V: Ejector seat

Coffee, Coca-Cola, beer, water, repeat. Wake up, Scotto, where are you? Don't you know you've got work to do?

I feel like I've got a significant night of writing ahead of me, but not the new play. I was very excited about it while I was writing it, but my feelings have cooled.

The kid is most definitely down tonight. Our hero is bummed. He's not a big fan of himself right now. I feel like this is going to have to be two entries. One, a very quotidian update about the stuff that's been going on in my life since my last entry. The other, a very lengthy, self-loathing flavoured rant about all the different ways I suck and how the next sixty years are going to be very unenjoyable for yours truly. I don't know which one I'd rather write. I think for once I'll attempt to be a writer and blend them.

So there hasn't been a lot going on this week. Sort of. ("There hasn't... sort of," what a weird syntax I just invoked.) I did end up finishing the script for the new play, sort of. I mean, it was only a first draft, I knew I was far from done with it. I just didn't know how far. Cary - whom I've no doubt is reading this, hey Cary - mainly told me it needed to be longer. I agreed, but he clarified by saying it should be twice as long, as in, like 90 minutes, which is of course a daunting task. It calls for the creation of an entire act's worth of material to allow the premise to play out. Do I disagree? Not really. I feel like this is actually quite possible. And not outside of my ability as a writer, in fact, quite an exciting prospect. Let me break it down.

What I gave Cary was about 16 pages, primarily of dick jokes and the occasional throwaway reference to a character's background. The charm of Half-Past is that you get to know the characters very quickly, and the comedy comes naturally. Half-Past also had the benefit of not really having a plot. It was all character. I took a very different approach with the new play (which goes by the name "Whatever it Takes.") Understanding I was probably not going to directly re-create Half-Past, I attempted something markedly different and was really not satisfied with the results. I could sit here and dissect why I am frustrated with myself all night, but only Cary really knows what I'm talking about, and even then only from the perspective of someone who has read the play. There's a whole other psychodrama going on in my head.

So, we talked it over on Monday, and it starting to come together in my head, how this can be a better play than its initial conception, how I can really bear this fucker out and make it something we can be proud of. It's starting to, but it's not there yet. Give it time. In five years, we might have it. I kid. The main idea is to give the characters more life, which naturally would inflate the play. The other one is to adjust its framework to encompass two spheres of action.

In the meantime, I'm getting other ideas for probable one-act plays that I might never have a chance to write or produce. One is mostly an adaptation of a story I was starting to write that was based loosely on the life of Joe Chammas, and indeed included Joe as a character, with his permission. It would work better as a play because then we could involve music. Now there's a thought - get Joe up there to play himself and basically do a version of his act, integrated into a show. Cute idea. Maybe not practical but I'm putting it in my pocket.

Here's my main problem, why I'm so frustrated with myself. It's not that I can't write the larger version of this play, not that it's beyond my abilities (as far as I'm concerned the limit of my writing ability is at least something the length and quality of Summer at Sixteen, which would've been roughly a 2-hour film albeit not a very good one.) It's not that I don't want to - I'm rather keen on the whole project. My doubts stem from a much more abstract place.

This is the "what the fuck am I doing with myself?" place.

I'm working very hard to ensure that July 2-4 2009 is not the indisputable high water mark of my entire life. I had a lot of people - some friends and family, some strangers - telling me what a good thing I'd created, over such a short period of time. It's been a couple weeks and I'm starting to crash from that high. And it's perfectly acceptable, once a high fades, to go searching for a way to replicate it, right? That's healthy behaviour, isn't it?

I have exactly one advantage in life, and that's that I'm a pretty good writer. I'm not the best one ever, not yet. I was born into a generation where communication is increasingly text-based and writing is a much more common activity. When I was trolling websites like POF for girls, there were oh so many who listed "writing" among their interests. And I assumed most of them were probably pretty crappy, and I feel like most people have a right to assume that what I write is crappy too, because that's my generation for you. But it's clogging the job opportunities, which are already scarce. Not that I can really focus on building a career, yet, but my mind tends to go that way. The future is rapidly approaching and I have no idea what I'm going to do in it.

I should create a mediocre but watchable show for CBC or CTV or something. Not much of a film industry in this country, no money in theater. Too many other asshole writers trying to be serious and get books published. My prose doesn't stand out as much as it should anyhow. Every so often Amanda and I will think about this fantasy book concept we drew up a while back, we figure it could be sold, but never get around to taking the initiative to get it done.

Every so often, the harsh reality sets in that I have elected a very impractical ideal career. Writing? Man that's bullshit. I blame the public school system for encouraging creativity. They should've been teaching me how to disconnect a water main. I should've learned to do science or thought about maybe taking the LSATs someday. Gotten an MBA maybe. It's too late now, there's no going back. So I've got this diploma that says I can write for a newspaper or a magazine - dying industries to be sure - or I can keep writing like I do.

If I die this year, my tombstone will read "Scott Williams - Too Neurotic For This Life."

I can entertain people, but they've got to let me. Unfortunately, the infrastructure that keeps other assholes from being successful writers it keeping me out too (because right now I'm pretty much one of those assholes.) And a lot of assholes are successful. There's absolutely nothing to account for Twilight, for instance. What the fuck. I spent so much time trying to learn how to be a good writer, I should've just learned how to make teenage girls horny.

Well, that would've been a useful skill no matter what my career choice.

This is a big old circle of angst and I'm never going to break it, even if I become successful. All I can do is keep writing, it's mainly what I'm good for. People keep telling me I'm good at it.

I'd be happy working at an HMV and writing on the side. I feel like I'm never going to get that elusive job, and be forced to keep coming back and temping like a stupid kid. I saw a new face in there the other day, that was a heartbreaker. I tell myself, reasonably, she's probably a transfer not a new hire, but I don't know for sure and it's killing me. A little managerial shuffle means that soon I'll have no direct connection at Oakville Place, although the former assistant there will soon be at Dorval. Cooper, my favourite boss ever, has sadly moved on. He had stuff going on I never truly understood, having never asked. I should probably update my resume soon.

Monday morning was my course selection, which occurred a couple hours earlier than several of my friends, which is odd. A lot of 3rd year courses get filled up by 4th year students (this, for instance, was the trend in my AmLit course last year.) I generally got some pretty interesting courses, including American Popular Music in second semester. A lot more half-credits.

The schedule is... iffy. I won't be up too early, which is nice, but at the same time I'll be out quite late, which can also be stressful for a commuter like myself. Facing facts, nothing's ever going to be ideal, but I'm predisposed to make myself suffer no matter what, which explains why I'm still commuting. I must really fucking hate myself. That part of me that keeps saying "Move, move, move to Toronto already!" is getting louder every year. I don't know what to say.

Whatever, whatever, man. All I can do is write and try not to lose my mind, or not to lose myself within my mind.

It's probably going to get worse before it gets better. This is not the headspace I want to be in when I get back to writing. I've got a lot ahead of me. Worst comes to worst, I'll start writing anyway and attempt to use that to cheer myself up. But the plan is to lay off a while, get some perspective on the script, and start fresh.

And you all, keep on rockin'
-Scotto