I Will Not Write Your Fucking Script

So, yeah, like everyone else I read Josh Olson's blog about how he won't read anyone's fucking script. And like everyone else I found it funny, and true and I patted myself on the back because he validated me in sort of an off-handed way. He said that a real writer cannot be dissuaded from writing by anyone. Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, that's me in a nutshell. I'm like the Job of Screenwriters. I scream to the Heavens, "Oh Hollywood, why hast thou forsaken me?"

Hollywood doesn't answer. Just gives me more boils or infections or broken generators.

So I've made a decision. If Hollywood is going to forsake me, then I'm going to forsake it right back. I make a pledge right now, with the whole internet as my witness, that I will NEVER write an assignment for a studio. I don't care how big the paycheck is, I don't care who the director is, I don't care how many times those clowns in the Armani suits tell me they want to be in the John Ray Hax business, I will not succumb.

Bite me, Hollywood. I will not write your fucking script.

J. Ray Hax

Polishing the Shroud

I have decided that I'm going to start using the term "Polishing the Shroud" in place of "masturbating".

"What you up to, John?"

"Oh, just Polishing the Shroud."

JRH

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.

Sacrifice

Had to get a new keyboard today. Sometimes it feels like the Universe is trying to thwart my every move. A chain of events, starting with the suspension in the springs of my car trunk giving out . I was unloading the groceries when the trunk slammed down on my fingers. I haven't felt pain like that since the dishwasher incident. To make a long story short, the nails on my right hand turned black and blue, and about twenty minutes later, the nail on my right index finger came loose.

All I can think about is finishing up the script. When I'm sitting at the computer, it's like time doesn't exist. Three hours goes by and in my quantum experience it feels like three minutes. When I have to break to eat, shit, shower or sleep I resent it. Human interaction is painful, it's hard to focus on what people are saying - the guy at the supermarket kept rambling on about his nephew's briss, and all I feel is this obsession to keep churning out the story. So having my fingers mashed is a major inconveniance, to say the least. I soaked my sore fingers in rubbing alcohol, which hurt slightly less than the accident, wrapped them in gauze and got back to work.

After about four hours of typing, I guess my finger with the missing nail started to bleed. I didn't even notice, until the 'K' button started to stick. I looked down and realized that I had leaked blood right into the keyboard. I did my best to wipe it off, but I was on a roll, in that fever pitch of writing and I didn't want to stop. Normally the pain would have registered, I'm sure most people would take a few days off to rest their injured fingers. But I've experienced enough creative blocks in my time to know that you don't look a gift horse in the mouth. When the floodgates open, you go with it. I feel so connected to this story, I swear it's almost like someone is dictating it through me and I'm just the vehicle to bring it into physical reality. And this unseen entity is a slave driving taskmaster, that won't let me rest or have any peace of mind until the job is complete. So I chugged some whiskey and Advil and kept pounding away at the keys. I must have written a good five pages before I even realized that the bleeding was getting worse.

The middle row of keys finally wouldn't respond, no matter how gently I coaxed them. So, first thing today I got up and went out and bought a new keyboard. Fingers are wrapped in thicker gauze now, which causes a few more typos, but I'm getting the hang of it. I'm warmed up now, gonna go dive back into it.

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.

A Writer's Method

“You know, if I didn’t know you was my wife’s sister, I would get ideas about you…” So says Mr. Brando to Ms. Leigh on my old black and white television set. And it suddenly occurs to me… I have not been going deep enough. I have only scratched the surface. It is time to plumb the depths. When your subject is the landscape of the soul there is no other choice. The thespians (most of whom I despise) call it The Method. Yet what of us scribes? Can we not live our work? Are we resigned to sitting at our laptops in cum-stained underwear as our characters come to life before our eyes? I say not. I say that is no longer enough. I resolve that I, a Writer, will pursue my own Method.

I write of a race of beasts that live among us yet which most are blind to. So I will become one such beast. If only for an evening…

It’s 3:37 in the morning. I slip off my clothes. I’ve only been wearing underwear all day, so it doesn’t take long. Oh, to stand naked! I have a moment of doubt. Much like that terrifying hesitation when I first sit down to compose. But I fight it. Because I am a Writer. It’s what I do.

I slip out the door of my apartment. The cool night air welcomes me. I feel a forbidden thrill as I run naked through my building. Oh, if my neighbors could see me now! Then they would understand. They would know my nature. They would know my girth.

