Tennitus

I've fallen prey to the disease that writers fear more than Writer's Block... Terminal Tennitus.

For those of you who are lucky enough to have never contracted this particular disease, I will give you the basic prognosis: Terminal Tennitus is a disease which strikes when a writer hits the last ten pages of his/her script and is unable to bring the bastard across the finish line. I know this is a real disease, because I've spoken with other writers who have contracted it. Apparently, it's a lot like Herpes. Once you've had it, you have it for life and the outbreaks can either get worse with time, or can abate completely.

Symptoms include: cramping of the fingers, the intestine and/or the genitals. Profuse sweating from the brow. Bloodshot eyes. Too much or too little mucous. Diarrhea. Vomiting. Sleeplessness. Milky, yellow discharge from the anus and/or the ears. Clenched/puckered sphincter. Painful, itching pustules in the armpit region. Fever. Euphoria. Dementia. Claustrophobia.

I have all of the above. And man, have I got it bad. I'm like the Brundlefly at this point. It's nasty.

The throbbing of my twin Generac 7000 generators is like the Devil (my former agent) tap-dancing on my skull. I'm starting to think that what I'll do is cut and paste the first ten pages of the script at the end (because bookending scripts seems to be the thing to do now), or maybe structure the whole damn thing backwards like Memento or Irreversible.

Your truly from the bowels of despair,

JRH

Screenwriting Advice: Getting Out of the Cave

To say I spent the day in a whirlwind of despair is an understatement. Like winds whipping through the canyons, my personal demons swirled around me. They laughed, their cackles blending with the yips of the coyotes.

Sometimes a warrior must fight. Sometimes a warrior must retreat to his cave.

Today was my cave day. Outside the bright California sun blazed. The desert sweltered. The Salton Sea, relentless in its self-destruction, shriveled in the heat.

I closed my blinds. Shutting out the landscape of poisoned fish and date trees. Wanting only to wallow in my sorrow.

The afternoon was a blur of rum and The History Channel. (Such treacle!) At about four I turned on the Riverside Community College radio station, ready to revel in their weekly prog rock show. Unfortunately the students seem to have come late to the concept of irony, and were amusing themselves by playing 70s AM Gold. "Wildfire" gave way to "Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain." I was about to tear apart the radio with my bare hands when the truth seared through me. No more licking my wounds. If I couldn't face the computer, I had to connect with my creativity in other ways.

In short, I had to bake.

Every writer, every artist, needs a way to connect with the Muse. A way to let the unconscious run free. Proust gardened. Dickens walked. I bake.

What could be more compelling than the mystery of fermentation? Of dough rising, changing flour and water into bread, that most meaningful of foods. The alchemists of old could not have asked for more! The hypnotic process of kneading -- of slapping the dough against the board, digging into its soft flesh with my fingers, of probing its secret recesses -- ah, the freedom it could give me! The Muse would return, her sweet breath mixing with the scent of baking bread. I ran to the kitchen, ready to pummel dough as if it were my ex-agent's face. Perhaps I'd even bring him a loaf -- although the drive down to West Covina would be murder by the time I was done. (See, oh demon? The Beverly Hills post office box fools no one!)

It was then that I looked at my hands. Still bloody and bandaged from the trunk incident. As much as I wanted to make that bread -- nay, as much as I NEEDED it -- it was out of the question.

But there was another option. A recipe that reinvented an old standard, that blended disparate worlds. Just like I am doing with my script. I speak, of course, of cake balls. Bite-sized bits of cake and frosting enrobed in a chocolate shell. Pastry and truffle in one! For isn't my script, my passion, about disparate worlds mixing? Divinity and human folly. Man and beast sharing the same body. Yes!

A frenzy of baking followed. Of making cake, of rolling it in candy and nuts. Of embracing the ritual and the ecstasy of creation.

It was then that I emerged from my cave.

I thrust open the blinds. Knowing that life is good. The settlement from the fisheries department will last until I finish my script. The Generac 7000 will keep me secure. Soulless hacks will fight for the chance to write Leprechaun vs. Anaconda, but I will stay true to my vision.

I love you all. May you find your own ways out of the darkness.

Thoughts on The Business

My agent has been pestering me about my progress with the script, and by "pestering me" I mean "not returning my phone calls." However, I managed to reach him in his office today after repeatedly spelling my name to his assistant. "Johnny, baby!" my agent exclaimed as soon as he got on the line. "How's it hanging?"

