Channel surfing has become a dying art, I think. Rarely do I cycle through channels looking for something interesting. I just read the program titles after I press 'guide' on my remote. This is progress, but it comes with a price: it minimizes serendipitous discoveries. I don't really watch something accidentally anymore.
In my living room, anyway.
My bedroom TV doesn't have a cable box. It's just hard-wired to the cable. So the only way to find a show is by surfing through the channels, up and down until I find something interesting.
This is how I recently watched about four minutes of Ghost Hunters International. Apparently this is either a spinoff (like Fraiser) or a new take on the original show (like The Suite Life On Deck), which I think consisted of a group of American ghost hunters hunting ghosts in America. Now they've branched out beyond the borders of the U.S. of A. Who you gonna call? Not somebody without a passport, that's for sure.
The four minutes I caught saw the hunters in a castle in Italy. It was night (because why would a ghost be around during the day?). They had night vision and recording equipment. This is the kind of stuff they would say:
Guy: If there is a presence here, let us know. Make a noise or sound.
Then they would be quiet and listen. After a while, the microphones would pick up some tiny bump or something. And in a 500 year old castle in the middle of the night, what else could that be but a ghost?
This was when I started to suspect the title of the show was misleading. These people were not hunters. They had a bunch of recording stuff and cameras and night vision, but I saw zero traps or weapons of any kind. Hunting? At best they were catch-and-release hunters. And that's generous. They weren't really even trying to catch. They were trying to see or talk. Supernatural bird watchers. Or journalists. (But the interview would make for a pretty boring article. "Are you in here, Mr. Marconi?" asked seventeen times in a row with no response is not exactly a hard-hitting effort from the fourth estate.)
This was almost the end of my time on this channel. But then the show cut to another part of the castle. Two new people were "hunting" the ghost of a girl who had died there. Turns out she had refused to marry a man she did not love, so as punishment her wealthy family encased her in a wall and left her there to die, Cask of Amontillado-style. Intriguing.
So I watched. And this is what they said, almost prayer-like:
Guy: We know you're in here, Louisa.
Girl: We know you died a horrible death. And it wasn't your fault.
Guy: We know your love was so strong that your spirit is still here. Give us a sign, a noise, a sound. Something that tells us you're listening.
No response. It seemed a lost cause.
And then a thought occurred. Maybe these ghost "hunters" are good at their job. Maybe they're experts at finding and communicating with ghosts. Their only sin is stereotypical American ethnocentricity when traveling abroad. Think about it. Why would a ghost girl from 1500s Tuscany UNDERSTAND ENGLISH?!
I pictured her floating in the corner, watching these two imploring in a foreign tongue, longing for some human interaction. And just shaking her head, her arms held aloft. Non capisco! Non capisco! She was probably crying.
Let this be a lesson, non-American ghosts. If you really want to address your unfinished business, sign up for an ESL class.
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Friday, August 20, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Calming Power of Music
I've talked about my trip to L.A. last December, but I didn't touch on how I felt when I arrived. Here's an account of how nervous I was, and how I was able to get over it.
---
I hopped off the plane at LAX. I had dressed in layers, because L.A.'s a desert and it can look warm but get pretty cool at night. So I was wearing a cardigan. Even in the airport I could see that my dream L.A., the L.A. I had built up in my head as this perfect marriage between art and commerce, wasn't meshing with the reality. Plastic women and suntanned guys everywhere. It seemed like everyone was obsessed with fame and excess. I have to say, I wasn't sure I'd fit in.
I jumped in a cab. We drove along for a while, and it felt like it was the first time I'd been to L.A. Sort of for no reason, I looked to my right. There, out the window on a familiar hillside was the Hollywood sign. It was all so crazy. Under the metaphorical shadow of that sign, everyone I saw seemed so famous.
