Part I: Stories are Weird / Part II: Indecision is Human, Isn’t Helping

Part I: In the middle of packing to move from one city to another, I took some time out to do some narrative brainstorming.  I thought I’d write a story that caters to the talents of certain members of this writers’ group I’m a part of, as we all act out the parts in each other’s pages before we give feedback and critique. 

I spent the past hour or so trying to crack the nut of this image that I saw, of a wealthy man lighting a cigarette in a nightclub, the flame of the lighter illuminating his face, the point of view being that of a woman at the bar, who feels stuck in her life.  This image and its point of view is not the most original, but I’ve been wanting to write a film noir told from a female point of view for a long time.  I had this image and the feeling of it in my head, and the relationship between this wealthy man and the female protagonist.  I had the setting, a fancy restaurant, though it could have also been a nightclub.  And I was trying to nail down the cornerstones of this story for more than an hour, putting backstory into place for the female character, going through the world of this setting, but something just wasn’t working.  I had interesting elements and themes, but there was a point where I couldn’t go any deeper in terms of turning these ideas into a coherent whole.  And I kept treading the same ground, to this house music that I like to write to sometimes because it’s good background noise, only to realize that the most interesting part of this image I was seeing, and the opening I’d developed around it wasn’t the wealthy man, or the relationship with the female lead at all.  What was most interesting was the fact that the wealthy man was hitting on the female protagonist, and she was enjoying how he made her feel, only for the female protagonist’s long-time, straight-edged boyfriend to come back from the bathroom and realize he’s interrupted a connection between them.  So now my writing spider-senses aren’t focused on the wealthy man at all, they’re focused on the kind of dynamic the protagonist and her boyfriend have, what the drive home between them might be like, what kind of life she feels she has with this guy (or doesn’t), if she so readily falls for the allure of this wealthy man at the bar. 

I had thought this story would lead me in one direction, and now due to this one idea I’m somewhere completely different, in a completely different dimension from where I was, like Super Mario who’s gone through a portal and now he finds himself in a video game level that wasn’t previously on the map.

Stories are weird.  They are so weird.  They are my X-files basically (I still haven’t seen the show, but I hope the metaphor sort of makes sense).  Following these ideas just takes me into completely uncharted, unanticipated territory.  But right now, I’m not necessarily excited by this, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.  I feel like I used to be excited by these detours, and the unexpectedness of where such epiphanies would take me.  And now I’m just like, man, I’ve got to do more work.

But here’s the thing, and this may sound completely stupid.  I can’t imagine myself stopping.  Every time I think about stopping (which I’ve done in the past) or quitting, I start to feel literal pains in my chest, like my heart is collapsing.  I still think I enjoy it very much.  There must be a way to reconnect with this work, with the joy and spontaneity that led me to be excited by this act of creation in the first place, and feel like it’s less of a grind. 

I feel like multiple creative people have talked about the taste-talent gap, where you spend years doing work that doesn’t quite achieve the vision you had for it as you continue to refine your skills and creative voice.  But what about the transition from being overjoyed at the process of doing something to continually bumping up against how difficult it feels?  And I’m not sure how I went from being stoked to sit down and write about my spaceship in a cave (the basic plot of my first script ever), to feeling like … the screenwriting process isn’t what it used to be when I started out.  I feel it’s not so much about creative spontaneity anymore and sailing on the purity of an idea as it is about refinement, the reworking of a sentence and dialogue until you get it right to achieve the ultimate clarity of your idea and its maximum effect on an audience. 

The thing is I feel like there’s merit in this. 

Part II: A day or so after writing this, I acted out a couple of the scenes I was working on, and it was tremendous fun.  And I started thinking about how I could ever quit writing in the first place.  I feel like there’s this idea I have embedded in me that if I somehow get discouraged, it means I’m not cut out for this.  That’s where the real sadness comes from, not so much the struggle itself, but from how my brain interprets the struggle to mean that I’m inadequate and I’ll never get to the point where I can execute my ideas. 

I also feel like I interpret stories of other people’s early and easy success to mean that I shouldn’t be doing this either.  Why is screenwriting so hard?  Why is creating compelling images and scenes so difficult?  Does that mean I’m not cut out for this?  Is this like someone who’s bad at math and science wanting to be a doctor?

In lots of pursuits, you’re going to go through setbacks and bumps in the road.  The lack of belief in myself is making it harder.  It’s making me feel the impacts of the rough stuff more, and my defensive shields are taking a longer time to repair (I just visited Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge at Disneyland the other day, so that’s where my head’s at).  I can’t control the rejections and stuff, but the lack of belief – I feel like that’s on me.  I know we’re not made of metal either, but I feel like self-belief is so crucial to success, or at least to be able to continue what you want to do.

I’ve decided I haven’t been writing enough.  I’m better after the mental health issues I had last year.  Back then, if it came down to pages or taking it easy if I wasn’t feeling that well, I’d do the latter.  No artistic progress or crackpot line is worth the added stress.  But if this is what I want to do with my life and I’m in a better position to make it happen, then I need to do it.