Friday, April 08, 2005


I have attempted to post on this pukafka site everyday this week and I have been denied. And it's not like last week when I just couldn't get the damn thing to open. Oh no. It's only after I have written clear, coherent paragraphs of brilliance and pressed the post buttont that I get the "something's broken" message.

I need to start writing everything in a word doc and then copying and pasting so I don't lose all those jewels of wisdom, but I am inherently lazy and eternally optimistic that shit will work like it's supposed to. Of course at this point that's also the definition of crazy, you know when you keep doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome.

So yesterday I was writing all about how knowing what the biggest major weakness in my script is just makes me more frustrated because this isn't something I can "figure out" - I have no idea what's driving my main character. That's a pretty important thing to know, and since I'm writing a drama it can't just be the old "I want to be happy" routine.

It's interesting because that has always been my stock answer when asked that age old question, "What do you want?" Or else I go visit fantasyland and want to win the lottery. Or maybe I go concret and want to be out of debt and able to buy a house and car and have health insurance. At various times in my life I have wanted different things. When I was in 7th grade all I wanted was for Paul Butler to like me. When I was eleven all I wanted was a horse. When I want something I tend to want it obssessively and I am aware that this gets in my way, or at least it has. Especially back in the days when all I wanted was to get high.

Last year I was doing some work with Joann and Martha - the very wise women who are my teachers - I cannot bullshit them and we got on the subject of "what do I want" and in the midst of all the tears and snot what came out was, "I want someone to love me so my life can start." And that felt so real and true that I started to cry harder. I mean golly that certainly puts the locus of control outside myself doesn't it?

And maybe that's why my main character is pretty much just reacting to all the drama in her life. Because she's waiting too. Unfortunately that's not much to drive the story on. Last night I put in a request with my subconsciouse to give me a clue, drop me a line, but then I laid there wakefully awaiting some kind of sign. I walked the lot, which is what D. does when he's cogitating a question like this.

I have faith that it will come, but I don't have the patience because I'd really like to finish this and move on to the next thing. It's all I can do not to put my head through my computer screen and if I press "post" and get that broken message again, I might just do that.

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