By Source, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=43487416
What possessed me to try this show with The Goddess six years ago? Was it recommended to her and I was humouring her? Was it a weak/apologetic/fawning moment on my part? Was there channel-surfing and we got hooked like I did once upon a Wire?
At first I swore to merely be in the same room with her as she watched it — I’d be doing something (anything) else like knitting, taijutsu or practicing quick-draws — yet as every episode unfolded, I found myself sitting with my beloved as we were pulled into the world of a thirtysomething obstetrician and her family and friends.
Shit ain’t bad, yo.
When it wasn’t renewed after its fifth season we were both a bit bummed at the unfairness of it all.
But ooh, look — and just in time for an anniversary with the Better Half: a sixth season is playing right now.
I suppose the wool, gi and gun leather will have to wait.
Still Life With Chickens is the story of a cranky old woman who reluctantly adopts a barnevelder chicken and learns that there’s more to her sunset years than waiting for death.
I’ve written:
the first few scenes where —
MAMA tends her GARDEN which is a bit of a haven from caring for her housebound husband;
the garden is invaded by CHICKEN who has a taste for silverbeet;
Mama catches the chicken, then tries to find its owner to give them a piece of her mind;
Mama, unable to find the chicken’s owner, decides to look after it for a few days;
CUT TO some time later — like, several weeks later — where Mama and Chicken have come to an arrangement:
the old woman has someone to talk to;
and the chicken is given parts of the garden to eat and scratch up, as well as kitchen scraps;
and the last few scenes where —
Mama has mellowed noticeably;
Chicken disappears, forcing Mama to interact with her neighbours in search for the chicken;
and [A SATISFYING RESOLUTION IS ACHIEVED]*.
Like I said, I’ve tried to launch myself from the tail-end of the first act with no success, while an attempt to work my way backward from that final act has been equally unsuccessful.
I listed some stepping stones:
[OPENING SCENES]
Something Happens
Something Else Happens
Crunch Time!
[CLOSING SCENES]
My stomach tensing with the possibility of knocking this bastard off — and recognising Joe’s 11-Step Programme — I sketched in some more details:
[OPENING SCENES]
Something Happens
Could grandchildren visit? They’d love the chicken! Excellent opportunity for variations on If you really loved me, you would visit more often;
Something Else Happens
Mama attends the funeral of a contemporary, and sees the shrinking circle of peers;
Crunch Time
Mama’s husband is taken to hospital, leaving Mama feeling very alone, maybe?
[CLOSING SCENES]
Mm.
I could be onto something here.
* I know this is one of those dry technical posts but I can’t bring myself to spoil the ending.
‘S quite a hassle, isn’t it? Hoist, gather, pull, gather, and tie. I suppose it’s a small price to pay for speed and manoeuvrability when things get exciting, but.
Things’ve been a bit quiet in the last month but soon it’ll be time to uh, swaddle up.
No problem, I tell myself. I’ve no idea specifically what happens between the beginning and ending I’ve written but all I need do is reread what I have a few times to get a sense of the direction my subconscious is heading in, then catch the Narrative Momentum Train that’s due just as that last “CUT TO” hits.
I begin with high spirits —
CUT TO:
EXT. THE PLANET MARS -- TIMELESS
— then have second thoughts about the direction —
CUT TO:
INT. HOME -- NIGHT
... dammit.
— until I find myself staring at something like this:
CUT TO:
INT. PHUCKNOSE H.Q. -- I-HAVE-STOPPED-CARING TIME
... shit happens.
Dammitdammitdammitdammit
No hay problema, I tell myself. I’ve got a vague idea of how things got to the ending that I’ve written — all I have to do is work backwards from there because some kind of inevitable logic has led to the ending I’ve written, and hallelujah, all the clues are in the first act.
I get cracking, determined to fill this:
CUT TO:
— with action, character and plot.
Alas, after some amount of time has elapsed, all I have to show is this:
... something interesting should lead up to this point.
I have no idea what.
I hate this script.
CUT TO:
Right, then, I grimace to myself, time to break out the big guns.
But first, a little time out with some youtubing.
(For ages I thought the Hyundai Atoz was pronounced “Aye-tozz”. Until I saw a London A-Z map book and went, Duh!)
I write the first act in an exhiliarating blitzkrieg of creativity;
then, either unable or unwilling to grind through the second act, I skip it all together; and
I write the final act in a creative deluge that’s equal parts excitement and desperation.
At the end of this awfully quick process, I show my efforts to The Goddess, certain that, in that moment and on that day, My Work Here Is Done.
Nah-ah.
I’ve only written a beginning and an ending.
There’s no journey, no arc, no incremental building of character or drama.
Just a —
FADE IN:
— and a —
FADE OUT.
I have to work at my ending — not just fine tune how the music swells, and tweak the moment when I want tears to form in the audience’s eyes — I have to build up to it.
I have to write the rest of the damned thing.
But at least I know where the story starts and ends.
Contrary to popular belief, when energy, motivation, and/or creativity is low in the Writing Cave Keep, I do not resort to singing along with Ms Krall ad infinitum.
