Writing: Time to Procrastinate
I've been spending long hours in front of my computer, clicking and tapping away. Now while the sound should be that of typing, I busily click my mouse, moving it quickly over grey boxes, flagging mines wherever I go. Minesweeper, you see, is the last in the line of procrastination methods before I can get down to writing.
With my second to last grad school application due next week, I've been trying to get my writing sample done, a full-length screenplay. Full-length usually implies between 90 - 120 pages. They say one page is equal to one minute. Whoever they is has apparently never seen a John Woo action sequence. So I guess it's more of a guideline. The NYU site says that my writing sample should be a minimum of 50 pages. I had originally written thirty pages of this screenplay a year ago. Now I'm back to it, staring at my screen during a 3-day weekend, all the while wanting to go out, have fun, have drinks with friends, while remembering what Martin Luther King Jr. did for my country.
Before getting on with my writing, I have to go through certain steps. I read all the hockey articles that I can online. After that I check my e-mail, both accounts. Then I check my blog, admire the new template background, and read new comments if any, which there aren't. From there I check my friends' blogs, their links to the right of this writing. I read their entries. I think about comments I can post there. I move on. I read some latimes.com articles. I check a hockey fan site for any news updates.
By this time, I'm hungry. There isn't a better time than now to make a full meal. I have to make sure I use extra utensils and cookware, that way I'd have more dishes after. The kitchen sink could use a good scrubbing right about now. The counters need to be wiped. I go back to the computer. I contemplate playing a hockey video game, then remember I forgot to check out my favorite comic strip (Get Fuzzy). I wonder, did I see all "The Daily Show" episodes from the past week. I then need to make phone calls, to see if anyone wants to chat for an hour or two, if they want to hang out, go see a movie, go get a drink, what have you. But nobody answers. After the third call, I stop leaving messages for people. I sit down at my computer.
I click on the "Start" menu, scroll up to "Programs," then "Games" and click "Minesweeper." I have yet to find anyone that has better times than me on this little game. I ponder to myself as I play it, if they made this an Olympic sport, would I be good enough to represent my country? After recalling the numerous papers, essays, and stories I wrote in college, the lesson planning I did for a couple of years, and how Minesweeper has always been there to sharpen my skills, I answer that question: "Yes." I then wonder would the Minesweeper events be in the Summer or Winter Olympics. It wouldn't matter, because I'm getting the winter training right now; my flat is freezing, and I can still get times under 95 seconds on the expert level. If the "Minesweeper" event was in Torino this year, I could then meet and hang out with my fellow Olympians, like Craig Conroy and Aaron Miller. Then I could see the Olympic hockey games and give my support. I could even see what a biathelete looks like. Are they NRA hicks with skis? I'd check out curling to see what it's like. And then my event. I would hear Conroy and Miller cheering my tri-syllabic last name, pushing me to click faster, scan quicker, and win a medal for my country.
I finally win three in a row with times under 100 seconds. That means it's time.
I open up my screenwriting program, look where I left off, and begin recounting the events that occurred to me almost three years ago. I find myself acting scenes out, my facial expressions morphing with each character's lines. I read the lines quietly, making hand gestures with my left hand as my right hand scrolls down the screen. I stand to mimic a posture so that I may describe it. I put myself into my emotional file cabinet and pull out manila folders. I try to recall the emotions I had then, the turmoil I went through. At times I find myself clenching up my jaw. Other moments my eyes water. I smirk at the screen as I remember a minute detail that would help. I try to think of another word I could use for a type of smile, instead of "smirk," "grin," or "beam." I then wonder if this script is going to be good. Couldn't be worse than "Joe Dirt"? It's three in the morning and I'm still composing and editing.
Damn, it's more difficult than I thought it would be.
Yet I finally get a moment of levity, being able to laugh to myself, when I recall David Rakoff's words about what I'm attempting.
"Writing is like pulling teeth. From my dick."