By this time my stomach was in knots. I found myself homesick, which I never am. I was missing everywhere I'd ever lived. New York, Michigan, St. Louis. I'd never felt pressure in any of those places. Now I was feeling way too much pressure. I was so nervous. Then something happened that I wasn't ready for. The taxi man (that's what he called himself; he felt cabbie was demeaning) turned on the radio. And a Jay-Z song was on. On the radio, just like that. A Jay-Z song was on. A Jay-Z song. Was. On.
Well, that's just what I needed to hear. It was my song! The song I listen to whenever I feel stressed or pressured or actually when I just want to hear a good tune. The taxi man must have thought I was crazy: I put my hands up. Hey, they were playing my song! The butterflies in my stomach flew away. I was nodding my head. Moving my hips. (Which was hard to do while seated in the back of a cab.) But I had my hands up. And they were playing my song. I knew it was going to be okay. It felt like all those places I had ever lived in were sort of the same as this new strange place I was in. Sure, it was different, but anywhere I was, I could hear my song. These disparate places were all part of America. Wherever I was when I celebrated my song, it was always one thing: a party in the U.S.A. I'll say it again. A party in the U.S.A.
Well, when I actually got to the Disney offices for the meet and greet, I felt like everyone was looking at me. I imagined they were thinking something like, "Who's that guy with the rockin' tie? He's gotta be from out of town." In retrospect, they were right. Wearing a tie branded me as an outsider. But what could I do? It was hard without my friends around me. This definitely wasn't a New York party. I knew because all I saw were Top-Siders. I guess I never got the memo.
Because of this wardrobe disconnect, my stomach started its old nervous routine. Twisting in knots. To make matters worse, I started thinking about my couch and how nice it would be to just lounge around with Lindsay. I was homesick again. The pressure! I had to meet people and at the same time look competent and interesting. I was so nervous. But the DJ there must have read my mind. Just when I thought I couldn't feel any worse, he dropped my favorite tune! (Which is different from my song. My favorite tune is the one I would pick if I could only listen to one song for the rest of my life.) Yep! A Britney song was on! A Britney song was on. A Britney song was on!
So right there at the mixer, in front of everyone, I put my hands up. They were playing my (other) song! Those pesky butterflies flew away. I was nodding my head, like - yeah - like I was in the cab. And moving my hips like - yeah - like I was in the cab. (But it was easier here, because I was standing.) I wonder what the other people were thinking. But I had my hands up and they were playing my song, so I didn't care what anyone thought. I knew I was going to be okay. It didn't matter that it was an L.A. party. I imagined the same party was going on in New York at the same time. I imagined it spanned the whole country. It was a party in the U.S.A. Yeah! A party in the U.S.A.!
But sometimes that week, when I was alone and driving in my rental car, I felt like just giving up and heading home early. Like hopping on a flight back to my hometown that night. Something stopped me every time, though. Every time. I'd flick through the radio, and guess what? I'd find a DJ playing my song(s)! And I'd feel all right.
Just picture me, alone in my rental car with no one watching. I put my hands up! They're playing my song! The butterflies fly away. Nodding my head like, yeah. Moving my hips like, yeah. I put my hands up! They're playing my song, and I know I'm gonna be okay. Yeah! It's a party in the USA. Yeah, it's a party in the USA!
---
I hopped off the plane at LAX. I had dressed in layers, because L.A.'s a desert and it can look warm but get pretty cool at night. So I was wearing a cardigan. Even in the airport I could see that my dream L.A., the L.A. I had built up in my head as this perfect marriage between art and commerce, wasn't meshing with the reality. Plastic women and suntanned guys everywhere. It seemed like everyone was obsessed with fame and excess. I have to say, I wasn't sure I'd fit in.
I jumped in a cab. We drove along for a while, and it felt like it was the first time I'd been to L.A. Sort of for no reason, I looked to my right. There, out the window on a familiar hillside was the Hollywood sign. It was all so crazy. Under the metaphorical shadow of that sign, everyone I saw seemed so famous.
