Awakening the Screenplay : Passion Project, v.2

Garbage truck sounds and a clay-pot full of now cold sake.  Day two with Mom, and I've never had more fun with my parent-turned-buddy, since now we're adults and can drink together.  A little ballroom dancing, a little Joe Allen food in the theatre district, a little conspiracy theorizing about poisoning future boyfriends / terrorists with my Mom's herb garden... a bagful of fun.

It's only one a.m. [terribly early for me], and I'm already drifting into half sleep as I perch in my fluffy white writing chair in an attempt to work on "MASSIVELY IMPORTANT SCREENPLAY : VERSION TWO".  My artistic passion project, my dark poetic heart-of-hearts.  And it's the hardest thing ever to pen, I'm finding, as I want to do the story the most absolute writing justice possible.  So I scrapped the entire first [and near finished] draft I began six months ago, and began anew on an absolute whim tonight.

Three hours later, I'm just starting page three.  I told you I'm manic.

If you had a dream house, and kind-of-sort-of had the ability and funds to build it, you'd spend months planning -- days traipsing down the aisles of Home Depot and Crate & Barrel -- consulting with architects and interior designers before ever laying the groundwork or filling the cabinets with fabulous glassware.  

That's the way I feel about this screenplay.  I know exactly what it looks like in my head.  I know exactly how it's shot, what it's shot on, the shade of blue in the protagonists' eyes, everything.  But for the past two years this inner-ocular photostream has been playing in my head... I haven't been able to open up Final Draft and generate the guts to dictate the words to encapsulate it.  

Six months.  Six months and a deleted file.  Three hours and [barely] three pages.  And I'm maybe... just maybe... almost happy with it.  Thus far.  The first few paragraphs, possibly.  Or conceivably just a sentence or two.  Who knows.  Perhaps I'll wake up tomorrow, hate it again, chide my inability to write my heart's whimsy, and go gamble in Atlantic City for the next twenty four hours to numb the artist-is-woe pain.

But for now -- before I really do take off to Atlantic City for an night [a la Mom], I'm going to do one more pace around my apartment and see if I can churn out another page or two.

The Blissful Despondance of the Young Screenwriter, Ashley Avis

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