If a project has certain constraints or is more long-form, there’s these classics to crib from:
Joss Whedon‘s Buffy the Vampire Slayer — not just a scantily-clad teen-girl who can kick serious demon ass1;
Jed Mercurio‘s Bodies — a visceral and heartbreaking look at just how little separates life and death in a maternity ward; and
David Simon‘s The Wire — its novelistic approach to presenting a criminal investigation, showing us every shade of grey between the police and their adversaries, as well as the world in which both operate, is something to which I can only dare aspire.
And if it’s all too much and/or I want to procrastinate for hours I just need a little kick, I never go wrong with any of these:
Quentin Tarantino‘s Jackie Brown — a small-time crook’s One Final Score;
and David Mamet‘s Spartan — a rogue agent’s attempt to Do The Right Thing.
It’s not necessarily the story I worry about — it’s how I’m going to make it interesting. I want to grab and hold the reader’s — and, eventually, the paying audience’s — attention, take ’em for a ride, and then afterwards, drop ’em back in their seat, exhilarated, exhausted, and begging for more.
All of the above touchstones do exactly that.
Most times, soon after referring to any of the above, I’m back at the keyboard, writing.
1 But oh how The Goddess rolls her eyes when I talk about superior subtextual story-telling amidst well-choreographed ass-kicking.
Now that the cavalry element have settled on the same property as The Goddess, they’ve been finding ways to make mischief. The Exmoor Mini in particular has provided entertainment (for me, at least; The Goddess, not so much) by having her own ideas about how things should be done. One of those things is the paddock to which she is allocated at any given time.
I totally understand her modus operandi:
arrive in new paddock with quiet excitement;
hoover up all easily grazeable (?) grass;
do a second, slower, pass of the paddock to eat remaining grass;
patiently find opportunities to look meaningfully at human captors;
when captors don’t bend to one’s will, wait for dark to make alternate arrangements;
greet captors from outside allocated paddock the following morning.
Most times, her alternate arrangements are awesomely worth it. (Luckily, there are enough fences and gates on the new Fortress Mamea lands that she can’t hurt herself.)
Some times, things don’t quite work out.
The Exmoor Mini on the edge: those luscious dark green leaves behind her hide a sharp two-metre drop into the stream.
Same thing with my projects: some take off; some don’t.
I’m in the process of mothballing a project I’ve poured 250 hours* and a good amount of money into since late last year. I’m consoling myself that I’m mothballing it rather than scrubbing it: I’ll learn what I can from the circumstances of its being mothballed, and try again next year.
Meantime, I’ve got a couple of other projects — including Kingswood which has attracted some interest** — that I’ve been itching to get on with.
I can’t help thinking that if this had happened a few years back, all writing would have sulkily ceased, this blog would have gone black be very quiet (yet again), and The Goddess would be girding herself to smack some sense (yet again) into the sighing hairy blob in a corner of the keep***.
I daren’t suggest that I might be maturing in this writing gig. But tight spots like this are no longer the catastrophic failures they used to feel like. They’re 1). a learning opportunity, and 2). time to spend elsewhere.
* Damn straight I keep a worksheet of how I spend my time.
** I know! Actual outside-family-and-friends interest!
*** The Goddess doesn’t smack me about, not even figuratively. She’s pretty good like that.
I was looking forward to the week’s viewing when I realised that The Good Wife ended last week.
Hard to believe it’s been seven years since housewife Alicia Florrick (Julianna Margulies) stood by her husband, disgraced and jail-bound state’s attorney Peter Florrick (Law & Order alum Chris Noth). At first I was rather leery of Ridley Scott and Tony Scott‘s involvement as executive producers: purveyors of loud and unsubtle big screen epics and extravaganzas, I assumed they would overwhelm creators Robert and Michelle King‘s kickarse pilot script with Sturm und Drang — but no. They provided awesome production values and produced consistently entertaining television for 156 episodes.
While reviews of the series finale ranged from “contorted” (Variety) and C+ (AV Club), to “single-minded” (Hollywood Reporter) and “the right note” (Salon), I thought it did an okay job of closing the show. Sure it felt a bit like a slave to its pilot but it made sense, it was true to character, and left an opening for a sequel, The Good Lawyer was sufficiently satisfying while still leaving the audience wanting more. Not so sure about the creators’ farewell letter to fans — I’m a believer in if you’re explaining, you’re losing — but it’s their show.
The other week I was in the Auckland CBD and I thought, Aw, it’s early in the day — I should be able to hop on to the motorway and get to where I’m going in a jiffy.
Nah-ah: I quickly found myself in a queue of traffic crawling uphill, doing hill-start after hill-start after hill-start (damn straight I drive a manual).
Auckland motorway traffic, early afternoon, weekday, at between 0–5kph.
Sometimes a project goes like that: for days/weeks/months I’m going hard out, warp speed, all engines, etcetera, and then suddenly — but it’s not really suddenly, it’s just the sharp contrast in busy-ness — I have days/weeks/months ahead in which little more can be done, pending external factors.
And I need to be mindful that with each passing day — just like with each hill-start and -climb of five or so metres of asphalt — I’m that much closer to my destination.
