Yes I know I haven't updated the blog in forever! What? So what? Get off my case.
I know I said I'd write every day, but there are some days when one cannot write. Simply CANNOT write. Such as:
Superbowl Sunday
My Birthday
Fridays
Any day in New Orleans (Yes, yes, I know that Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams and Anne Rice were able to do so. That's probably because they in fact tried to write, whereas I simply ordered another Sazerac.)
Days when the smog lifts and I can see the mountains
Days when I can't see the mountains for the smog
Days when the Red Sox are playing at home
Days when the Red Sox are playing on the road
See? You see? This is really damn hard people!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
The Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You
I started out at my shiny clean office job as an assistant. I have lots of thoughts on being an assistant. None of them are nice. Almost all of them are going to be in a different blog post. I will tell you that I am no longer an assistant, and not because my bosses recognized the pearl that I am and elevated me to a more appropriate station. I am now merely a Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You. Or probably would if you worked in her office and had “Vice President” on your business card. But I digress. Today, I will not tell you all about my current job, but only a small portion of it. About forty square feet of it, actually. Because that's about how big our office kitchen is.
I am that necessary person in my office who is both lacking in any special skill particular to my industry and capable of adult-level life skills. I am the woman who answers the phone, cleans the kitchen, orders the coffee, stocks the snacks, and rolls her eyes at all the VP's who are either too important or too incompetent to wipe up their own bagel crumbs. In short, The Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You. There’s probably one in your office.
When I was a kid, my mom hated it when I left my dishes in the sink. When I say hated, I mean loathed. A cereal bowl left in the sink after breakfast instantly stoked an ire that struck fear into the hearts of me and the home-schooled teenagers three houses down. It was that scary. And what killed me, what I really didn't understand, was that Mom's cereal bowl could sit in the sink all it wanted. No big deal. It's Mom's cereal bowl, so it's okay.
I get it now. When it's your cereal bowl, it doesn't matter if you wash it now or later, because you clean up after yourself either way. But when it's anyone else's bowl, Mom is the one who cleans it. Not the jackhole VP who left it there. Oh, whoops. I'm not talking about my mother getting angry about my cereal bowl anymore. We're talking about me getting angry at my coworkers for leaving their coffee cups in the sink. Because my job has turned me into MY MOTHER.
That's right. I've even started saying things like, "Do I have to do everything for you?" and "use your brain," and "google is a tool that is available to everyone. It’s all nice and democratic that way. So if you don’t like the snacks that the Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You has purchased through Costco business delivery, google the nearest Ralph’s and go buy your own bananas. No really, they let people who aren’t Bitter Ex-Assistants Who Resent You into every Ralph’s location. And the club card? It’s optional. That’s right. They’ll even accept your company card, which the Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You is not important enough to have, even though she’s expected to do the shopping. Lucky you. No really, the Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You assures you, even a complete FUCKING IDIOT can do his own damn grocery shopping.” Okay, I lied. My mom never said anything like that.
Understand that The Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You is probably a creative person forced into a job that offers nary an ounce of creative opportunities. If you give this woman free reign over the kitchen, expect unusual ice trays and artistic napkin holders. Handle it. And look up your own directions to the post office.
That is all the wisdom this Bitter Ex-Assistant has to impart for now. But stay tuned. There’s plenty more where that came from.
I am that necessary person in my office who is both lacking in any special skill particular to my industry and capable of adult-level life skills. I am the woman who answers the phone, cleans the kitchen, orders the coffee, stocks the snacks, and rolls her eyes at all the VP's who are either too important or too incompetent to wipe up their own bagel crumbs. In short, The Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You. There’s probably one in your office.
When I was a kid, my mom hated it when I left my dishes in the sink. When I say hated, I mean loathed. A cereal bowl left in the sink after breakfast instantly stoked an ire that struck fear into the hearts of me and the home-schooled teenagers three houses down. It was that scary. And what killed me, what I really didn't understand, was that Mom's cereal bowl could sit in the sink all it wanted. No big deal. It's Mom's cereal bowl, so it's okay.