By this time my stomach was in knots. I found myself homesick, which I never am. I was missing everywhere I'd ever lived. New York, Michigan, St. Louis. I'd never felt pressure in any of those places. Now I was feeling way too much pressure. I was so nervous. Then something happened that I wasn't ready for. The taxi man (that's what he called himself; he felt cabbie was demeaning) turned on the radio. And a Jay-Z song was on. On the radio, just like that. A Jay-Z song was on. A Jay-Z song. Was. On.
Well, that's just what I needed to hear. It was my song! The song I listen to whenever I feel stressed or pressured or actually when I just want to hear a good tune. The taxi man must have thought I was crazy: I put my hands up. Hey, they were playing my song! The butterflies in my stomach flew away. I was nodding my head. Moving my hips. (Which was hard to do while seated in the back of a cab.) But I had my hands up. And they were playing my song. I knew it was going to be okay. It felt like all those places I had ever lived in were sort of the same as this new strange place I was in. Sure, it was different, but anywhere I was, I could hear my song. These disparate places were all part of America. Wherever I was when I celebrated my song, it was always one thing: a party in the U.S.A. I'll say it again. A party in the U.S.A.
Well, when I actually got to the Disney offices for the meet and greet, I felt like everyone was looking at me. I imagined they were thinking something like, "Who's that guy with the rockin' tie? He's gotta be from out of town." In retrospect, they were right. Wearing a tie branded me as an outsider. But what could I do? It was hard without my friends around me. This definitely wasn't a New York party. I knew because all I saw were Top-Siders. I guess I never got the memo.
Because of this wardrobe disconnect, my stomach started its old nervous routine. Twisting in knots. To make matters worse, I started thinking about my couch and how nice it would be to just lounge around with Lindsay. I was homesick again. The pressure! I had to meet people and at the same time look competent and interesting. I was so nervous. But the DJ there must have read my mind. Just when I thought I couldn't feel any worse, he dropped my favorite tune! (Which is different from my song. My favorite tune is the one I would pick if I could only listen to one song for the rest of my life.) Yep! A Britney song was on! A Britney song was on. A Britney song was on!
So right there at the mixer, in front of everyone, I put my hands up. They were playing my (other) song! Those pesky butterflies flew away. I was nodding my head, like - yeah - like I was in the cab. And moving my hips like - yeah - like I was in the cab. (But it was easier here, because I was standing.) I wonder what the other people were thinking. But I had my hands up and they were playing my song, so I didn't care what anyone thought. I knew I was going to be okay. It didn't matter that it was an L.A. party. I imagined the same party was going on in New York at the same time. I imagined it spanned the whole country. It was a party in the U.S.A. Yeah! A party in the U.S.A.!
But sometimes that week, when I was alone and driving in my rental car, I felt like just giving up and heading home early. Like hopping on a flight back to my hometown that night. Something stopped me every time, though. Every time. I'd flick through the radio, and guess what? I'd find a DJ playing my song(s)! And I'd feel all right.
Just picture me, alone in my rental car with no one watching. I put my hands up! They're playing my song! The butterflies fly away. Nodding my head like, yeah. Moving my hips like, yeah. I put my hands up! They're playing my song, and I know I'm gonna be okay. Yeah! It's a party in the USA. Yeah, it's a party in the USA!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Case of the Missing Husband
"And we now go to our news desk in Singapore where Christine Tan has more on the..."
Her eyes blinked open. Ross Westgate's smooth English accent continued on the TV as she tried to get her bearings. She was in the living room, on the couch. The lamps were still on. So she had fallen asleep watching TV. CNBC...okay, that was on because of the she had been watching American Greed a few hours ago. (Crazy that these Ponzi schemers always thought they could get away with it.)
She sat up. Something was still bothering her. She squinted at the clock on the cable box display, sleepy eyes focusing. 5:10. In the morning. And then she realized what was wrong.
Her husband wasn't home yet.
Odd. He usually wasn't out this late. 1:30 sometimes, sure. Maybe the odd 2:45. But not 5:15. Not the time that most farmers were already at work. Her mind started to get ahead of her. Flashes of him bleeding somewhere in a ditch (why a ditch? She couldn't picture any ditches anywhere near where they lived) leapt unsummoned into her mind. But wait. There was no need to panic yet. They had a system. He would always text her when he was headed home. There was probably an explanation waiting for her in a heartfelt text. Or barring that, at least a timestamp.
