I haven’t blogged in a while
because I have been busy. Busy with the holidays. Busy with family. Busy with
all that Christmas/Festivus/Channakah/Sparkle Season entail for the entire
world. In between, I have been working on a writing project-more on that later.
Either way, I have begun to look like a writer. My shoulders are slumped and my
spine is curved like Quasimodo. As for my eyes, they are dark like that of a
drug addicted relative. Wait, the drug addictive relative looks slightly better
and they managed to eat. Oops. Yes, I am a writer.
Writers are the indentured servants
of the creative world. We are always the first called when someone wants a
story. The world thrives on stories. We slave over keyboards and have to put up
with pricks who couldn’t get published themselves correcting our grammar. After
that, we endure the continuous agony of idiots who have no idea of what story
is but are somehow in charge of the business end of things telling us what an
arc is. Yes, arc, those assholes think it’s the thing Indiana Jones discovered.
After which we are abused by the establishment, but we work the hardest. Then
when all is said and done, we are the first on the chopping block. We are the
first to get screwed out of rights and money. We are left in the poor house or
to die with a pauper’s grave while the man chomps on our bones.
Some starlet who can barely read
butchers our dialogue. Then an asshole model turned leading man can’t even
read, so at least the starlet is winning the race of the beautiful and stupid.
After that some director and his “creative license” totally adapts our work to
a way in which we would object but we signed away our rights. When I hold a pen
there is a part of my heart, a part of my soul, that wants to stab them all. To
stab the idea. To stab the establishment.
The worst part is being a woman in
this whole mess. When I stick up for my work, I am angry. I am a man hating
chick with penis envy. My rage can’t hack it in the so called boys club. Female
writers who churn out material that makes my skin crawl and makes me want to go
out like a Hemingway when I read it inform me I shouldn’t let the paradigm
insult me. I should let me be me, and be the best me I can be. Yet one of us
continues to wait for the imaginary man we create in our books, and another one
of us knows it’s fiction. Maybe the one that knows it’s fiction knows all too
well.
I have stopped letting the sexism
on behalf of some of my male colleagues crush my spirit, although it has been
hard. One former writing partner in particular was incredulous over the fact I
would get published and he didn’t. We were friends until he realized I was far
more talented than he was. Then it became all about my man hate. Yes, man hate.
Man hate this, man hate that. What about moron hate. What about you are a
freaking, drooling, imbecile who sits on a soapbox and pretends to be a man’s
man you moronic poser? Or perhaps it was because I refused to let him use me to
get ahead. Hmmm….
Then when you write, you run the
risk of your work collecting dust. My book is in several collections, several
libraries. When I was younger I used to think librarians were anal retentive
wart hogs sent from Satan to terrorize children. Now I respect them as the
Earthly body guards of my work. I spent countless days and hours, sacrificing a
life of any sort, to put my stories on paper. Sure, doggy ear my book. That
means you are reading it. However, if someone spilled something on it I would
be livid. Yes, livid. So therefore, I treat all written words with kindness
just as everyone should.
Sometimes I curse being a writer. I
am a wordsmith which makes me a total heal as a screenwriter. When writing
dialogue, I am selfish and verbose which makes me a mediocre playwright. The
personal essay is my forte because I am a self-centered prig. Novel writing is
also my strength, I did it. But I wish I could sing beautifully and harmonize.
Better yet, I wish I could knock a
trumpet solo out of the park like my cousin. That way people could sit back,
relax, and just enjoy me rocking it out all Old Satchmo. Then there are other
times I wish I could draw and paint like my uncle, where people could get lost
in the beauty of my work. Or maybe dance like my cousins, where the glorious
experience would be interactive. Reading my work involves thinking,
imagination. People hate that shit, remember?
Then I remember everything starts
with a story. The written word is the man begins the relay for his team. Ideas
on paper, great books, inspire people to talk and think. Those great books are
adapted to great movies. Those even greater talents keep the work alive, even
when the author is long dead. The musicians, dancers, and visual arts augment
the story making it fabulous beyond words and compare. This is how stories live
for thousands of years and tales become endless.
When one is good at one creative
art they are always good at another. Writing is a springboard for other creative
talents we all have. Prince wrote songs for others, and then recorded many hit
albums himself. Harold Ramis was Egon Spengler, but more also helped write the
script for Ghostbusters as did Dan Ackroyd. Writing allows me to perform my own
work onstage, sing my own songs, and be whoever I want to be because my imagination
is my own unique original creation from heaven.
That is, until I accidentally cut
my finger on the paper from all the drafts I print out. Be kind to writers is
all I am saying.
Come see me perform my writing and
comedy as I help break a world record for Guinness
Friday January 2 @ 11:45
Metropolitan Room
34 West 22nd st
Xo
April