I get it now. When it's your cereal bowl, it doesn't matter if you wash it now or later, because you clean up after yourself either way. But when it's anyone else's bowl, Mom is the one who cleans it. Not the jackhole VP who left it there. Oh, whoops. I'm not talking about my mother getting angry about my cereal bowl anymore. We're talking about me getting angry at my coworkers for leaving their coffee cups in the sink. Because my job has turned me into MY MOTHER.
That's right. I've even started saying things like, "Do I have to do everything for you?" and "use your brain," and "google is a tool that is available to everyone. It’s all nice and democratic that way. So if you don’t like the snacks that the Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You has purchased through Costco business delivery, google the nearest Ralph’s and go buy your own bananas. No really, they let people who aren’t Bitter Ex-Assistants Who Resent You into every Ralph’s location. And the club card? It’s optional. That’s right. They’ll even accept your company card, which the Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You is not important enough to have, even though she’s expected to do the shopping. Lucky you. No really, the Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You assures you, even a complete FUCKING IDIOT can do his own damn grocery shopping.” Okay, I lied. My mom never said anything like that.
Understand that The Bitter Ex-Assistant Who Resents You is probably a creative person forced into a job that offers nary an ounce of creative opportunities. If you give this woman free reign over the kitchen, expect unusual ice trays and artistic napkin holders. Handle it. And look up your own directions to the post office.
That is all the wisdom this Bitter Ex-Assistant has to impart for now. But stay tuned. There’s plenty more where that came from.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Soft Drinks are Pernicious Poison
I am having a Pepsi can aimed at me. Anyone know the range of the particular potato gun that Pepsico will be using for this? I need to know whether to run or take cover.
Sham!
It wasn't until this November that I learned the secret to writing every day.
I should have figured it out before. It was the secret to rowing every day in college, to making dissatisfied people work out every day when I worked in infomercials, to completing an elaborate window display at The Store, and to trading on the NYSE when one is a hedger in California. There's a pattern here, friends. While early to bed and early to rise may not make a man healthy, wealthy, or wise (particularly not the wealthy part), I have a history of getting up early in the morning to go to work.
So of course, of course! dear friends, I started getting up early to write before work. It's the perfect time to write. The house is quiet, the phone doesn't ring, there's nothing interesting on tv, it's not happy hour anywhere on this side of the Atlantic. No distractions, besides tea and cereal.
But rising before the sun is not easy if you are younger than sixty. So I have a series of tricks to haul me out of the bed and over to the writing desk. The first, do not count on a cell phone alarm clock. They are too polite. Your alarm clock should make your heart pound and your hair stand on end. Get one of those mechanical jobs with the little hammer that beats on the bells so hard and fast that your first reaction upon hearing it is to fly to the other side of the bed to make it stop.
Second, have a roommate. If you can use the bathroom whenever the hell you want, you won't be inspired to get up earlier and get to the bathroom first. Start putting out your craigslist ad for someone who to share your bathroom with you, even if they come over from a different apartment.
Have a source of Caffeine in your house at all times. Tea, coffee, energy drink, yerba mate, whatever you need, just have it on hand. If this means you have to spend $2500 on an espresso machine that whips up a cup of bitter sludge Starbuck's style, then do it.
And the last, the most crucial step of all, make your bed immediately upon vacating it. Immediately! While you're still in it, if possible! This is what I do, in fact. When my heart has stopped pounding and my ears have stopped ringing, and when I decide that further delay may cause me to lose my chance at the bathroom, I rearrange my pillows, pull the sheets and comforter taught up to the pillows, then roll sideways out of the bed. Once on my feet, I pick up my pillow shams. Only then, do I turn back to the bed. I toss the shams on, and flee to the bathroom.
After a few blurry minutes in front of the mirror, during which I pretend not to see my hair and brush my teeth like a zombie, I have to return to my room. The frantic alarm clock and the rush to the bathroom behind me, I am now ready to go back to bed. And Woe! Wailing and Gnashing of teeth! The pillow sham is in the way and I can't see the sheets because the duvet is all nice and smooth! Curses, shammed again!
It's to the kitchen, then, and to the kettle. It's time for tea, and writing.
