I actually stole that from a friend who was talking about how random and irrelevant CD titles often are. The thing is, as I was pondering this and how I was going to plagiarize it for a blog post, I realized that there is a *huge* difference between "My sweater in the trash" and "A sweater in my trash." Possession of either the sweater or the trash creates a whole different story. Sure, probably only an English major (former English major, really) would pick up on the emphasis created by the possessive. However, any good story teller would pick up on the difference.
I flew home the other day. During my trip I thought of several things to blog about. With a computer finally in front of me, my mind is rather blank. And it's a crying shame, too. I keep telling myself that while this blog is instructional to no one, some people might find the adventures of a undergrad film student mildly entertaining. But how few those adventures have been. Next semester, I say, when I finally take a screenwriting class, what I am supposedly at school for, when I write and direct my own short, when I am more immersed in the program than I've even been before, then, *then* I will have some stories. But I find myself anxious still.
Does anyone know whatever happened to Julie?
I got to visit the Apple store today. They really need to rename it the Happy Store. Anyone else see the advantage for an emerging filmmaker to have an iPod video, or at least one of those adorable little new Nanos that have video on them too? Why yes, I have made a short - in fact, I have it right here in my pocket.
I've been having acute episodes of Paranoid Writer's Syndrome. I'm not even sure what about, really. One hit me in Borders today as I was flipping through various books about writing. There are so many great quotes from writers, but often times I read them, especially those that absurdly try to define who a writer is or what they do, and something cold squeezes around my heart when I realizes that, whatever kind of person they're talking about, they're not talking about me. Those writers who talk about how writing is like breathing for them and they can't imagine being happy doing anything else and how a writer is someone for whom, I don't know, writing is like picking flowers, just as happy and joyful, they make me want to throw those books to the ground and run away. It's not that there aren't also a plethora of quotes about how writing is hard work and how most writers do everything they can to avoid writing and how writing is like picking up a pen and scratching until it inks out blood. It's just that I'm afraid that those are not the really writers. What if the reason that writing is so difficult for some of us is that we're not really meant to be writers? For every quote about how beautiful writing is, I need three of how painful and hard it is to reassure myself. It's a painfully scary business, writing. If you don't know exactly how thermodynamics work, you can learn it through studying. If you can't understand how to tell a good story, well, all you can do is keep chasing after the lightning. There's no guarantee you're ever going to get it.
On the flip side, while I was hanging out in the airport the other day I made a quick list of all the ideas I have for feature length scripts. Within two minutes I had a list of five or six ideas, and any one of them I would be happy to pick up and start working on right now. In fact, the difficult thing come the beginning of my screenwriting class is going to be deciding which one I want to pursue. It will be my fourth script, so maybe we'll finally be approaching on something good. Really, I'm excited, albeit a little nervous, about finally taking a screenwriting class. I've waited a whole year to take this class (stupid prereqs). Hopefully it will teach me the discipline that I've completely lost since this summer, and I will finally be able to work in a peer-review environment. I'm ready for this.
I really am in love with that Snow Patrol song. I love songs that encourage people, even if there is a somber note in it. It's a beautiful bittersweetness. "Have heart, my dear."