She grabbed her phone. Slid it out of its case - it was off. Ah, that's right. She had it on a timer. It shut off every night just after midnight. She powered it on.
Ross Westgate reported that the European air traffic disruption caused by the Icelandic volcano would cost the EU approximately-
She jammed her thumb into the power button on the remote, shutting him up. The bright phone screen sprang to life. She called up the text message menu. There were two unread messages from him. She wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but played it cautiously. She would wait until she knew for sure.
First text: Staying out. Getting a beer after the show. Will txt when I head home. Love you.
So far, so good. That was at 10:45. Hm. 10:45. The show he was at hadn't started until 11. He must have made plans beforehand. But she had been awake at 10:45. How had she missed it? Maybe the second text would offer insight:
Getting on the train. Love you!
Phew. So he was headed - wait a sec. That timestamp. 2:47 am? Two forty-seven!!? That was two and a half hours ago!
Ohno. Ohno. Ohnoohnoohno.
It's a twenty-minute train ride, she thought. Maybe he's...maybe he's...no, no, no, there's no reason it should have taken him this long. Unless he's dead.
She called his cell. No answer. Of course she hadn't expected one. How could he answer his phone from that ditch? That ditch she had never seen anywhere near Chelsea or downtown Jersey City?
Maybe it wasn't a ditch. Maybe it was the train tracks. People get hit by subway trains several times a year. That must have been what happened. She pulled up the browser on her phone. Found the number she was looking for. Typed it in with shaking hands.
As it rang, she thought ahead to the funeral. Where would she have it? Here, or where their families lived, back in the Midwest? And where would she bury his body? They didn't even have plots. Should they have bought plots? They were too young to think about that, right? I guess not, she thought. You never know when it's going to come. Like a thief in the-
"Port Authority Police," said a tired voice on the other end of the line.
"Um, yes." Her voice was shaky. She realized her face was wet. She realized she was crying. "My husband is missing. He was supposed to be home and he's not."
"Has he been missing for more than twenty-four hours?"
"What? No. But he was supposed to be home and he's-"
"Ma'am, I can't do anything..." - was he yawning? - "until a person has been missing for at least twenty-four-"
"But he's not home." Why did this man not understand?
"Ma'am-"
"Well, have there been reports of anyone dying on the PATH tonight? Did anyone get hit by a train?" Of course that was it. He'd be on the tracks somewhere. Probably reaching out for his phone, bleeding and broken, trying to call her. If, that is, he was still breathing.
"No, ma'am. No reports of anything like that."
"Can you check?"
"There's nothing to check, ma'am." This guy was useless. Was she not conveying the gravity of the situation? A man was in mortal danger!
She hung up. She realized she was standing in the bedroom now; she had been pacing through the apartment the whole time. She tried her husband's phone again. No answer. But his phone wasn't off. It rang for the full number of rings, not just two and then to voicemail. She tried it again. Same.
She felt helpless here. She could do nothing. She grabbed her trench coat. It was time to burn some shoe leather.
No bodies on the sidewalk along the block to the PATH station. That was a good sign. Nor were there any corpses at the turnstiles at the east entrance to the station. She needed to get in. Maybe he had been struck by a train here, when getting out. Or maybe he had just slipped and fallen onto the tracks. The next train could strike him...
She hopped the turnstile, feeling like a juvenile delinquent. But it was excusable, she told herself, because she wasn't riding a train. She was just checking the platform...
...which was empty. Empty of dead or unconscious bodies, anyway. There were people. An odd mix of early morning commuters, stumbling college kids, and the odd bum. After a thorough scan of the platform and both tracks, she emerged up the stairway on the other end of the station. Maybe he was there.