I should have figured it out before. It was the secret to rowing every day in college, to making dissatisfied people work out every day when I worked in infomercials, to completing an elaborate window display at The Store, and to trading on the NYSE when one is a hedger in California. There's a pattern here, friends. While early to bed and early to rise may not make a man healthy, wealthy, or wise (particularly not the wealthy part), I have a history of getting up early in the morning to go to work.
So of course, of course! dear friends, I started getting up early to write before work. It's the perfect time to write. The house is quiet, the phone doesn't ring, there's nothing interesting on tv, it's not happy hour anywhere on this side of the Atlantic. No distractions, besides tea and cereal.
But rising before the sun is not easy if you are younger than sixty. So I have a series of tricks to haul me out of the bed and over to the writing desk. The first, do not count on a cell phone alarm clock. They are too polite. Your alarm clock should make your heart pound and your hair stand on end. Get one of those mechanical jobs with the little hammer that beats on the bells so hard and fast that your first reaction upon hearing it is to fly to the other side of the bed to make it stop.
Second, have a roommate. If you can use the bathroom whenever the hell you want, you won't be inspired to get up earlier and get to the bathroom first. Start putting out your craigslist ad for someone who to share your bathroom with you, even if they come over from a different apartment.
Have a source of Caffeine in your house at all times. Tea, coffee, energy drink, yerba mate, whatever you need, just have it on hand. If this means you have to spend $2500 on an espresso machine that whips up a cup of bitter sludge Starbuck's style, then do it.
And the last, the most crucial step of all, make your bed immediately upon vacating it. Immediately! While you're still in it, if possible! This is what I do, in fact. When my heart has stopped pounding and my ears have stopped ringing, and when I decide that further delay may cause me to lose my chance at the bathroom, I rearrange my pillows, pull the sheets and comforter taught up to the pillows, then roll sideways out of the bed. Once on my feet, I pick up my pillow shams. Only then, do I turn back to the bed. I toss the shams on, and flee to the bathroom.
After a few blurry minutes in front of the mirror, during which I pretend not to see my hair and brush my teeth like a zombie, I have to return to my room. The frantic alarm clock and the rush to the bathroom behind me, I am now ready to go back to bed. And Woe! Wailing and Gnashing of teeth! The pillow sham is in the way and I can't see the sheets because the duvet is all nice and smooth! Curses, shammed again!
It's to the kitchen, then, and to the kettle. It's time for tea, and writing.
Monday, February 7, 2011
More on Shoes
My mother bought me a shoe calendar for Christmas last year, a daily calendar featuring a different shoe for each day. Some shoes were vintage. Some were even antique, bordering on artifact. Others were sold as recently as 2008. And some were made as objects of art, never to be worn. My desk at home is way too small for a calendar, so the shoe calendar came with me to my new office job.
My job, being a job, was largely unpleasant, and my shoe calendar was my only comfort. I looked forward to the moment each morning when I saw the day's shoe for the first time, and when I turned to a new shoe each day I instantly forgot about the shoe from the day before. I never peeked at the next day, either. Each shoe was separate from all the others, as though only that shoe and that day had ever existed. And a whole year of shoes marched by without me knowing.
It’s as though the empty shoes, immobile and isolated on a white background, mesmerized me into forgetting that another day was draining away. And time's winged chariot didn't hurry near, but rumbled away in the distance, as soothing and unsettling a murmur as the traffic on the nearby 101.
This past Christmas my mother gave me another shoe calendar. Every day, I turn to the new shoe, still eager to see what colors and shapes will be revealed. But I now have the 2010 calendar sitting next to it, to remind me that each day stacks up to a whole year.
This year, friends, will be different. This year, I will not forget that a day is a part of a year going by. And I won't forget that a marathon is just a series of steps. In 2011, my shoe calendar will not mark time's journey, but mine.
So here's my plan for 2011, along with special instructions and tips for myself.
1. WRITE EVERY DAY! It is possible. Or very nearly.
2. WORKOUT ON MANY DAYS. You'll feel better if you do.
3. MEDITATE ON THE DAYS YOU CAN'T WORK OUT. It's the same thing, really, and doesn't involve sweating. Until July, when breathing in the valley makes your eyeballs sweat.
