A win during Script Frenzy—my first Script Frenzy—is not going to happen.
Several things came up in the process of me writing this:
I wound up getting sick a few times—PTSD is a mother.
I went broke again due partially to the PTSD—my job has not been accommodating until recently. It’s improved vastly since that hellish day. (But if my supervisor pulls that sort of thing again, I’m suing. I might still do it. She could’ve put me back in the hospital.)
*record needle scratches*
…you know what, it’s probably going to be easier to say that PTSD happened and leave it at that. It’s been getting in the way of most things lately, and it’s difficult to shake.
But even with that phantom hanging around over my shoulder, even without the ability to win this thing (unless I can manage to crank 40 pages in a two-day span), I’m going to finish this script. The simple fact is, I’ve fallen in love with the story, which is the magic recipe for finishing a draft. And what’s not to love? We have vengeance, wrongful death, redemption, and the hope that love can be found even in the afterlife. I am going to finish it, I am going to polish it, and—gods willing—I am going to pitch it and get it sold.
Even if it winds up being sort of an art house-sort of film. And even if it winds up being more of a mini-series instead. One of my favorite writers once said that a script is a blueprint, and most of the shiny-making gets done long after the original writer’s main work is done. I’ll be keeping that in mind while I finish up. I’m guessing if I relax and make sure to get a little bit done as close to every day as possible, it’ll get done before the middle of May.
I found myself in need of a sabbatical due to unforseen circumstances over the last few days. I’ve been asked if I’ve been hearing voices more times than I care to count up, and put on a veritable cocktail of medicines that, at long last, seem to be allowing my poor, frazzled mind to heal up from this exhaustive stress. After the fifth time, I seriously thought of answering, “I’m a writer—I worry if I don’t hear the voices.” (…You know what I mean by this.) But I wanted to get home in time for something nifty, and so I answered the standard, sane-person way.
But I DID have some interesting answers. In ascending order, the top ten list of Bad Loony Bin answers!
||“Huh? I thought it was just me.”
||“No fair hogging George!”
|| “I wonder if he likes string cheese?”
|| “Of course I hear the voices. They think you’re hot.”
|| “I wasn’t listening, I was on a conference call with three dead presidents and a mule.”
|| “I don’t know, let me ask the lawyer in my head. …he says no.”
|| “I wish I didn’t! They’re talking over the movie!”
|| “Yeah, it’s Disembodied Voice Idol, and Disembodied Randy Jackson is WAAAY too soft. SHOW SOME SPINE ALREADY!”
|| “Nope—less voices, more cowbell.”
|| “I think the real question is—do the voices hear you?“
*Disclaimer: If you use these, I am not responsible for the length of your extended stay in the bin. I will be fully responsible for the “I told you so” moment, though.
Then again when am I not, amirite?! HIGH FIVE~!
You see, the point of this alert is that I’m going to start having a bit of fun with things that have been bouncing around in my head—and with the things that have been bouncing around in my camera, as well.
A few things have been bugging me—namely because they keep coming up. Points like:
- E-books are better than print books/print books are better than e-books
And who can forget this little gem?
- You’re not really reading if it hasn’t got pages!
And here’s a favorite of mine:
- You’ll never make it if you write ____ !
So much nonsense! So many shenanigans! And I’m going to attack all of them one by one, eventually! In fact, I had the first one written before my client crashed. I have to start it over. I’d best get to work. If you’ve got an idea for something I could attempt to tackle, feel free to ask about it in the comments: if I know enough about it to either BS it or have an actual answer, I’ll tackle it.
I’m having a harder time than I have in a while. I’m feeling alternatively ranty and antisocial, stuck between wanting to vent at someone and wanting to just sit in a dark room and think about nothing. My head’s all turned around and I’m not sure what to do about working in the morning—besides taking a couple valerian pills in my purse and chomping down on them as soon as I feel the ceiling rushing down to meet me.
It was from Chuck Wendig’s blog over at Terribleminds where I learned that no matter how bad shit could get, no matter how fucked up shit gets, no matter how utterly shitfucked shit gets fucked as it were—you gotta keep working through it.
So I’m writing.