Above ground, the sky had gone from black to a dark blue. The sun was coming up. The sun he would never see again. She pulled out her phone. She'd try him one more time. (Ring.) If only she had known! (Ring.) They could have watched a sunrise together! (Ring.) Had they ever watched a sunrise together? There were so many things- (Rin-
"Hey." He sounded normal! He sounded fine! He sounded alive! He sounded upright and not in a ditch!
"Where are you?" She was flat-out sobbing now. Not on purpose. She couldn't control it.
They met at the traffic light halfway between the two entrances and hugged like they hadn't seen each other in weeks and she thought of that picture of the Times Square sailor kissing his girl on V-J Day or whenever it was and she felt like that girl.
It turned out that he sent his first text at 12:45, not 10:45, and his second text at 4:47, not 2:47. For some reason, the genius computers at Verizon decided it would be a good idea to timestamp these texts two hours off. Just to keep customers on their toes. Perhaps to remind them not to take loved ones for granted.
They drew the blinds to keep out the rising sun and went to bed, she happy that he was alive and he happy that he wasn't in trouble for staying out until 5:30 in the morning.
Her eyes blinked open. Ross Westgate's smooth English accent continued on the TV as she tried to get her bearings. She was in the living room, on the couch. The lamps were still on. So she had fallen asleep watching TV. CNBC...okay, that was on because of the she had been watching American Greed a few hours ago. (Crazy that these Ponzi schemers always thought they could get away with it.)
She sat up. Something was still bothering her. She squinted at the clock on the cable box display, sleepy eyes focusing. 5:10. In the morning. And then she realized what was wrong.
Her husband wasn't home yet.
Odd. He usually wasn't out this late. 1:30 sometimes, sure. Maybe the odd 2:45. But not 5:15. Not the time that most farmers were already at work. Her mind started to get ahead of her. Flashes of him bleeding somewhere in a ditch (why a ditch? She couldn't picture any ditches anywhere near where they lived) leapt unsummoned into her mind. But wait. There was no need to panic yet. They had a system. He would always text her when he was headed home. There was probably an explanation waiting for her in a heartfelt text. Or barring that, at least a timestamp.
She grabbed her phone. Slid it out of its case - it was off. Ah, that's right. She had it on a timer. It shut off every night just after midnight. She powered it on.
Ross Westgate reported that the European air traffic disruption caused by the Icelandic volcano would cost the EU approximately-
She jammed her thumb into the power button on the remote, shutting him up. The bright phone screen sprang to life. She called up the text message menu. There were two unread messages from him. She wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but played it cautiously. She would wait until she knew for sure.
First text: Staying out. Getting a beer after the show. Will txt when I head home. Love you.
So far, so good. That was at 10:45. Hm. 10:45. The show he was at hadn't started until 11. He must have made plans beforehand. But she had been awake at 10:45. How had she missed it? Maybe the second text would offer insight:
Getting on the train. Love you!
Phew. So he was headed - wait a sec. That timestamp. 2:47 am? Two forty-seven!!? That was two and a half hours ago!
Ohno. Ohno. Ohnoohnoohno.
It's a twenty-minute train ride, she thought. Maybe he's...maybe he's...no, no, no, there's no reason it should have taken him this long. Unless he's dead.
She called his cell. No answer. Of course she hadn't expected one. How could he answer his phone from that ditch? That ditch she had never seen anywhere near Chelsea or downtown Jersey City?
Maybe it wasn't a ditch. Maybe it was the train tracks. People get hit by subway trains several times a year. That must have been what happened. She pulled up the browser on her phone. Found the number she was looking for. Typed it in with shaking hands.
As it rang, she thought ahead to the funeral. Where would she have it? Here, or where their families lived, back in the Midwest? And where would she bury his body? They didn't even have plots. Should they have bought plots? They were too young to think about that, right? I guess not, she thought. You never know when it's going to come. Like a thief in the-
"Port Authority Police," said a tired voice on the other end of the line.
"Um, yes." Her voice was shaky. She realized her face was wet. She realized she was crying. "My husband is missing. He was supposed to be home and he's not."
