...I had an epiphany in my coffee

I’m at work, taking a break from what it is I do (web design wage slave), and getting my daily dose of “what’s going on in comics, film, and video games”. I do this everyday, to renew my inspiration and enthusiasm, which normally happens while I’m at work...

important aside: I’ll tell you about the significance of that statement later, for now, let’s get back to the epiphany.

...So, as I was saying, I’m at work, projecting my mind to the day when the work I do on a daily basis, will be the work I love to do now, in my spare-time - Comics, Films, and Videogames.

That’s when it hits me...

There are literally MILLIONS of people, energetically, and oft times frantically, working towards the same goals as I. They engage in the same rituals, recite the same mantras, seek out the same inspirational tidbits, and dream of the same same, ambrosia filled grail.

Then I wonder. What makes me different? How is my dream any more or less golden, what is it about me, that makes me shine brighter than the rest? What gives me a luster, that few others have, or will ever hope to have?

Now in the private moments of our own minds, we do one of two things, and I firmly believe this. One, we’re brutally honest, and have thoughts unmarred with past regret or issue. And two, we have thoughts based on learned behavior, past triumphs, and failures, consciously ignoring past regret and issue.

And that was the birth of my epiphany for today, and it is as follows....

It doesn’t matter what makes me different, I bought the ticket, I’m taking the ride, I’m having fun, and I’m not getting off until I’m good and ready.

End Epiphany.

...In simpler times...start now, continued later.

In days when chewing on your toes, speaking complete gibberish, that delighted mom and dad, your biggest concern was... Well, you had no concerns. You were 12 months old and your world consisted of food, sleep, gobs of attention, more food and sleep.

I'm obsessed with...

I'm a bit obsessed. I have assessed the situation. Weighed the pro's and con's, pondered the ramifications of my obsession, and have come, quite happily to the conclusion, that I am once again obsessed with comic books.

My uncle, the first raconteur (before I even knew what one was), I'd ever known, introduced me to comic books. They were a source of fantasy, adventure, and belief that you should always do they right thing.

So, as I embark on a journey, down a new, but at the same time old, path of storytelling. I delight in the prspect of learning a new way to tell a story. Comic books fueled my imagination, and now they'll serve as a new creative outlet. One I actually started down a long time ago, but as one is prone to do, when faced with something new and daunting, you freeze. I'm now thawed, and completely excited about creating my own book.

Ok, thats it for now. This scattered and poorly written entry was brought to by the makers of Day Job" and "Best friend Phonecalls".

A scientists dilemma: What is Love? Or How many monkey's does it take...

When less than esteemed scientist Harry "Me hates monkeys like poison" Harlow was asked "What is love?" He responded "Well, you know that feeling you get when you've been locked in a tiny dark space alone for a year? It's the opposite of that." for more info, both disturbing and well... even more disturbing click here

CRESTFALLEN - And The Quest for the Golden Rationalization.

When we last saw our hero, he was nose to the moderately overused grindstone metaphor, when suddenly, hordes of crusty footed monkey ninjas poured through his window, broken glass and cringe worthy shrieks heralding their arrival!

"We've come for your nearly completed, yet utterly brilliant screenplay!" cried the Leader of the monkey ninjas. As he flashed a gleaming battle worn katana.

The other monkey ninjas, rattled there ancient martial arts weaponry, stained with the blood of other fallen screenwriters.

"I'LL BE DAMNED, before I let you take, what I've obviously spent months and months, carefully crafting. You simian fiends!" Our Hero, rather heroically shouts. "I am not afraid to shed monkey blood, from rivet to rafter, in this my pristine and uncluttered domicile!" he continued.

The monkey ninja leader, grimly advanced on our hero, it's eyes a glowing alabaster, it's fangs, surprisingly clean and well maintenanced.

"You labor under a misunderstanding, Foolish writer. We have not come so far..."

"How far have you come." our hero queried.

"Quite a long and arduous voyage, have me and my blood thirsty...Wait.. did you just interrupt me?" said the Monkey leader.

Embarrassed, our hero says, "Sorry, I thought you were finished."

"Was the fact that my mouth was still moving, and words were still coming out of it, not give you a clue that, I had indeed, not stopped speaking!?" The now furious monkey ringleader croaked!

"ENOUGH BANTER!, Give us your, obviously brilliant, blah, blah blah, screenplay, NOW!" the simian assailant bellowed.

"NEVER!!" shouted our hero.

