Archive for the ‘creativity’ Category

Here we are again.

I’m not going to apologise for the hiatus this time. It’s a new thing I’m trying called No Regrets. It is what it is.

I think my creativity and my drive come in waves. I get bit by the bug and have a brief brilliant burst of productivity, get complacent, get tripped up by something and stop trying. It’s the ‘stop trying’ step that I’m working on. No regrets.

My last post advised I was setting up Splendiferous Films so I could keep making short films and pushing myself. So far, I’ve made one and a half in nearly three years. Considering the pace I was cranking them out before, this can be considered to be Not Good.

But here’s the thing – circumstances change. Everything has to be taken within its context. I can’t judge myself now based on my actions then. A very specific set of circumstances were in play, to do with people and responsibilities and energy. Over time, things have changed. I’ve been punishing myself for not pushing harder, when really I just need to work out the right amount to push.

No regrets.

I’m proud of Going Down. It’s a funny little flick, and I’m proud of everyone who helped make it. Is it an amazing game-changer of a film? No, hardly. It was the best film we could make at that time. Was it worth submitting to festivals? Probably not, but it at least got it in front of people who are out of my social circle, even if those people didn’t pick it for inclusion in their festivals. And that’s quite right – it’s not quite at that quality yet. We’re getting better.

But we won’t get any better if we don’t make any more films.

Snapshots has been stuck in post-production for about a year now. We’ve got a rough cut and some ideas for where to go, but we haven’t been able to finish it. I don’t think it’s been looked at in 6 months or so.

There are personal reasons for this, partly to do with being a little too close to the subject matter and partly to do with a whole host of internal and external factors. I’m not going to go into them because they’re quite personal, but suffice to say I’m done beating myself up about it. I’m not the same person I was five or six years ago, and I’m not in the same position.

I didn’t work as hard as I could have to stay on top of creativity, and I can’t change that. But I can forgive myself and move on.

I’ve been kickstarting my creativity lately. I took an excellent screenwriting course and a fascinating body-casting workshop. I’ve been reading about creative people doing creative things and thinking about the creative process. It’s disheartening to realise that I can’t take many of the risks that creative people do to get themselves out there, but this is 2017. I have the internet and a functional body and a (mostly) capable brain. And I have friends.

We’ve been moving house and that’s taken a lot of energy, but that’s nearly over. We’re going to finish  Snapshots, get it out there in front of the eyeballs of the world – and then we’re going to make another short film or sketch. And then another. And then another.

Can I get to the ‘3 projects in a year’ position I wanted to be in? Maybe. Maybe not. And if not, that’s fine. Life happens, and as long as we don’t give up altogether then all will be well.

No regrets.

Writing is hard. In my experience, it involves squinting hard at a screen then typing a handful of words, only to immediately delete most of them. Rinse, lather, repeat until braindeath. It’s nice when it comes easily, when you get into the flow of it, but that’s pretty rare for me.

That’s where writing exercises come in. I need to engage in these more often. They’re a way of flexing brain muscles that I’ve been letting atrophy. A drabble here, a stream of consciousness there. It doesn’t matter what I write, as long as I write.

One of my favourite exercises is the Six Word Story. The aim is to write a self-contained story that says everything it needs to say in just six words. The most famous one is attributed to Ernest Hemingway, though there’s doubt as to whether or not he actually wrote it : “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” There’s a whole story’s worth of sorrow in those six words alone.

I find it difficult to get a whole story in six words, but that’s why it’s a challenge. Here’s a few I came up with :

What goes up sometimes comes down.

I thrash, I flail, I sink.

I aim my gun. Still miss.

Since you left, I’ve been sleeping.

“Please don’t,” she said. I did.

“Please don’t.” I did it anyway.

Do Not Push? What could possibly-

No experience? No job for you.

Play it again, Sam. No? Ok.

Sad songs, empty glass. She’s gone.

Screams. Heart pounding. Crying. Baby boy.

“Look out for-!” SPLAT. “… never mind.”

My stomach hurts. Get it out.

Ate Dad. Could have tasted better.

Got super powers. Jumped. Couldn’t fly.

