Scriptwriter
I was doing a pass on a script recently when I resolved each and every outstanding note with an insouciant flick of the pen.
It felt good. (Too good, as it turns out a few passes later, but hey.)
And as I savoured that sweet moment, I flashed on this short by Australian writer-director Matthew Saville.
“A Writer and Three Script Editors Walk into a Bar” (2013) — Matthew Saville
The Dog — actual handle Ella — was farewelled by the Mamea aiga today.
She was loved, and she loved us. There’s nothing I can write here that I haven’t already written.
May there be plenteous rolled roasts and Whittakers Peanut Butter Chocolate wherever she is now.
Last Sunday was the eleventh anniversary of this website.
I kid you not: unless my maths is awry, we opened in 2006, our first anniversary would’ve been 2007, which means 2017 makes this site eleven. Years. Old.
I’ve a few productions under my writing belt, I’ve been published, and now I’m also writing for theatre. I have representation. Various projects are in various stages of progress. There are a disturbing number of people out there who I’ve never met who know my face and/or my work.
I reside in a new, improved (and defensible) Fortress Mamea. I remain enthralled by The Lovely Wife whose love and calming words have kept me out of jail all these years. Our children are making their way in this world. Our animals are happy and healthy and loved.
A touch over a decade on, I feel considerably more comfortable with referring to myself as a writer. I’ve a better grip on my process, my grasp of the rules and tools is less tenuous, and my slate of projects means I’m rarely short of a story or an idea to explore or develop.
… Yeah. I think I might have the hang of this writing gig now.
The Handmaid’s Tale was my first Margaret Atwood book. It introduced me to her other writing. I’m a fan.
So when I heard last year about this television adaptation, I was prepped and ready to hate it hate it hate it so much that I wasn’t going to even bother wasting my time watching it. And then…
First ep in and I’m on the fence: great world-building but I don’t like the flashbacks — I’d read the book, dammit; viewers should either fill in the gaps or use their damned library cards if they were confused. Second ep in and I’m immersed: the flashbacks aren’t gratuitous; and lead (and producer) Elisabeth Moss’ performance is television gold. The eps are consumed in rapid succession — I read somewhere that it’s been renewed for a second season — and then the season ends just where the book ends and something goes off in my head:
They’ve gone off-book.
I haven’t been this excited about a sophomore season since I don’t know how long.
The Lovely Wife and I have just returned from a few days south where we —
It was exhausting but fun. Until next time, Wellington.
The phrase, When God closes a door, She opens a window, has been looping in my head for the past week and a half.
On the last day of May I received an email telling me a project I was hoping to set up had fallen through. Within twenty minutes of reading that, I received another email: a separate project I thought was on the slow track had been switched to the fast track — so fast track that some colleagues and I are pitching it this Monday in Wellington. (Calm down: I was already headed to my hometoon for a bit of culture.)
I’m sorry I can’t name names at the moment but believe me, you’ll be among the first to read it here. In the meantime:
Besides this website, my online presence includes Facebook, Google+, LinkedIn, and Twitter. I could be on innumerable other platforms out there but time and aptitude preclude me from being every(virtual)where. It’s the aptitude more than time.
Facebook in particular is a seductive timesuck. I don’t mind seeing what family, friends and acquaintances are up to. It’s the cat videos and trailers for upcoming movies that are the problem. And then I get a timely and ungentle reminder of why clicking on video links suck big time:
Fucking buffering.
(Above screenshot is from the trailer for upcoming Oz zombie show Wyrmwood: Chronicles of the Dead. Official — and full — trailer here.)
Earlier this month I had the pleasure of a workshop on the latest play (its presentation was warmly received, thank you), and since then I’ve had a debrief with the principals, I’ve made a couple of pages of notes on what I could do next, and … done nothing else.
It’s partly planned and partly laziness. The laziness needs no explanation.
The planned part is the result of a workshop I had once upon a time. At that workshop, the script was scrutinised by all involved, and opportunities for improvement were sighted and noted. In the month that followed, I made sweeping changes that rode the post-workshop wave of excitement and possibilities.
Some time later when that draft was presented, I was stunned at how easily and quickly I had sold out. At the time of the workshop and in the discussions afterward it had all made so much sense: this and that were all that were wanting — once I had addressed those concerns, the adulation would naturally follow.
It was a harsh lesson: I had drunk the workshop kool-aid — I had believed what had felt really good in the moment of that workshop, believed that where I’d been heading up to that point was a fool’s errand, and endless exciting possibilities and opportunities beckoned if only I could relax a little. I had ignored my instincts to tell the story in a way that felt right to me.
So this month I’ve been cutting wood, pulling weeds, visiting friends, and writing other things. Whatever is still hanging around in my head come June, that will be worth holding onto for the next draft.
Melbourne was fun. Hard to believe it was only a month ago that the Lovely Wife and I were across the ditch.
She had Her stuff.
I had mine.
Yeah, it’s been almost a decade since my last budget-blitzing-blast at Forges, so it was naïve of me to think it’d still be there, the passage of time and all.
Otherwise we saw family and friends, we bar-hopped, and tried the local fare. We do so like Melbourne.