At that moment, the now restless, evil ninja attackers, lunged into to battle. A wave of crusty monkey feet, flashing teeth and gleaming martial arts weapons, was all that could be seen, as the overwhelming numbers, brought down our valiant hero. As he lay in a heap, clothing torn and bloodied, the mockingly triumphant simian thief, hung in the now shattered window pane. Holding the only digital copy of our hero's screenplay, and said. "Now no one will know of your brilliance. Now no one will be entertained by your ability to match tone, with dialogue". "Same time next year, foolish writer...we will be watching...and waiting." he snickered, as he and his evil brethren disappeared into the night.

As our battled but unbroken hero, struggled to rise to his feet, he could be heard saying, "Yes. Oh yes, you will see me next year...next year."

The End.


Now....

Were that we lived in a world, where crusty footed, ninja monkeys actually existed, as well as the added bonus, of having an uncontrollable craving for the unfinished screenplays of writers everywhere, there would be only reality television, and poorly written nightly news.

And since we don't live in that world, the cold realization, that I was going to miss the Scriptapalooza Competition, it me rather hard. I'd always been either too busy, or unaware of it in the past. And since following Scriptapalooza on both Facebook and Twitter, I felt more connected to it, more on point. So much so that my hubris got the better of me. At the time I surmised that I could complete 2 screenplays, and one teleplay for the Television competition as well. One could say, I hung "them" out there as far as anyone should.

And on the evening of April 11th, at 11pm, eastern standard time, "they" were lopped off. I realized that I'd bitten off more than I could chew. I tasked myself with writing an entire feature film in less than 48 hours. Completing Act One, only fueled my bravado, the bold little competitive voice in my head, nattered "This is nuttin.. you can do this, super-genius!". It never registered that only other super-genius I knew of, would inevitably wind up with and acme rocket placed in an inconvenient and uncomfortable bodily orifice, primed to explode.

And explode it did, into a million little pieces, and a million different reasons to avoid claiming failure, until the moment I simply owned up to it.

I'd failed. I'd set a bar impossibly high, and so lofty a height, it's doubtless anyone could reach it. And I did this with all my senses about me (relatively speaking), and wide awake and fully aware of the consequences. I said I was gonna do it, and there would be nothing to stop me, but me. And as prophetic as that sounds, it's true. I stopped me. I failed.

But, it's not over until the pleasing plump lady sings. In the most epic of fails, I learned and discovered. I learned that I need a process. I discovered that coming up with an idea, and barreling through until the end, is not a process, it's more akin to punishment. I learned that I need a comfortable, relatively clean, and relatively quiet environment to write. I need to eat, to be satisfied, not full. And I need to be free of distractions. I discovered, I'm probably like every other screenwriter out there. And I felt a relief, a great cooling, and calming relief come over me. I've no ones expectations to live up to, save my own. I've no ones standards to live up to or surpass, same my own, and I don't have to impress anyone. My writing will do that. And, I will from time to time challenge myself with a 48 hour screenwriting assignment, just because I can.

Hubris aside, I am good, and getting better, and if I take care of me, and continue to learn , and discover, I'll be where I dream I will be. Ain't nobody stopping me, but me.

And possibly a horde of talking, crusty footed, ninja monkeys.

Something in me aches...

I'm in the mood to write something short. A rant of sorts, without the customary vitriol, angst or venom. I'm not railing against one or anything. I have no axe to grind, nor an enemy to put to shame. None of that applies here and now.

My ranting is about the ache, an ache to do the kinds of things that bring me joy, and happiness, in even the smallest of increments. I ache to direct films, to write the films I chose to direct. I ache to direct films for Marvel Studios, Warner Brothers, Fox, and so on. I ache for this.

I'm a late bloomer, I came to my love of this art-form late in life, but I came by it honestly. Not casting a stinky eye on anyone else, merely stating a fact. My mother was and is my muse. She fostered a love of movies, that I carried with me to this very day, to this very minute. And in my darkest moment, when a seamless cloak of despair and desolation was very close to enveloping me, it happened.

"BING!" A light, in the form of a screensaver I'd created on my computer. A simple series of soft cross fades from one forrest image to the next. And in the background played, a soft gentle song (Little Wing, played by Stevie Ray Vaughn), and I sat, and stared, gobsmacked.

Then, sometime later, I'd heard of screenwriting, and dismissed it as easily as it came to me, and moved on to devour everything I could about how to make movies. I watched every "Behind the scenes" "Movie Magic", and every "In Production" show I could find, bought dvd's labeled "Director's Cut", movie magazines, trade publications, I obsessively threw myself in to finding out every nuance, every idiom, every quick and beautifully technical aspect of filmmaking. It was glorious, and i loved every minute.

