And I'm an AD

I found out Sunday I'm the Assistant Director on my Second City show. I'm very excited to be working with my director. She's amazing.

Novel Questions

I'm editing my post on directing, so until then...

I read the two novels I'm working on. Both ideas disturb me because they are incredibly dark. I'm not afraid of being judged, I have more a problem that I'm not one hundred percent comfortable with the ideas.

I don't know how much of it is I'm pushing myself so it doesn't feel safe. I don't know if this dark style will be my long lasting style. They are what I'm feeling (the stories, not darkness) so I need to write them now. They are a huge contrast to sketch comedy, which I'm also doing right now.

I would like to be known for comedy and comedy writing. I know nothing's sacred in comedy and I love Mel Brooks answer to why he has Nazis in so much of his work, the only way you can defeat that type of evil is with laughter. But maybe some things can't be funny. At this point and time I don't see how I can make these novels funny. There is humor in them and they are entertaining. They are also rough drafts.

I got physcically ill writing the one. I don't know if it's because I'm feeling the situation of my characters. I'm getting an emotional response from me, I don't know if readers will just be turned off. I also don't know if it's my body telling me, "No, don't write this. Don't bring this story into the world."

I don't know if I should write them, let them sit, then look at the rough drafts and see how I feel or write a novel about fluffy bunnies. Wait. That's been done. Darn it.

Exciting News

Exciting news! I will be writing and directing show in Chicago this fall. I thought it'd be fun blog about the journey to the show, from writing and coming up with ideas, the audition process, directing, and finally the actual show up. I'm so excited and really looking forward to this.

Jumper Cables for Prose and Chains for My Patience

It concerns me when I can’t write because I’m a writer and when I mean I can’t write I mean write bios, especially filling out social network information. “Tell me about yourself” really isn’t that difficult a question. What do you want to know? Do you want the fiction or the nonfiction? I write downward moving sentences. If the sentences were a horse, it would be so far on its forehand it’d be doing a handstand. I should write instruction manuals. I’m clear, mechanical, and dry.

I’m a young woman who quit her job because she realized she was no longer writing. She was safe at her 9 to 5 and felt like she was shrinking in a walnut shell. So she gave 2 weeks notice and proceeded to watch her bank account shrink.

I'm honest, but I couldn’t make it more lack luster if I tried. I don’t necessarily want to teach, but I want to put ideas out there, for instance “This is how the world could be if we do this…”I can’t just write to entertain. I love making people laugh. I really respect people who can do both without blinking or taking a second to get on a soap box.

I have a talent for turning the most riveting, fascinating information into the most mundane formulaic material. My brother won Nationals. He was in the top 5 players of his league, recommended by all the coaches, one of the most feared players. He talked to 3 NHL teams. My press release reads like a shrug. So he creamed a couple NHL picks, had a shut out and still did his homework?

I need to invent jumper cables for prose. And chains for my patience.

The Number One Way to Get Me to Do Something...

When I saw the class description, my heart stilled for fear it would scare it off. I was scrolling through the conference program online. There it was on Day 2, Writing for Change. I needed to go to that class. I wanted to write fiction that changed the world. I was so glad a conference would include such a panel. It meant there was a need for it, a call. I was going to get tips on how to reach my goal. I’d be surrounded by like minded people. I was in for a rude awakening.

I was emotional to start. The lunchtime keynote speaker plucked heartstrings I don’t like to pluck even in private. That’s how I entered the room. But it was going to be okay. This was going to light my torch. This was going to be my highlight of the conference. I would leave this session ready and excited.
The panel took their seats up front and introduced themselves.

“I rep fiction, but I’m going to talk about nonfiction,” one agent not much older than me said. Another represented only nonfiction. There was an author of a nonfiction book, pushing it hard. The fourth on the panel was the author’s editor, who did only nonfiction.

That’s great, but I don’t write nonfiction. I didn’t become an author to write a how to book. My characters were going to lead by examples. But I listened. I could take their advice and see how you can apply them to your fiction writing. That’s when I received my kill shot.

“You cannot change the world with fiction,” One of the agents said, clear into the mike. The words tilt o whirled through my apparently hollow head.

The moderator grabbed the mike as if he needed to regain decorum in the silent room.
“Goldman said, ‘If you want to send a message, send it Western Union.’”

I hate that quote. I understand it, but I hate it. First, it would be sent via email today. The quote is on par with saying “Yeah you have freedom of speech, but if you dislike something someone else says, too bad, they also have freedom of speech.” It makes me feel so helpless.

Part of it is me. I can’t just have fun. I play to win. I dance to feel good. I run in order to start my day and look good. I train horses in order to compete and then win. I love everything I do, but I can’t just do something to do something.

I was irate. I’ve never walked out a program before. Muscles told me stand. Leave. Leave in protest. No ask a question. I was afraid I’d lose control of my voice.
I envisioned my hand shooting up, me standing my mighty 5 foot 3.

“So books like The Jungle or Cry My Beloved Country didn’t happen?” No, ask would they be published. Yes, because good storytelling is always appreciated. I feared all the eyes up front blinking. “I’m not familiar with those.” They only changed the world.

I was alone in the room. Everyone around me thought the information was brilliant. They fidgeted and beamed. I felt sick and doomed, wondering what I was supposed to do now.

Later in my hotel room, I wondered maybe I should just write a how to book. My characters spell it out. Why not distill my work down to a step-by-step plan?
Because that is distilling. That’s boiling the water until it evaporates and scars the pan.

I remembered high school and college. I loved those books and respected what they did. I want to be among those. They are the reason I want to write. I remembered my classmates bleating. “Couldn’t they have just written it to tell a story? Couldn’t they have just written it to get paid?” The professor paced, “No they wrote it with a purpose. They wrote it with something in mind. This will come as a shock to you but some people write with intention.” And those were kids in honors English and English majors bitching. They were incredible stories. They saw the story nothing more.

I could write supplementary material, but what comfort is a how to? A lot. It’s a road map. It shows you there is an end and here’s how you’ll get there. But does it show someone surviving? Does it create the same community?
Books get read because they have great story. My favorite books are great read. They entertaining and thought provoking. I have to focus on story when I write.

I updated my Facebook status. “#1 way to get me to do something is tell me it cannot be done.” My breathing calmed like morning waves on a beach. One deep one in, one deep one out. I saw my journey ahead of me. I knew what I needed to do. It was not what I expected at all but it was the best session. It did light my torch.