The Forest Primeval

Wednesday

We met and talked for an hour. Several plot points had gone right past her, which made me think about hitting them a little harder in the rewrite. She gave me her impressions of what she liked and what she didn't. We talked about our current projects and what we thought of Len and our class.

Angie showed up and the three of us walked toward our next class, which in my case was American Film Comedy and in there Advanced Scene Writing. They aren't happy with that class, methinks: they kept talking about the "busywork" the teacher had them doing. Considering there's enough busywork in trying to write a damn script, that's highly annoying.

In Comedy class we watched Trouble in Paradise, which I also saw last semester and still enjoyed very much this time around, and High Pressure, a William Powell vehicle that wasn't quite as good, which is too bad, as I rather like him. Give me William Powell in the The Thin Man any day.

Thursday

Then we had Thesis class. I'll ruin the suspense for you: Len rewrote everyone's script. It's true, he does know story, but whose story? I should stop complaining, considering I keep saying, Someone give me a story and I'll write something great. (I have a lack of self-confidence, not self-esteem, remember.) But I wasn't very happy. Clearly Len sees some story there, but what he sees isn't speaking to me. And time is marching on. It's mid-September.

Angie wasn't very happy either after class -- "I don't want to do that," she said. We told she shouldn't, she should go with what she really wants. Since I'm feeling the same way -- Len keeps pulling me towards comedy, which I don't want to do, dammit; I don't do comedy -- I commiserated.

I talked to Linda some in the parking garage, and she said that finding story is hard: she can see my story, she can see Angie's, she can't see her own. "Great," I said, "I'll go write Angie's then."

Everybody's stuff always looks easier than your own. It sucks being a writer. No wonder everyone goes into development: telling others what's wrong with their stuff is a hell of a lot easier than writing it in the first place.

I came home and Darin and I went out to dinner. I asked him what he and Brent have been up to (Tuesday and Wednesday nights Darin goes over to Brent's or the Boys', since I won't be home until late) and he told me about the adventure scenario they were working on. I did my damnedest to concentrate, but it was of no use. Minutes after arriving home, I was in bed. I read a little of Hit and Run: How Guber-Peters took Hollywood for a ride, which I'd gotten out of the library, but then fell asleep.

Friday

I tried to read the book. I really did. It's so dense. I read Ellroy's The Black Dahlia and didn't like it. I can't remember why. That was also like hacking my way through the forest primeval, actually.

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

Thursday: 3.5 miles nonstop, except for waiting a teensy bit for traffic lights.

Friday: 3x40 situps