"Has he been missing for more than twenty-four hours?"
"What? No. But he was supposed to be home and he's-"
"Ma'am, I can't do anything..." - was he yawning? - "until a person has been missing for at least twenty-four-"
"But he's not home." Why did this man not understand?
"Ma'am-"
"Well, have there been reports of anyone dying on the PATH tonight? Did anyone get hit by a train?" Of course that was it. He'd be on the tracks somewhere. Probably reaching out for his phone, bleeding and broken, trying to call her. If, that is, he was still breathing.
"No, ma'am. No reports of anything like that."
"Can you check?"
"There's nothing to check, ma'am." This guy was useless. Was she not conveying the gravity of the situation? A man was in mortal danger!
She hung up. She realized she was standing in the bedroom now; she had been pacing through the apartment the whole time. She tried her husband's phone again. No answer. But his phone wasn't off. It rang for the full number of rings, not just two and then to voicemail. She tried it again. Same.
She felt helpless here. She could do nothing. She grabbed her trench coat. It was time to burn some shoe leather.
No bodies on the sidewalk along the block to the PATH station. That was a good sign. Nor were there any corpses at the turnstiles at the east entrance to the station. She needed to get in. Maybe he had been struck by a train here, when getting out. Or maybe he had just slipped and fallen onto the tracks. The next train could strike him...
She hopped the turnstile, feeling like a juvenile delinquent. But it was excusable, she told herself, because she wasn't riding a train. She was just checking the platform...
...which was empty. Empty of dead or unconscious bodies, anyway. There were people. An odd mix of early morning commuters, stumbling college kids, and the odd bum. After a thorough scan of the platform and both tracks, she emerged up the stairway on the other end of the station. Maybe he was there.
Above ground, the sky had gone from black to a dark blue. The sun was coming up. The sun he would never see again. She pulled out her phone. She'd try him one more time. (Ring.) If only she had known! (Ring.) They could have watched a sunrise together! (Ring.) Had they ever watched a sunrise together? There were so many things- (Rin-
"Hey." He sounded normal! He sounded fine! He sounded alive! He sounded upright and not in a ditch!
"Where are you?" She was flat-out sobbing now. Not on purpose. She couldn't control it.
They met at the traffic light halfway between the two entrances and hugged like they hadn't seen each other in weeks and she thought of that picture of the Times Square sailor kissing his girl on V-J Day or whenever it was and she felt like that girl.
It turned out that he sent his first text at 12:45, not 10:45, and his second text at 4:47, not 2:47. For some reason, the genius computers at Verizon decided it would be a good idea to timestamp these texts two hours off. Just to keep customers on their toes. Perhaps to remind them not to take loved ones for granted.
They drew the blinds to keep out the rising sun and went to bed, she happy that he was alive and he happy that he wasn't in trouble for staying out until 5:30 in the morning.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
30 Rock - The Elite
The link at the bottom of this post will lead you to the 30 Rock script I submitted to this fellowship.
I wrote it last spring, so the characters and story are consistent with the end of last season. Note that this is a "spec" script, short for speculative. Essentially this means I wasn't hired to write it. (And no, it wasn't purchased or produced - I wrote it as a writing sample.)
I love the show and it was a blast to spec. Now to pick one for this year...
30 Rock - The Elite
I wrote it last spring, so the characters and story are consistent with the end of last season. Note that this is a "spec" script, short for speculative. Essentially this means I wasn't hired to write it. (And no, it wasn't purchased or produced - I wrote it as a writing sample.)
I love the show and it was a blast to spec. Now to pick one for this year...
30 Rock - The Elite
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Mouse and the Alphabet
Recently I was a finalist for the 2010 Disney/ABC Television Writing Fellowship. This was awesome. I didn’t get it. This was less awesome. But as the poet said:
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
By the same logic, it’s better for me to have been a finalist and not received the fellowship than never to have been a finalist at all. So here are a few good things to come out of the experience, my favorite failure to date:
Reconnecting. The semi-final round required me to list references. Between that and contacting a few friends to ask for advice, I necessarily renewed some relationships. And since I had to go to L.A. for the final round interviews and it was too cold to sleep in my rental car, I got to take advantage of a friend’s air mattress. If I hadn’t gone out to L.A., who knows if I’d have ever connected with that air mattress?