I detest that sort of vulgar small talk, so I immediately began explaining my idea of turning my ongoing screenplay into a franchise of films, related book adaptations and merchandising tie-in foam puppets and latex novelty items. After several minutes, I had to put more quarters into the Liquor Emporium payphone, and my agent took advantage of the resulting pause in my discourse to change the subject. "Listen, John," he said. "There's a hot new writing assignment I'd like you to take a meeting on."

"Haven't you been listening?" I nearly shouted into the greasy phone receiver. "I'm hard at work here on a screenplay that's going to change the very concept of entertainment as we know it! It's like 'Titanic' meets the Bible! I cannot possibly halt my progress for anything, much less the sort of trivial, demeaning script assignments that my spec will render irrelevant to the world!"

"This would be a paid writing assignment," my agent emphasized. When I was quiet, he said, "John, are you still there?"

"I'm listening," I said.

"Great, I thought you'd run out of quarters again. It's a genre project, a fusion of two big brand titles that the studio just acquired, and they're currently looking for writers to pitch takes the story. You ready for this? 'Leprechaun vs. Anaconda.'"

"Well, that actually presents a fascinating dynamic, as leprechauns are supernatural..." I started to say, then stopped myself before I could go further. "No, dammit! Nothing will delay my work on 'The Shroud!' Not a broken generator, not a hand injury and certainly not a 'Leprechaun' sequel!"

"Actually, they said they'd prefer for the pitch to follow the continuity of the 'Anaconda' series," my agent said, but I didn't hear anything after that. I really had run out of quarters that time.

As I left the Liquor Emporium with my environmentally conscious canvas grocery bag bulging, I fumed over the callous insensitivity of the business, and the effect it might have on an artistic type with anything less than my confidence and stamina. To be diverted by such meddlesome inconsequentialities when one is hard at work on the next major work that will change the landscape of narrative art! I mean, was Charles Dickens asked to consider a 'Leprechaun' sequel? Was Proust? Was Shakespeare?

Well, they would understand the insults I had suffered at the hands of their casual ignorance soon enough. Soon they would realize the level of genius they had been neglecting, even as it flourished under their very nose like some sort of hardy desert foliage that needs very little water to survive!

Fools!

Talkin' 'bout my Generation

Damned generator went out last night, right when I was in the middle of a hot streak. Had to resort to candlelight and handwritten pages. Not that I mind writing with a pen. In some ways, it fuels my work. The sound of the nib scratching on the paper is like nails on a coffin lid. The main problem is that the rest of my damned script was on the computer, so I had to try to remember where I was before the power went out. Now that I have a functioning generator again, I’m going to transcribe the pages I wrote last night and we’ll see how well they integrate.

I’m still perplexed by the generator failing. I’ve had my Generac 7000 for a couple of months now. I nicknamed it “the Mangler” after that Stephen King story. It’s a solid unit and I especially like the 12 1/2 kw surge capability. I had a three pole disconnect panel installed to connect to the house. Made up a 50 foot 10-4 cord set to connect to the outside receptacle to feed the disconnect panel. It’s heavy (240 lbs) and is not all that easy to push around on a soft surface such as grass. Also, I leave the idle-down switch on the off position. When hooked into the house circuits it seems to cause the engine to surge up and down continuously when there is only a light load on it. It is also really loud, but that’s somewhat comforting during the winter when it's 30 below and the coyotes are howling nearby. Just got to remember to keep a couple of jerry-cans of gasoline around.

Last night as it got dark, I booted her up, turned off all the breakers on the disconnect panel, switched the disconnect panel to the generator side and brought the circuits back on one at a time. Everything was going great. I got out the volt meter and checked the readout on each leg. Each had 122 volts... Nice and strong. Then, after the sun went down and I’d been working solid for about an hour, the engine pitch suddenly changed and the lights went out. I took my flashlight outside, checked the output voltage. This time, the reading was 0 volts on both legs.

I shut down everything and took the generator over my workshop and carried out further tests. By this time it was midnight and I was working by flashlight and cursing up a storm. If I had any neighbors, they would have called the cops to complain, I’m sure. I opened the generator up and looked for obvious signs and smells of overheating/burning, loose connections, etc. and found nothing.

This morning, I loaded it into the van and took it in to the nearest Generac repair depot. They told me it would take about two weeks to repair. Two weeks without power? Two weeks without my computer? I couldn’t have it. So I bought another Generac 7000 right then and there. I don’t know what I’m going to do with two of these things, but I suppose it’s better to have one for backup.