I leave the apartment building behind. I am on the street naked! Oh, the liberation! So this is what the Yeti feels when he is out in the woods, his Dr. Manhattan free to sway in the night breeze. I am closer to him already. I am flooded with a feeling of communion. Yes. I am willing to go the distance to complete my masterpiece...

I run down the street, keeping to the shadows, hunched over the way I imagine the Yeti would be. My nostrils flare. I read the scents on the wind. I smell life. I smell danger. I smell myself (I must admit we scribes often go days without bathing – we hunch over our writing implements, stewing in our own juices – and it’s all for you, Dear Reader, all for you).

A police car suddenly appears before me and I leap down beneath the shelter of a parked SUV. I huddle there, throbbing with excitement, wondering if the lawman will pass on by. Or if he and I are meant to do battle on this night. The car continues onward and I find I am disappointed. I was ready for battle.

I sprint across the road, briefly bathed by headlights, then I am in the shadows of Mr. Griffith’s Park. I delight in the feel of dirt beneath my bare feet – so much better than the cold hard concrete. So much more real. I crouch behind a bush and then I see her…

A coyote. Noble. Gorgeous. And in heat (I just knew this, don’t ask me how, I was at the mercy of The Method). I stare at her. She stares at me. And I can tell. She understands. She is not gazing upon an out-of-shape, out-of-work slob… No, no,no. She gazes upon a fellow beast of the night. She gazes upon a Yeti. She licks her chops…

What happened then, my friends, I cannot write about. True, I have given everything to my profession. I would die for my writings. For my dear words. I pride myself on putting everything out there on the page for all to see. But this time, I am keeping this one sacred experience to myself. I have said too much already. There are pages to be written.

I am no longer a man writing about beasts. I am a beast chronicling the experiences of my brethren.

I love you all.

Doubt Is My Bedfellow

I woke up in a cold sweat today. I just don't know if I'm on the right path. Everything I thought was rich and vibrant last night seems sickly in the harsh morning light. But I put on my robe, grabbed a Coke and sat down in front of the monitor's glow.

The demons of doubt were summoned by my title. Like moths to a flame they gathered during the night. A lot of screenwriting books say you shouldn't even start writing until you have a title, but this story was demanding to get out so I just started writing. I don't want to go into specifics, but my script deals with big themes: religion, mythology, the rich dark crevices of human experience that go unplumbed by most mortal men.

Right now I'm calling it "The Shroud."

I'm worried the title is too abstract.

Originally I wanted to call it "Lifting the Caul," because the theme is about exposing things kept hidden, but in our woefully undereducated society not many people know what that is. To be born "in the caul" means to be born with the amniotic sac still intact around the body, like so:



We rare ones born in the caul are known as "caulbearers." The ancient Romans believed that babies born with a caul possessed a second sight. Roman midwives sold cauls in the Forum for protection from witchcraft.

This is why I am a writer. As a caulbearer, my second sight gives me vision into my fictive worlds.

If only the caul would protect me from the demons of doubt.

Does symbolism make for a good title? Or should I spoonfeed the reader with something very literal?

Back to my script and my battle. More later.

Pain.

I'm 46 pages into my script and its like I'm having my spine ripped right out of my back. Torture to get this story out of my gray matter and onto the page. But it's got to get out. It burns deep down in my gut. Churning like a fragile ship on a reckless sea. Every day I sit down to write and do everything I can to make the themes and the ideas and the whole scope of it come together.

I've given some pages to writers I met online. They tell me its good. They tell me to keep going and to have faith. I don't know if I can believe them. I don't know if I can believe anyone.

What I do know in those moments when the fever breaks and I step away from the computer and get a drink -- what I do know is that I am trying to do something great. Trying to tell a story that digs deep into the things that truly scare us. Not a man with a knife. No, not that. The twisted cultural institutions that repress us and the mythic beasts of our imaginations that signify deep-rooted primal thoughts-- these representations of man's fear all designed to keep the beast at bay. These are my tools.

Milennia ago we huddled in caves, firelight flickering on our faces. We told stories to keep the darkness at bay. To keep our fear in check.

Thats what I'm doing now. Except the flames are the glow of my computer screen. I sit alone in my dark room, writing. Hoping that someday my words will turn into pictures and light the faces of lonely men and women huddled in modernity's cave: the multiplex. Stale popcorn has replaced animal bones, but the meaning is the same.

Last night I lay awake listening to the winds whistling through the canyon. Coyotes howled. I felt their hunger.

In the morning I ate a stale coffee cake.

And then I did what I had to do. I wrote.