Little Bill

I will lose you. It is written
into this poem the way
the fisherman’s wife knits
his death into the sweater.
—Gregory Orr

Here’s an update on the creative block for those of you keeping score…

I’m up and writing again. Started a short film. About a third of the way through it. There’s still much to write — except I’m not quite sure where the story’s going to go. I broke every rule I know about writing (again.) I just sat down and let the words pour out of me. What I got was the beginnings of a story. I don’t have a beginning and I certainly have no idea yet on how to conclude the story.

I should take a step back and develop the characters a bit more, and try and identify the conflict. Then from there maybe put together an outline — including what I’ve already written — and map out where I’m going. It’ll probably prove to be more productive than lying in bed trying to daydream out the rest of the story before falling asleep.

I end up just sleeping.

I do have to admit, little bits do come together and baby steps of progress are being made… so there is some optimism. Those of you who would like to read what I’ve written so far and offer up some suggestions are more than welcome to email me privately (or comment here and I’ll send you the script in PDF format) — but no requests without feedback and suggestions!

“I like it!” isn’t going to be enough. :)

“Best way to avoid punch, no be there.” — Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid

I see a punch coming on.

I’ve lived in New York for over three years now and am finding myself falling into the same kind of creative rut that I’d encountered back in the hometown. Creative frustration. Each time I find a way to get out of it but mostly it was an escape, not a solution.

Perhaps you can see something I’m not and feel free to offer up a solution. I’d love that.

The problem is this: I work as a web designer. I derive much creative satisfaction from photography. But under all of that, I want to make films. I keep coming up with premises for films, but end up discarding most of them, or shelving them in the back of my brain. I do it mostly because I feel that I should hold myself up to some kind of standard, in terms of theme and plot. I could write a goofy comedy, or some love story, or something along those lines but they’re not the kind of films I’d like to make. Also, I don’t want to spend my time (and other people’s valuable time) making something no one will ever watch, that won’t be submitted to YouTube even, let alone any festivals.

“What kind of movies do you make?” I get that a lot. The answer is: NONE. But if I had to answer it’d be to make a movie that’s dark, fucked up, or twisted in some way. Think Palahniuk novels before he became so fucking formulaic (I loved Rant, though.) Think Warren Ellis comics. Think David Fincher movies. Think Hitchcock. Sardonic, quirky, witty.

My problem? My brain’s not churning out those ideas. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m not a writer. I have no problem admitting that, but I think I can write, it’s just that the ideas don’t pour out of me like some others I know.

Are there writing exercises I can do to get the creative juices flowing? Should I suck it up and start making ANY kind of film, so that when I’m ready with a good idea my filmmaking chops will be up to par and I won’t make something that sucks? I’m not ready to give up on this.

Lastly, I might bitch and moan about this and I might not be making films but I am a busy guy. But I won’t let my business be an excuse not to pursue this. That’s lame.

Feedback. Give it.

I suppose I’ve been flying a little bit under the radar lately. I haven’t had too much to share — certainly not anything very poignant to share. I suppose I’ll just give a nice little list of what I’ve been up to these days, in no particular order:

• Photographed two weddings, it was exhausting but amazing
• Met the Slackmistress and her lovely husband BeTheBoy when they came into tow. It was great to meet new friends who feel like old friends.
• While there, I spent a little time with my good friends Helen and Meredith (mental note: add Meredith to blogroll.) Always a pleasure with those two!
• Spent some time at home with my mother. I love my mother.
• Spent some time with Agent Mayhem too. It’s been a while, but was totally charming.
• Worked a lot. Enjoyed it, too. A change!

That’s… about it. I don’t know. It’s been eventful but not eventful, if that makes any sense.

Little Bill: ugh.
Kitty: wassup?
Little Bill: photographing a wedding today.
Kitty: awesome
Kitty: for the monies?
Little Bill: only a little bit. it’s for friends of a friend.
Kitty: oh… well that’s cool though
Kitty: you ARE an awesome p-hot-ographer
Little Bill: haha!

Do you remember the games you made up as a child? The kind that only made sense to you and your friends? I was reminded of one this weekend, while visiting my mother over Labor Day weekend.