Confidence. Like many writers I know, I oscillate constantly between feeling like I’m the best (!) writer (!) ever (!) and the stupidest idiot ever to stupid idiot. Fortunately neither feeling is correct. But achieving a modicum of success helps validate my passion for this Sisyphean quest I’ve dubbed a career. Especially for my supporters. And detractors. (I’m not naming names, but you know who you are. Bill. Gates.)
In N Out. The best burgers anywhere are at this privately owned regional chain. No restaurants farther away from their meat processing plant than it takes for a supply truck to drive in a day. I’ve been to L.A. three times, but I sort of pretend like I’m an In N Out expert. I was shown that this is not the case when I tried to order what the guy in front of me ordered. They were fries with stuff on them. I assumed what they were and said, “Chili fries, please.” The girl said, “What?” And I said, “Those things.” “You mean Animal Fries.” “Yes. Of course that’s what I meant.” Then, to prove I was not some uninitiated rube, I ordered an “Animal Coke”, which does not exist and was therefore not served to me. But I’m pretty sure she figured I was a regular.
A complete rainbow. It was raining when I landed in sunny Los Angeles, but by the time I had rented my car and driven for a while, the clouds began to part. Usually I see only one side of a rainbow, but here was a full arc, rising amid short buildings and plunging down toward the bottom of some Hollywood foothills. Later I was told this wasn’t light refracting through vapor producing a full color spectrum, but that it was actually an experimental hyper-real trailer for James Cameron’s follow-up to Avatar, apparently designed specifically to blow no one else’s mind but mine. (Plot’s being kept under wraps.)
Introspection. The fellowship staff members who interviewed me really pushed me to talk about how I’m unique and how that uniqueness translates into my writing. Like delicious snowflakes, each of us is unique. But I think writers sometimes have a tendency to downplay our specific points of view in our work, which can’t be good. Which character is more memorable: Indiana Jones, who was based upon George Lucas’s adventuring archaeologist uncle*; or Jar-Jar Binks, who was completely fabricated during a bar bet by George Lucas’s drunk adventuring archaeologist uncle**?
Don’t have to spend this year away from Lindsay. I didn’t mention that part before. Yep, fellows have to live in L.A. Which I would have done, of course, but Lindsay’s job wouldn’t allow her to move there with me. It would have been hard. Sort of like college, when we lived five hours apart. But worse, because it would be on the other side of the country, not the other side of Illinois (Purdue to Iowa - essentially a drive through the Land of Lincoln). Also we’re married, not dating. That's different. We've become accustomed to a life together. If we suddenly had to live alone, there'd be some challenges. Who would remind me to shave? Who would reach things on high shelves for Lindsay? How long would it take her to go through our family-sized tube of toothpaste all by herself? (Buy in bulk, the salesman told me. It will pay off in the long run, the salesman told me. What's the worst that can happen? he asked. If only he knew how close we came to a crusty-capped toothpaste surplus!)
Reminded me that I’m not in control. When I have any type of success I find it all too easy to ascribe the credit solely to my effort. After all, I wrote a script that got me to the final round. I did the work, right? Maybe. But I couldn’t have done the work unless I had the ability to do the work. And I didn’t give myself that ability. In case I forgot that, the waiting time after the interviews and before I found out the results reminded me. I had no control over what happened at that point. It was completely out of my hands. Was it God's way of saying, "Not so fast, genius. You're not calling the shots here"? I'm not sure. But it worked.
So it seems I’m supposed to stay in New York*** for now. Which has a few upsides of its own...
* Untrue.
