I saw this in grammargirl's journal today (yeah, I'm more than a bit behind on reading, I know):
Have you ever noticed that your writers have changed? Semi-serious question. You'll spend six months in a romantic comedy, then you turn around one day and you're in a ghost story or a medical thriller, or you spend a year in a kitchen sink, grittily realistic drama and then, without warning, your life turns into a sitcom...
It's always sudden. It often happens with a bang. Ah, I think, when that happens to me. New writers... --Neil Gaiman, journal
Neil Gaiman will probably never know how reassuring his little blog statement was to me. Well, I suppose I could email him, but I'm sure he's a busy, busy man. And I'm sure, with this new perspective, that he and I are not alone in our awareness of The Writers.
I'm pleased with mine, for the most part. There's one who's been around all along who has a penchant for surrealistic Lynchian symbology and dichotomous morality plays. Another writes straight laugh-out-loud situation comedies, heavy on the metaphorical cream-pies and pratfalls. Both work well together, and with the music directors, who have a wicked sense of humour and alternate between sly irony, wistful string arrangements and hit-you-about-the-face-with-a-trout Benny-Hill chase-scene lunacy.
There are others, though-- and while they may be lower on the credits, they are still easily identifiable.
There's the one who wrote many of my earliest episodes, setting up the premise and laying out the long-winded exposition of my youngest years in technicolor Disney formula with requisite catchy soundtracks. There's the dark one who listens to way too much Pink Floyd** and wrote the majority of my inciting scenes. Then there's the one who dropped out of soap opera school who can't always tell the difference between drama and plot, and evidently doesn't give a fying fluck.
And of course, who can forget the ever-thwarted writer of musicals, who fervently hopes that one will break into song in the middle of the produce aisle, to be joined by a throng of dancing shoppers in four-part harmony. Her bits always seem to get cut from the final production.***
And then there are Other People's Writers. I've played a lot of supporting roles in my lifetime, and thousands of cameos and walk-ons. Sometimes, in some of the bigger roles-- the Love Interest, the Voice of Reason, the Lost Child, the Crazy Friend-with-a-Plan-- I even get lines. Having a wide variety of wonderful friends (with wonderful writers) means I don't get typecast too often.
Generally, while there have been times each has fought for focus, they all work well together. Until they stop working together, altogether.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, everything becomes awkward. Words taste funny in my mouth-- these were hardly written for me! But I'm helpless. Pacing goes from tango, to polka, to whiteboy shuffle. We suddenly start shooting bits out of order. New characters appear never to be seen again. Old characters get fed-up and leave. Every day is a fight to figure out what's going on, set-up the inevitable punchline, and find my damned lighting. Deja vu becomes a theme unto itself as we revisit old episodes in a melange of ultimately unsatisfying clip shows. Some people call this "mercury retrograde," but I know better. It's just another Writer's strike. Painful, those.
The worst, however, happens a couple times each year. There is a sudden flurry of marriages and engagements. People die. Wildly popular and even famous characters reappear in cameo after cameo, with a final well-lit glance over the shoulder on their ways offstage. Advertising is rampant. Each episode is a wackadelic thrill-a-minute rollercoaster of antithesis and unbelievability. Every day's a goddamned cliffhanger.
Abandon all hope, all ye who experience "sweeps week."
Evidently, I'm experiencing longer-than-normal Arbitron-whoring Purgatory.
It's not so bad. It's actually very entertaining, really.
It comforts me to think that Somebody or Somebodies up there are laughing at all of this.
I just hope I haven't yet jumped the shark.
Ebay one: Fabulously Furrious
I bought this blanket the other day. It's just a blanket. Just a bloody-expensive faux red and black fur blanket backed with everydaysuede.
Overpricedness, thy name is "Pottery Barn." Frugality, thy name is "Ldy." Thank heavens for ebay!
It's SO WARM. And deliciously extravagant. I'm heady with the wildness of owning such a thing.
I'm smitten. So is Max. He's never been much of a "kneader," but he's taken quite a liking to kneading this.
Cats knead as an instinctual throwback to nursing-- kneading the mother's breast promotes faster flow of milk. I don't have the heart to tell him this thing has no teats.
Ebay two: The webcam saga
So I've got this webcam, and I've gotten a few compliments on it already. Thanks :) It is, indeed, a 3com homeconnect pc digital camera.
Those of you who read this journal regularly know that I've had quite a few problems getting it.****
Of course, now that I finally HAVE it, I'm not sure what to do with it.
So I'll just use it for self-aggrandizement, until I can figure out webcam32.*****
Aren't I BEEEYOOOOUUUTEEEFULL?
Uhm, don't answer that.
And now I finally really grok why so many photographers and lighting directors around the Capital District cry at the sight of me. I am truly impossible to light. My skin passes by "fair" and goes right to the colour that is beyond white.
However, given a choice between great lighting and great writers, I'm quite happy with the latter :)
Now, if only they'd give me a few pointers on my journal...
Enough. Time for bed. Hope you are all well and happy :) Hugs to those who need 'em, those who want 'em, and those who don't run away quickly enough :)
* Swiped from gbdances. If you like poetry, give this guy a read :)
** Not that I'm implying that there is actually such a thing as too much Pink Floyd.
*** But one goes to the market breathlessly hoping this writer's idealistic plans will get green light approval one day.
**** "It" refers back to "webcam." Minds out of the gutter!
***** At which point, I'll use it for flat-out narcissism, of course!
****** Regarding marketing beer in Salt Lake City: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em-- and make 'em wish you never ever did.