I was walking down the street along the route from my grade school to my parents’ home. As I was stepping along the sidewalk I found myself deliberately stepping around certain sidewalk squares with an imprint of the manufacturer upon them. It was then that I realized what I was doing:

I was playing a childhood game.

I laughed so hard when it came back to me. The rules are as follows: a sidewalk has so many sections on it. Each one is a square of concrete. Occasionally you’d come upon one with a circle imprint. If you weren’t paying attention and stepped on one, you had to run and touch a tree before your friend tagged you. If you both step on it, the first one to the tree is in the clear. It was a simple game and there really isn’t any point to it, except to make the walk to and from school interesting.

What I found amusing was that here I was, two decades later, habitually playing the game. It had become so ingrained into who I am that it was an unconscious effort. I couldn’t help but walk around them. And I liked that I did.

I don’t think I’ve ever been much of a slave to self-doubt. My choices in life, my career, most of the decisions I make are mostly influenced by my own intuition — by my instincts. Every time I felt as if I were taking a blind leap of faith into the unknown, I really embraced the trust in myself that everything would work out all right. And for the most part it has.

Today I quit my job. Let me restate that more accurately: today I quit the second job I’ve had since moving to New York. Less than a year since my last job. You’d think I quit a dream job: work from home, set my own hours, sleep in as long as I want, fuck around whenever I felt like it, work as little or as much so long as the job got done. And I did it. I did it well. The thing is, I felt doubt before taking the job, while doing the job and even afterward, quitting it.

It’s because I’d quit my real dream job at Nerve for a perceived dream job. I was trading in a known for an unknown. All my instincts at the time were screaming to jump: my tenure at Nerve had left me feeling frustrated, angry and suffocated. So I took a leap, trusting that my instincts would be right, and I exchanged the things I loved most about my job at Nerve (pride in my work, friendship and a real working relationship with peers) for the two things I wasn’t receiving (creative control and pay commensurate to my talents and experience.) I flipped it upside-down. Now I was making the money and receiving the creative control I was due, but had no one with whom to share ideas, jokes, and camaraderie.

I was sitting in my room, alone.

Sure I had my cats, and instant messaging and Skype teleconferences. But there was no denying I was all alone. Every day. And, after a while, no amount of money or sleeping in could beat out the fact that I was even more frustrated, more angry and more suffocated.

My instincts said to jump. So I did.

Let’s see if it works out this time. I have faith in myself.

- - -

(I still talk to my friends at Nerve daily. But it’s not the same. Not for me, not for them.)

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, and Where, and Why

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

Out, damned spot. Out.

It’s nearly four in the morning. I woke up early, I went to bed late, I did a good amount of work today and crawled into bed tired. So why is it, three hours after crawling into bed I’m still awake? My eyes are drier than an unused sponge. I’m lethargic and groggy. But the moment my head hits the pillows, my mind races.

Thinking about jobs, and dates, and friends, and exes, and my car and the possibility of a new apartment. Making plans for tomorrow, trying to come up with ideas for films, thinking about photographing my friend’s wedding in a month or so…

I don’t sleep and I have to be up in the morning. I have only one Ambien left and I’m not about to use it yet.

…I guess I’ll try sleeping again.

Not a lot to report as of late. I’ve been lying low as of late; working a lot; and (re)reading Harry Potter 7. Big things to come on the horizon, I’m sure; but right now this is the calm before the storm.

…or is it the storm before the calm?

Why can’t dating simply be:

“Hey, I like you.”
“Hey, I like you too!”
“Great! Let’s fuck!*”
“Okay, let me get the condom!”

instead it’s more like

“Hey, I like you.”
“Hey, I like you too!”

and then, two days later:

“Haven’t heard from you since our date. What gives?”
“Well, you were a bit too forward, I don’t think I’m feeling it. Good luck.”

What the fuck? Throw a guy a bone, ladies. You say you don’t like games. You say you don’t want bullshit. You want honesty and candor and when you get it, you tuck tail and run?

This designer’s damn near giving up.

* I’m being facetious of course. This isn’t how it’d work.