ass-lazy tropicana of the mind
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2002-04-03
Books and scripts
You know how you just lie down, and you're like "Okay, resting" and then the next thing you know, it's 1 am and the husband's going to bed and it's bedtime?
Yeah, that was last night. You know it. Me, my bed, and sleep over and over again.
I went to the library today, for the first time in a long time. I was looking for David Icke's books, because I have this sick urge to read up on his conspiracies about 12 foot lizards ruling the world, but, alas, there was no books for me to check out. Damn.
I got a book on Storyville (the New Orleans neighborhood that was, at the turn of the century, a red-light district and remained that way until world war II, when an admiral in charge at a nearby navy base demanded that it be closed down), a book on lesbians in history (because you always need lesbians), a book on the history of science fiction films (since Jen's course on SF is just making me seethe with envy), a book on women in mythology...
And three books on voodoo. Including Zora Neale Hurston's study of Caribbean rituals.
So far, it's just in Jamaica, but the sheer poetry of the way she writes and all the little stories she has...god, it's just delicious.
I have to get a copy of this for my own. I really do.
And it makes a great change from the book I've been currently reading -- John Fowles The Magus.
Which, God, I think the only reason I'm reading it is because I'm really hoping that the lead character ends up in a violent and bloody death because he's really annoying. Smug overly educated little git that just desperately needs to be repeatedly and gloriously slapped right and left.
And the old guy too. Jesus, what is it about this writer? The men are intellectually superior to the rest of humanity, women are foolish and were much better back before WWI, oh the superiority of life.
And, occasionally, it gets interesting, there's weird shit goin' on, with cool things like people showing up and old gods possibly appearing, but then the fucking git just keeps on going "Oh, no, it must be actors! The old man's drugged me! Blah!"
Want to slap him. Hard.
Right across the face.
Currently doing something a little bit stupid (well, actually, probably a lot stupid), but, I don't know, I think it could turn out good.
See, the BBC is having a talent competition -- searching for new talent out there in the world. And it includes sitcom writers.
And I...well...it's kinda crap, but...
I'm writing one.
No, it's really crap. It's unrealized and the jokes are off and there's no way I'm going to get it really really good by May 31st (which is the deadline), but...
I'm writing it.
And it's really scary, y'know? I keep going "Jesus, this could win and this could be filmed and what the hell do I think I'm doing, I've got next to no writing credits to my name and I've got even less experience in anything and oh god, two articles on Hissyfit and one on Television Without Pity (if it's still there -- I doubt it is. But it'd be under "Secret Cutting", the USA movie) -- they don't count for shit and aaaaaaaah....."
I panic. I sit there, and I write my two requisite scenes and plot treatment, and I panic.
Because there will be people there who have written radio plays and actual plays and fuck all, and who am I kidding, huh? Two paid articles, a pile of unpaid ones, and an even bigger pile of fanfiction? Shit, I might as well just send in something scribbled in crayon.
I need to stop panicking. I should just get some sleep. Even if the original Rollerball is on in all its overwrought 70s glory...
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