Dead on arrival. Why’s he moving?

Where’s the holy water? Oh shit.

I loved her. Now she’s gone.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Click.

Now cut the red NO WAIT

I should write. What’s on TV?

The stench of death. How lovely.

The words won’t come. Blank screen.

Plastic bottle, plastic bag, plastic flesh.

I bite down and drink deep.

The hunger burns. I eat more.

Feel free to share your own in the comments!

I haven’t updated this in a while, mainly because I’m rubbish at keeping up with journals and diaries and anything that requires an attention span of more than a few oooh a butterfly.

I recently had a bit of twitter whinge (yes, I’m on the twitters, find me here) fuelled by frustration at lack of time, energy, money and self-discipline to write, film and generally seek out the creative life I want for myself. I need my dayjob to fund those little everyday things like eating, clothing myself, paying bills. But it eats up a lot of my time and a lot of my energy – time spent not at work should be time spent writing, but it seems I spend it either doing chores or recouping energy from working and doing chores.

Then my turn to write an installment of The Working Barbarian (seriously, check it out, it’s fantastic) came again. I forced myself to sit down, to relax and to write. And it felt good. Really good. I hadn’t written creatively since the end of the film-making course, and I didn’t realise how much pressure was building up behind that dam. I won’t say much about the quality or the quantity of the writing (which can be read at that site on Monday), but I will say that any writing is better than no writing at all. It was nice to be able to have a hand in sourcing the artwork for the chapter, to see a talented artist bring my words to life.

I’ve also been reading Bruce Campbell’s autobiography and the Guerilla Film-maker’s Movie Blueprint in an attempt to keep up creative momentum. Filmmaking is something I want to do, and right now it’s likely to stay a hobby and a dream. I just need to keep at it so I don’t fall into the ‘some day’ trap. Some day I’m gonna be a writer. Some day I’m gonna be a movie maker. Some day I’m gonna be a contender. You know the one.

In an attempt to avoid creative atrophy, I will keep writing. I will try to go back to the Pictonaut Challenge. I will try to write scripts, or at the very least ideas and outlines for scripts. I will try and write stories, not worrying about their length.

Stories like the tiny little one I wrote this afternoon. I call it The Planet Business, and it can be read below. I hope you like it. And if you don’t … er, that’s fine. I like it.

The Planet Business

No, no, no! Round, Carl! They need to be round! Why? Physics, of course. You can’t very well have a big flat plate of planet spinning around in space, that’d be stupid. It just won’t go. No, you can’t balance it on the back of anything else. Stop fooling around, smoosh it back into a ball and start over. That’s better.
Oh stop whinging, Carl. It’s rocky because rock is the best material for planets. Oh really? And what would you prefer, O Mighty Apprentice? Hah! You can’t make a solid object out of gas. No, it’s not worth a try. I said no. Gah! Fine, if it’ll shut you up, you can try making a giant gas one after we’re done with this one, ok? Ok.
Right, so what have we got? Molten core, check. Stick a few layers of rock around it. More. Little more. Ok, now spread the outer one nice and thin. It’s got to be crispy. It’s easier to make mountains if it’s crispy. Ok, pass me that tenderising mallet. A few good whacks should do it…
There, nice and lumpy. Ok, you remember how to make sea beds? Have at it, young man! Good. Oh, very nice. Watch yourself there, careful, CAREFUL oh bugger. No, no, don’t worry. If anyone asks we’ll call it a trench and say we meant to do it. Trade secret, that. Now fetch the hose.
Ok, that’s the water filled in. Lovely. Fetch me an atmosphere out the box. Hmmm? Methane, I think. Ok, hold it at that end and and peel the film off. Right, good. Stretch. Keep going, you’ve got to fit it round the whole thing. No, it will fit. It WILL fit, you just need to CAREFUL oh bugger. Well, there it goes. I bet that was the last one, right? Right. Hmm, looks like we’ll have to bodge one up. Hand me the cans. Let’s see, oxygen, nitrogen, carbon wotsisface, mmhmmm, yes, oh no none of that one, ok, yes. Hand me the empty bubble and the bellows. Aaaaaaand nice and slooooow…
Ok, now grab the other end and CAREFULLY pull it over and yup yup yes you’ve got it! All sorted. Looks nice, doesn’t it? It’ll make a nice home for the little settlers. Carl? Carl, you’ve gone very quiet and very red. Oh, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the settlers. Carl? Carl, you IDIOT. The whole point of this bloody planet was to put the bloody settlers on it! Where are they? Oh for goodness sakes, that’s billions of years away! No, stop. I’m not interested in your excuses. This planet’ll just have to keep until we can fetch them back.
Right, pack up the tools. Stop crying, I’m sorry I called you an idiot. We’ll fix it, just – whoa! Bless you. You should put your hand in front of your face when you sneeze, Carl, you’ve just covered the planet in mucus. Hmm? No, I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s not like anything can evolve from snot. Come on, let’s go.

