First, let me preface this post by shouting from the rooftops:
There is no philosophy to read this semester. No theory, no gibberish, no drivel, no scholarly writing. Let’s dance a happy jig, shall we? I’ll start.
Short Story is gonna be great. I can feel it. The ideas are swirling and confidence is up.
Performance Writing is another story. The ideas are there, but screenwriting as a technical ability is a new critter altogether. The format alone is unlike anything I’ve ever done, not to mention the pressure to portray accurate body language. Instead of tabs and margins, there are lines for parentheticals, transitions, and shots. This is not a complaint, mind you, but I’m in class with other creatives who have a lot of film experience. They’ve written treatments before and know the jargon. Not me, man. I’m am a student of screenwriting one hundred percent.
Our final assignment of the class is to write a short film. I laughed out loud when I read that. What a riot!
In other news, what’s up with the adult acne? I’ve probably had ten pimples in my entire life and now I have four on my face at one time. I turned 35 and my face blew up. It’s so unusual and obvious that Jackson asked me the other day if I had the chicken pox. Yeah, thanks for that kid.