“My movie is born first in my head, dies on paper”

Why is it always so much easier to write on a computer screen?

That’s beside the point, however. I’m supposed to make a video for my bosses at the rental house – they’ve filled up the summer with tutorials in their various cameras, even making me thread a film magazine, so they also want us to learn something in addition to doing a bunch of menial labor. It’s also in order to have something to put on their Vimeo site. All their interns have videos up there, and my supervisor, when I wouldn’t give him a straight answer about what I was planning on shooting, asked if it was a violent zombie picture or some kind of dewey sweet My Little Pony affair, and I said neither. He asked if it was a love letter to our rival company and I said it wasn’t that either. He’s just gone on vacation, so it’s bad timing, but I’m taking out some equipment anyway.

I texted a bunch more bullshit whiney crap to The Economist and received no reply, so I’m almost positive I’m in this alone.

So when this kid from my college (no lame pseudonym for him; just this kid from the atheist group I was in) who ran off to New York City this May to seek his destiny messaged me, I told him about the film (he’s writing a screenplay), and this exchange happened (edited a bit):

Me: What’s strange about my writing is it’s not really conducive to film. So it was kind of foolish to go take screenwriting. Actually I mostly took miscellaneous courses.

Him: Why isn’t it conducive to film?

Me: I tend to write first person things, either fiction or non fiction or fiction pretending to be non fiction, if that makes any sense.

Him: As long you don’t have to turn a script in it should be fine however you write it you just have to be able to translate your writing in to a visual format. Or I could be not helping at all here. LOL

Me: LOL. I know what you mean.

Back in undergrad, I took a film class and made The Economist help me with it. It turned out to be a jumbled mess of crap, but I still got a B.

It was timed at the poorest time it possibly could, and yet also at the most perfect time. I was booted out of the honors college around the end of my last semester, so I no longer had to submit a thesis. My professor said I still had to submit a film, it just didn’t have to include an essay and a script (which was what was required for the thesis committee). So on my very last day, literally the morning of Commencement, I think, I submitted my final project through a mail slot outside his office, then trotted off to the football stadium to graduate.

Or maybe it was an essay on something else. What was it…?

Haha! I still have it. It is NOT my “thesis” film. It’s an essay dated May 26, 2007 called “Constructing Reality in Barton Fink.” Awful. I took TEQUILA SHOTS the night I wrote my final draft.

Well, I was celebrating graduating, you see.

I was one of the last people to move out of my dorm and I can still picture the empty parking lot. About 98% of the graduating seniors lived off campus. I hadn’t had time or the proper resources to find an apartment for my final year since I was off in England, so I applied to summer school and stayed in a dorm across campus for eight weeks, then applied for my old sophomore dorm for the fall 2006 semester, and then got myself switched into yet another, different dorm about two weeks into it. The Economist helped me move, although it wasn’t very far.

He was in love with me back then, I think.

Huh. Anyway, he didn’t text back today, not even to say, “No, you crazy bitch.” He would be in his rights to, however, and I should just do this movie my own damn self.

Last time I made a movie by myself, I just winged it. It was that one, the one he helped me with spring semester 2007, and it was, in fact, a piece of shit cobbled together, but I figured it would fly, since I was in a class about narrative avant garde film. Or quite possibly it was self-reflexive avant garde film. Regardless, it was about avant garde film, and my definition at the time (and to this day) was: “crazy-ass film.”

Our professor was the guy I somehow got to write me a letter of recommendation for the grad program in New York. Three years later – 2010 – can you believe it? Of course, he didn’t remember who I was, so I had to write it for him. He signed it and sent it off, however. The other reccers were my old boss from 07-08, who also didn’t remember me, who filled out the apps online and, in fact, sent them to my school THE NIGHT THEY WERE DUE. My other reccer was my neighbor down the street who I worked for in 2007, who I still haven’t thanked, because I’m not quite sure what to say to him. I think I’ll wait until I get my diploma in the mail, God willing they actually give me one, and then I can show it to him and thank him properly and perhaps I’ll actually be employed and actually writing something other than this shitty diary.

But that’s really up to me, isn’t it? It’s ALL up to me. It’s all in my hands. Instead I lie in bed, crippled by depression that I could kick with even a little bit of effort.

I had a dream last night about what to make the movie about, but then forgot it when I woke up.

I re-subbed to World of Warcraft today.

I need money.


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