And cleaning my apartment compulsively. (Did I clean the fridge? Were that many bottles of kefir floating around when I left yesterday? WHERE IS MY SHIRT?)
I ought to be asleep right now, but there’s a security alarm blaring. A quick test of the air around me suggests that someone burned something that used to be either pork chops or steak. Since there are no clouds floating into my apartment I can assume that there is, in fact, no destruction risk. Which is good. But the smell of burning ex-meat is…yeegh.
I scrounged enough money out of the corners of my apartment to justify trying a supplement for my panic attacks—very important, since my therapist won’t give me anything stronger than what I’m already on for them. I personally thought that my case was made when the dick of a receiving nurse triggered me on accident—accidental—proceeded to make it worse—after I literally begged her not to do the thing with her hands that she was doing—and then positively shouted at me to sit down.
I felt like the smaller kid who gets blamed for the mishaps at home.
But even through all of that, I’m still writing. I’m only six pages behind on Script Frenzy now (I’m not positive how I managed that! Did I get a bunch of writing done and then brainzap on it?) and—most surprising to me—the apartment’s actually clean. Not clean as in “Well, I won’t break my neck now,” but real clean. I feel a sense of accomplishment over that. The place hasn’t been this clean since I got binned.
The alarm’s still going, so I’ll just get ready for when it shuts off. I can’t sleep with this racket, but I sure as hell can get ready for it. I’m having some kefir on ice and crashing out.
What’s your WebStory
I’m here writing at zero-dark o’clock. There isn’t much else to do.
Right now I’m straightening up the apartment, and getting ready for tomorrow’s trip to therapy. Had a bit of a panic today. Completely accidental triggering. I never remember bolting. There was a sweet dog there to bring me out of it. After I’d semi-recovered she got cuddly. It helped. I still had uncontrollable tremors, but it did help. Later on a Xanax as added to the mix. After that one, the shaking just…stopped after about a half an hour.
I’d been shaking since I woke up this morning at seven and got a Vistaril into my system.
I feel…almost normal.
I have no idea how I will feel in the morning, but tomorrow’s therapy. It could get worse before it gets better. But something has to be done.
I’ve fallen behind on Screnzy again. I’m not thinking I’ll win, but I’ll sure as hell finish the script whether I win or not. There’s always time for that.
Inspection approaches. Between now and therapy I have to bring the apartment up to code. I’ve now taken all of my meds—melatonin/Theanine supplement included. I have maybe a half-hour until unconsciousness.
What’s your WebStory
In a fit of crazed impulse, I decided to try Script Frenzy. Script Frenzy, in case you were not aware, is similar to NaNoWriMo in that you have thirty days to produce a zero draft—the difference here being that you must produce a script (ergo, Script Frenzy). Stuck on enforced sabbatical from work, I figured “Hey, I got nothing else to do, why not try this on for size?”
With that same attitude, I started playing with the plot generator. Some of them were…odd. The others were…weirdly plausible if you were trying to make a film where one or more of the main characters were high at some point. And then there was the one I got that I decided to run with. So how am I doing here on the twelfth?
I’m three pages behind. Of course this is down from fifteen pages behind, so I think I’m making some progress.
My MMC’s said “I don’t” at the altar, and his ex-fiancee isn’t hating him for it—she knows why, since [spoiler spoiler] isn’t his fault.
We’ve met the parents, who were first angry and then understood why it wouldn’t have ever worked no matter how much they (okay, just her father) would have wanted it to.
We’ve met the FMC’s angry brother, who is NOT amused at the perceived humiliation of his little sister.
What else? Oh yeah, my MMC protagonist is dead. Accidental defenestration. Broke his back on the landing—landed on a motorcycle. Probably broke a few other things, too.
…what? The love subplot can’t go on while he’s alive.
He’s also met the angel who’s been assigned to escort him to the other side. AKA – the love interest. I anticipate a bit of a hang-up toward the middle of act II, but hey—this is a zero draft, and there’s time to work out the kinks later. Right now, my focus is on catching up.
What’s your WebStory
I don’t normally reblog things, especially political things, but this warrants it. Just as soon as I’m positive that the country has begun to move in the right direction, something like this happens, and understandably, it causes some serious rage. The question is, will the people of Wisconsin do anything about this?