** Patently untrue.
*** Close enough.
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
By the same logic, it’s better for me to have been a finalist and not received the fellowship than never to have been a finalist at all. So here are a few good things to come out of the experience, my favorite failure to date:
Reconnecting. The semi-final round required me to list references. Between that and contacting a few friends to ask for advice, I necessarily renewed some relationships. And since I had to go to L.A. for the final round interviews and it was too cold to sleep in my rental car, I got to take advantage of a friend’s air mattress. If I hadn’t gone out to L.A., who knows if I’d have ever connected with that air mattress?
Confidence. Like many writers I know, I oscillate constantly between feeling like I’m the best (!) writer (!) ever (!) and the stupidest idiot ever to stupid idiot. Fortunately neither feeling is correct. But achieving a modicum of success helps validate my passion for this Sisyphean quest I’ve dubbed a career. Especially for my supporters. And detractors. (I’m not naming names, but you know who you are. Bill. Gates.)
In N Out. The best burgers anywhere are at this privately owned regional chain. No restaurants farther away from their meat processing plant than it takes for a supply truck to drive in a day. I’ve been to L.A. three times, but I sort of pretend like I’m an In N Out expert. I was shown that this is not the case when I tried to order what the guy in front of me ordered. They were fries with stuff on them. I assumed what they were and said, “Chili fries, please.” The girl said, “What?” And I said, “Those things.” “You mean Animal Fries.” “Yes. Of course that’s what I meant.” Then, to prove I was not some uninitiated rube, I ordered an “Animal Coke”, which does not exist and was therefore not served to me. But I’m pretty sure she figured I was a regular.
A complete rainbow. It was raining when I landed in sunny Los Angeles, but by the time I had rented my car and driven for a while, the clouds began to part. Usually I see only one side of a rainbow, but here was a full arc, rising amid short buildings and plunging down toward the bottom of some Hollywood foothills. Later I was told this wasn’t light refracting through vapor producing a full color spectrum, but that it was actually an experimental hyper-real trailer for James Cameron’s follow-up to Avatar, apparently designed specifically to blow no one else’s mind but mine. (Plot’s being kept under wraps.)
Introspection. The fellowship staff members who interviewed me really pushed me to talk about how I’m unique and how that uniqueness translates into my writing. Like delicious snowflakes, each of us is unique. But I think writers sometimes have a tendency to downplay our specific points of view in our work, which can’t be good. Which character is more memorable: Indiana Jones, who was based upon George Lucas’s adventuring archaeologist uncle*; or Jar-Jar Binks, who was completely fabricated during a bar bet by George Lucas’s drunk adventuring archaeologist uncle**?
Don’t have to spend this year away from Lindsay. I didn’t mention that part before. Yep, fellows have to live in L.A. Which I would have done, of course, but Lindsay’s job wouldn’t allow her to move there with me. It would have been hard. Sort of like college, when we lived five hours apart. But worse, because it would be on the other side of the country, not the other side of Illinois (Purdue to Iowa - essentially a drive through the Land of Lincoln). Also we’re married, not dating. That's different. We've become accustomed to a life together. If we suddenly had to live alone, there'd be some challenges. Who would remind me to shave? Who would reach things on high shelves for Lindsay? How long would it take her to go through our family-sized tube of toothpaste all by herself? (Buy in bulk, the salesman told me. It will pay off in the long run, the salesman told me. What's the worst that can happen? he asked. If only he knew how close we came to a crusty-capped toothpaste surplus!)
Reminded me that I’m not in control. When I have any type of success I find it all too easy to ascribe the credit solely to my effort. After all, I wrote a script that got me to the final round. I did the work, right? Maybe. But I couldn’t have done the work unless I had the ability to do the work. And I didn’t give myself that ability. In case I forgot that, the waiting time after the interviews and before I found out the results reminded me. I had no control over what happened at that point. It was completely out of my hands. Was it God's way of saying, "Not so fast, genius. You're not calling the shots here"? I'm not sure. But it worked.
So it seems I’m supposed to stay in New York*** for now. Which has a few upsides of its own...
* Untrue.
** Patently untrue.
*** Close enough.
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