4. NO BOURBON ON WEEKDAYS. If step one is successful, this is a foregone conclusion, but I include it for you anyway.
How about you, friends? How do you plan to spend your year, in a day by day sort of way?
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Careerist 2.0
Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of my first full-time job in Los Angeles. Why didn't you know that the Careerist got a full time job? Because I'm terribly behind on my blog, of course. Obviously.
Do I pretend to have good excuses for this? Of course I do. I'm going to pretend I have excuses for this all morning. The first is the aforementioned full time job. The second is the never-before-mentioned first novel.
I have never mentioned what I write on my blog, as The Careerist is supposed to be about work, and I don't get paid to write. That's the joke, see. But I feel that it is now time to mention what it is that I have been writing. Since I haven't been writing blog posts.
About two years ago, I started my first novel. I know that it doesn't make any sense to get a film degree, move to LA, and immerse myself in fiction. But getting a film degree doesn't make sense in the first place, so you can kiss my grits if you think I'm being foolish. Anyway, I read On Writing, and if Stephen King has no reason to convince me that I couldn't do it, neither do you. I finished it about eleven months after beginning it, and I have revised it several times since.
The next step involves getting it published. Am I foolish to think that it's easier to get a book printed than it is to get a movie made? Maybe. But one thing is clear, and that's the path to getting published. I need to have an agent to send it to the editors, but all I need to do to get an agent is get in contact with one and impress him or her with my book. Is that easy? No, but it's clear. And get this--literary agents have a process for contacting them, which they publish on their websites. It's as if they actually want to hear from you! You can send a letter or email and tell all about you and your book. It's called a query, and it's how you get an agent. That simple.
That's not to say that Querying is easy. It's difficult, and it involves a lot of rejection. But to a screenwriter, even an honest rejection is a gift. I still can't quite believe that someone stops what they're doing and reads my query letter. Every time I get a rejection letter, I have to face the fact that it's true. I'm really doing this. They're really reading it. The first time I got a rejection letter, I printed it out in color and showed it to everyone in the office. I was so proud.
One of the bloggers that I follow, a chap who used to be an agent himself, recently stated that there are more than 15,000 other people querying agents every year.
This appears to be terrifying news for fiction writers, but I relaxed quite a bit when I read it. Only 15,000? There are easily 15,000 film students graduating this spring, and every one of those fresh-faced little fucks has a feature screenplay. Luckily, I am a better writer than a lot of the other 15,000 people looking for a book agent. I'm also better than every one of the film students graduating this spring. Am I arrogant? Absolutely. But I need to be if I'm going to drag my ass into this chair every day for no immediate reward.
While I've been figuring out this querying process, I've been reading lots of blogs by people working in the publishing world. And not only have I learned a lot about publishing, I've learned a lot about blogs. When I set out to write this blog, I conceived of each post as a chapter in a longer story. But that's not really the best way to create a successful blog. Blogs are about interactivity. They are networking tools, really. And inviting people to look, but not touch, is going to result in a blog with no readers. Only posting once every three months also results in a lack of readership, I have discovered. Mom, you're the only one still reading this. I love you.
Also, blogs are supposed to help writers build a platform. A platform is a fancy publishing word for risk mitigation. A writer with a platform is a writer with a market presence, just like a film based on a book has a market presence. Platforms are more important for nonfiction writers, but they certainly won’t hurt fiction writers. For example, Snooki has a platform. I don’t have to tell you what it is, because you know what (but not who) Snooki is.
Now, since I am Italian-American, but not a loathsome idiot bimbo, I have to create a difference platform for myself. Now we get to the point I am trying to make to myself (and to my mother). It’s time to revamp The Careerist.
The Careerist might be more about writing from here on out. Scratch that. It’s always been about writing, hasn’t it. I just might be more explicit, that’s all. I might even get all honest about my identity. Since I’m trying to build a platform, an indication of who I am may in fact be critical. Maybe I’ll also start inviting some input. Get some dialogue going here.
So…stay tuned. I haven’t been posting, but I have been working. And I have a lot to share. I hope you’re looking forward to it, Mom.
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