Times passed, and I'd joined film forums, and movie sites, and the more I looked the more it seemed, the only way to truly be the director, I wanted to be, I'd need to write. No, scratch that, I'd need to lean HOW to write. Now, I'd been an artist all my life, visuals were everything to me. I had no desire to find words to convey, what my hands could create effortlessly. However, during this time of discovery, I was losing the love of my life, and for completely different reasons, she was soon to be gone forever.

Being the angst-ridden tortured artist of the much belabored stereotype, I'd only learned to express my emotions through physical acts, either benign, or malevolent, my emotions shown in pieces, and in destruction. Needing to find a better way, I began to write how I felt, I began to emote all over paper, using a pen as a cudgel.

Having read and loved the classic works of Shakespeare, Maya Angelou, Henry Miller and above all Langston Hughes, I learned to craft missive upon missive with words that expertly conveyed exactly how my heart felt. And how wounded my pride and ego were, and the depths of who I thought I was, and who I wanted to be some day.

That and seeing Ben Affleck and Matt Damon win Oscars for Best Screenplay for "Good Will hunting" was all the impetus I needed to learn the art of screenwriting. An art, that before I entered into, thought easy and of no great effort. "It's only writing, I've done that all my life, how hard could it be?" were the monumental, and arrogantly stupid words that rolled from lips. And I would learn, after the completion of my first screenplay, how wrong I was.

It takes more than talent to craft a good story. A drunken marmot could write a screenplay, this is true. but it takes far greater capacity, to tell a good and lasting story. To create something that not only sticks in the psyche of the viewer, but becomes apart of who they are, and invades how they think, and view the world. It takes great discipline, fortitude, and an iron-forged resolve to start, complete, and tell a good story. and even more so, in ninety minutes running time (approx.)

Fast forward four years, to today, where I'm still learning how to tell a good story, both visually and literally. I'll never be as good as I once mistakenly envisioned myself to be, and never as good as I want to be. But with providence and God's guidance, I'll create stories that stick, and entertain, and make people happy. that is what the ache is, that is the desire that drives the engine inside me, and that is what will be.

...Ok, so not so short.

The Super Duper Inspiration Machine, or what is otherwise known as "Oscar Season"!

Can a man, who looks like a cross between, a linebacker for the Chicago Bears, and a lighter (weight, not complexion) version of The Notorious B.I.G., be giddy?

I answer that question with a reverberant yes!

In the most recent of days, I've been riding on a crestless wave of creativity. it's one the few effective ways, I manage my condition (Manic Depression/Bipolar) and lead, what I consider a normal life.

In the mornings I wake from a 3-4 hour sleep, look at my computer, go over the lines I've written, lament having to go to, but always propelled, to work. I complete the tasks in front of me with speed and efficiency, rarely taking a lunch break, and complete my day with an "Adios, Fellow Wage Slaves, until tomorrow..goodnight", and speed my way home.

At this point, another writer would have used the "and thats when the magic happens". Well, not me.

I'm not a trained writer, I'm an educated writer. In fact I taught myself, just about everything I know; from Art, to Music, to Computers, to Writing, and now, to Filmmaking. If we seek knowledge and new experiences, the way sharks seek food, what glorious lives we'd lead. But I digress...

Now, were I the kind of writer, to cast of the consummately disposable line "..and thats when the magic happens" I'd be lying. It's not where the magic happens. Its where the magic is translated into words, and situations, occurrences and characters, lives and the approximation of living. The "magic" is in my head, my gloriously, chemically imbalanced, and unmedicated head.

My imagination, and the act of bringing it into reality is my medication, it keeps me sane, focused, and present. And I love it.

So much so, that the thought of being able to go home, after a long stressful day, and devise ways a two-bit criminal, with his right pinky snipped off by pruning shears, will triumph over an amoral police detective, literally, makes me giddy!

And just what does this have to do with Oscar season? Well, every year I watch. whether its holds my attention, or loses it like a virgin on prom night, I watch. And every year I watch.. I feel one more year closer to being on that stage, accepting on of three Oscars, with my Mom and wife in the audience, friends family, and children at home, cheering me on.

And for a 6'4", bear of a dude like me, the thought of it, makes me GIDDY!

P.S. The following scenario is from my screenplay "Lead Pipe Cinch".