“Is it safe?!” – gif from http://mindinfection.tumblr.com/

This will probably not come as a great shock to anyone who’s seen me smile, but I’m not entirely fond of trips to the dentist.

I’m really not sure where this anxiety stems from. I can’t say I’ve had any memorably bad dentist experiences that I can remember. I’ve had teeth pulled, but it wasn’t any more unpleasant than you’d expect it to be. I like anaesthetic. Anaesthetic is my friend.

Today I went to the dentist for a checkup for the first time in about 5 years or so. I’d been nagged into it for my own good, but I still felt resentment and anxiety. Resentment that I need to take myself off to be prodded and inspected and  poked. Anxiety that I don’t meet muster.

I think that’s the crux of it. I don’t like to be judged. I do plenty of that to myself, thank you very much, I don’t really need the extra help. I’m fairly certain that my mouth is a festering, sweltering cesspit of filth and rot (queue starts here, ladies and gents, kisses £1 a go). Do I really need a Certificate of Foulness?

And so the avoidance begins. “Oh, er, dentist appointment? Er, can’t afford it this month. Now? Er, far too busy. Tomorrow? Er, I have to accompany a group of Dwarves to their faraway mountain to find their long forgotten gold. Sorry, can’t get out of it, Ian McKellen’ll be disappointed in me otherwise.”

The excuses ran out when I started recycling film plots. So I booked today’s checkup and swallowed my pride (along with several thousand malign bacteria, probably). I trekked through the snow – not that big an exaggeration, actually, given the recent snowfall – and sat in the waiting room, disturbing visions building up in my mind.

I saw the dentist’s office as a filthy, squalid torture chamber. Cockroaches scuttled in dank corners, drinking from muddy bloody puddles. The chair was a horror freakshow contraption, all straps and buckles and razor sharp implements. The dentist cackled madly in between huffs of gas while their assistant gibbered and danced luridly, gleaming instruments slashing through the foetid air. Screams and howls echoed down the corridors, helpless victims enduring their own hellish torture. The screams, the howls and the drilling, the relentless drilling!

Yeeeah.

None of that happened, of course.

The dentist was lovely, if patronising. She told me off for the state of my gums and gave me strict instructions to brush more, start flossing (oh god I am NOT looking forward to that) and using some sort of specialist mouthwash.

My mouth is not a cesspit. It’s not even a gutter, or a puddle of sewage (roll up and pucker up). I just need to take care of myself more.

Which is good – it ties into my aims for this year. Rather than make resolutions (which are easily broken), I have gone with aims. I aim to unfuck my habitat. I aim to improve my health in small ways. I aim to resume climbing, sell some writing, and various other small, easily achievable goals. I have the whole year to do them, but there’s nothing wrong with starting early.

So here’s to 2013. A new year, a beginning to a new me. I’ve moaned about self-discipline and the lack thereof before, so here goes. I’ve taken a week off work to reset myself and, irritating cold and mild eye infection aside, I’m raring to go. I’m writing, I’m taking steps to ensure I start climbing again and, yes, I’ve been to a dentist and intend to do so regularly from here on out.

This is my world. It’s about time I stopped existing in it and started living in it.

With fabulous teeth.

Yes, I know I’ve used this before. No, I don’t care. Shut up.

