereas usually 3 is the tops. Come to think of it, I don’t think anyone updates those sites properly. Why do I even look at them? I also read the shark report. This is mostly because there are baby whites spotted beyond the break all summer long. It’s cool though, they know better than to bump and run a J.Sto. (Most babies do.)
TODAY I danced. I entered an impromptu dance contest but I didn’t dance to win.
I danced for props.
I finished in second, but was told that I had more crowd approval than the winner, who only beat me by pulling out an amazing heel stretch. Arguably, this is gymnastics move. Had I known that we were doing gymnastics dancing instead of hip-hop, well, I would have adjusted my freestyle as to serve her properly. All I can say is that my semi-skewed truck driver’s hat and borrowed police shades definitely should have won me the contest before I even stepped in the circle. I don’t mind, though. As usual I came away with respect, street cred, and more respect.
TODAY I drove. I drove a lot. In rush hour traffic. On the way home on the 10, while cruising at the mighty speed of twenty miles per hour, I noticed a white bag dropping from the sky. It fluttered about like a Forrest Gump feather and I knew, I just knew, that the timing would work out: Said trash bag would fly by the open window of my moving car and I would pluck it from the atmosphere like a global superhero.
This sort of thing is CGI-ed into movies because it has to be timed so awesomely. The bag and my car effortlessly met at the correct point in the space-time continuum and, without breaking stride, I gracefully snatched it from the air and checked my rearview to make sure that the person behind was impressed. (He totally was.)
Said bag is made of white plastic and has “Thank You" printed on it seven times in red ink. Let me know if this is your lost bag and I will mail it to you ASAP.
So there you go: If you have contacted me and I have not responded, it is because I am scratched. Bloodshot. Sand ridden.
Alive.
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A Wrinkle in Tide
Recorded at the last minute of a long day:
Swimming back from beyond the break
Because that was the only place that was safe…
Here was a bit that can now be found in Aidmheil, the book.
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Ars Gratia Artis
I have read a load of e-mail lately from writers who have had a recent traffic jump or are tired of their site layout or second guessing themselves for whatever other reason(s):
“How do you just keep putting things up? What do people want?!”
You are not alone. After my recent induction into the inner circles of webdom, I have learned that this is the number one blogosphere discussion when even some of the best online writers get together.
While doing Jessica’s Crush, I had millions of people watching and reading and not as much control over the product, so I had to get over the judgment factor or else. But actors learn to do that early on: Rejection is the meal between breakfast and lunch that we get served daily.
I brushed against the pressure factor again when I hit a surge in traffic a few months ago, but then I remembered that I can’t care about all that, really. I’ll come home tired and distressed and will publish something unedited. Because I need to. Because it’s mine.
This place is always changing, never staying, always in the moment:
Mine.
There exist people who read this site who try to look after me. But I won’t let them. There exist people who read this site in secret. There are so many different sorts of you. There exist people who read this site and have stolen my heart. I e-mail with you. I’ve never met you…
That being said, I forget you all.
I don’t care for nonsensical rules that tell me I can’t. I won’t abide by them. And if you want to ride with me, you won’t either.
And to my Wingmen I say,
You are enough.
When the camera is on you, you are enough. When you are on stage, you are enough. You are already interesting. Just standing there makes you interesting. Now all you have to do is tell your truth.
The collective readership, like any audience, is smarter than we are. Smart enough to see things in context. Smart enough to see what I mean if they would so like. M.Sto raised me to think for myself and I always assume that you are just as capable, if not more so.
I don’t look at my traffic, but I do check my referrers and the sites of all of those who post. And I will find out if you call me pitiful.
I may be young, but I do Know:
That if that stops you from saying it,
Then you aren’t a writer in the first place.
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