With my second to last grad school application due next week, I've been trying to get my writing sample done, a full-length screenplay. Full-length usually implies between 90 - 120 pages. They say one page is equal to one minute. Whoever they is has apparently never seen a John Woo action sequence. So I guess it's more of a guideline. The NYU site says that my writing sample should be a minimum of 50 pages. I had originally written thirty pages of this screenplay a year ago. Now I'm back to it, staring at my screen during a 3-day weekend, all the while wanting to go out, have fun, have drinks with friends, while remembering what Martin Luther King Jr. did for my country.
Before getting on with my writing, I have to go through certain steps. I read all the hockey articles that I can online. After that I check my e-mail, both accounts. Then I check my blog, admire the new template background, and read new comments if any, which there aren't. From there I check my friends' blogs, their links to the right of this writing. I read their entries. I think about comments I can post there. I move on. I read some latimes.com articles. I check a hockey fan site for any news updates.
By this time, I'm hungry. There isn't a better time than now to make a full meal. I have to make sure I use extra utensils and cookware, that way I'd have more dishes after. The kitchen sink could use a good scrubbing right about now. The counters need to be wiped. I go back to the computer. I contemplate playing a hockey video game, then remember I forgot to check out my favorite comic strip (Get Fuzzy). I wonder, did I see all "The Daily Show" episodes from the past week. I then need to make phone calls, to see if anyone wants to chat for an hour or two, if they want to hang out, go see a movie, go get a drink, what have you. But nobody answers. After the third call, I stop leaving messages for people. I sit down at my computer.
I click on the "Start" menu, scroll up to "Programs," then "Games" and click "Minesweeper." I have yet to find anyone that has better times than me on this little game. I ponder to myself as I play it, if they made this an Olympic sport, would I be good enough to represent my country? After recalling the numerous papers, essays, and stories I wrote in college, the lesson planning I did for a couple of years, and how Minesweeper has always been there to sharpen my skills, I answer that question: "Yes." I then wonder would the Minesweeper events be in the Summer or Winter Olympics. It wouldn't matter, because I'm getting the winter training right now; my flat is freezing, and I can still get times under 95 seconds on the expert level. If the "Minesweeper" event was in Torino this year, I could then meet and hang out with my fellow Olympians, like Craig Conroy and Aaron Miller. Then I could see the Olympic hockey games and give my support. I could even see what a biathelete looks like. Are they NRA hicks with skis? I'd check out curling to see what it's like. And then my event. I would hear Conroy and Miller cheering my tri-syllabic last name, pushing me to click faster, scan quicker, and win a medal for my country.
I finally win three in a row with times under 100 seconds. That means it's time.
I open up my screenwriting program, look where I left off, and begin recounting the events that occurred to me almost three years ago. I find myself acting scenes out, my facial expressions morphing with each character's lines. I read the lines quietly, making hand gestures with my left hand as my right hand scrolls down the screen. I stand to mimic a posture so that I may describe it. I put myself into my emotional file cabinet and pull out manila folders. I try to recall the emotions I had then, the turmoil I went through. At times I find myself clenching up my jaw. Other moments my eyes water. I smirk at the screen as I remember a minute detail that would help. I try to think of another word I could use for a type of smile, instead of "smirk," "grin," or "beam." I then wonder if this script is going to be good. Couldn't be worse than "Joe Dirt"? It's three in the morning and I'm still composing and editing.
Damn, it's more difficult than I thought it would be.
Yet I finally get a moment of levity, being able to laugh to myself, when I recall David Rakoff's words about what I'm attempting.
"Writing is like pulling teeth. From my dick."
posted by matty at 3:14 PM
3 Comments:
I have more brilliant screenplay ideas if you need help.
Trying to write when you don't want to write is painful. I don't have a penis, though, so I can't comment 100%. :o)
Liz, keep throwing them my way.
Jess, writing (for me) is painful even when you (i) want to write.
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