Well! It’s been a little while since I dared show my face around here, isn’t it? Believe it or not, this lapse was accidental rather than the usual apathy and laziness creeping in and hiding all my productive thoughts.

I’ve moved house, see. Nothing drastic, just down the road. But it came with all the usual inconveniences – packing, organising, putting off unpacking. And, of course, transferring utilities. Like the internet. Which I’ve not really properly had for about a month now. I’ve been like a junkie, scraping by, getting my hits when I could through hooking my laptop up to my phone and using mobile internet. I’ve gobbled up data in huge slimy chunks. I think I’ll stop now before my imagery breaks down entirely.

While this has been going on, I’ve been settling in to my new role at work, which is rapidly moving from my new role at work to plain old my role at work. Which is nice. It’s nice to feel some self-confidence, professionally speaking.

Another area I’ve been treated to some self-confident is in my writing. Remember my last blog post? “Barely?” “Way back in the mists of time?” Cheeky bastards. Anyway, I mentioned I’d had an idea for a little film, one scene, couple of minutes. Something light and fluffy and geeky and romantic.

Well, not long afterwards I came across the 50 Kisses competition.

2 page script. Set on Valentine’s Day. One kiss.

I’d already written it. Two minor edits later and it was suitable.

I took a deep breath.

I took a plunge.

I emailed it in.

I also approached James ‘Gus’ Boucher, a good friend of mine, about potentially directing it. You may remember him from such shorts as Tea Leaf and Jeremy (you know, that one wot I wrote). He entered the competition and we filmed it on the off-chance that the fates would smile on us and my script would be considered worth a damn.

Well, 50 Kisses started the reading process and I don’t envy them. They had over 1000 scripts to sift through. They whittled it down to a longlist of just over 500.

And my script was one of them.

At least one person has read it and thought it merited passing through to the next round. I’m under no illusions, I’m not expecting to see it win, to get my name up there on screen. Hoping, yes. But not expecting. Cliche as it may seem, winning isn’t the important thing, not really. Having had the confidence to send it in, that’s the important thing. That’s the big important thing.

I’m getting there. One day I’ll believe in myself the way others seem to believe in me. This isn’t the first step, but it’s one of many, in the right direction.

The Shepherd’s Dream by Johann Heinrich Füssli

Yesterday morning I awoke with a jolt. After a moment’s thought, I clambered out of bed and plodded my way round the upstairs of the house, looking for pen and paper. In the depths of the previous night’s sleep, I had had An Idea.

This was not a particularly amazing idea; no cure for cancer or solution the world’s energy crisis here. No, it was just An Idea for a short film. Short enough to be a sketch, really. It was a simple, one-scene film with a lighthearted tone and a sweet ending. Best of all, it made sense.

Most ideas that come from dreams seem amazing to the sleeping mind. Widly creative and endearingly wacky, you’re sure that they’ll set the world ablaze in all their original glory. You wake, and from the moment you wake the dream starts to fade, as dreams are wont to do. Slowly but surely, vital elements begin to fade away like Marty McFly’s family photograph. Soon it is gone. All that remains is a niggling feeling that there was something you dreamt that was good, but what? Something about aardvarks? Car parks? Bard wargs? What was it?

Even worse, though, you could capture the idea, wrestle it down and trap it on paper. There, spreadeagled and naked before your scrutiny, you can see it for what it really is: a mess. An utter farce of an idea. Point C doesn’t follow on from points A and B at all, and why does the protagonist suddenly become a Volkswagen made out of cheesestrings halfway through? Dream logic has little in common with that of the everyday world, and the sad truth is that when lifted straight out of a dream and inspected closely, dream ideas are a bit pants really.

But dreams can provide inspiration. A haunting phrase, a persistent image, a recurring location. There are elements that can be taken and woven into a tapestry. James Cameron reckons that ideas for The Terminator and Aliens came straight out of his nightmares. Paul McCartney allegedly dreamt the tune for Yesterday. They are not alone

My dream idea is no Terminator or Yesterday, but it got me up, got me moving, got me writing. In the end, that can only be a good thing.