Monday, October 24, 2011

Pink Cheeked and Sassy


Part of me wants to say that I have been sitting around, waiting for inspiration about the writing process that will make compelling reading.  The reality is that I just don’t have terribly much to say.  I am in the editing process, and have been for a while.  This is, of course, due in large part to not working very much on editing.  Procrastination is not quite the right word, I wouldn’t say I have been putting it off. More, that I have work, a blog, class, and other myriad personal engagements to attend.  This week my personal engagement was the Harford Road Zombie Crawl in beautiful Baltimore, MD.  Don’t I look precious?  The creepy clown is my sister.




So, because I don’t have much to talk about on the writing front, I am going to tell my two favorite times I embarrassed myself in front of a famous person. 

The first time, I was working on the construction crew for the movie “It’s Complicated.”  I was sitting at the lunch table, eating my Amy’s cheese enchilada plate and I looked up as the door swung open from Camperland outside of the stage.  A very tall, attractive man in that “boy next door” adorable way walked in to the building.   Well, I am sitting there, staring at him and trying to figure out from whence I knew him.   I was so sure that I knew him personally, but I couldn’t place him.  Did we go to college together?  No.  Did we work together once?  No.  Was he a friend’s older brother?  Nope.  Now, I was alone, and sitting at a table that was sort of in a foyer cum hallway, so I am sure I looked a bit out of place and by this point I had been staring at him for longer than was necessary or comfortable for him.  So, Mystery Man gives me a slight smile, and continues over to the stairwell that would eventually lead him to the soundstage, at which point it hits me.   “It’s that guy from ‘The Office!’” My brain said to my eyeballs.  That is the story of how I creepily made John Krasinski deeply uncomfortable for a second.

The other awkward moment happened in a restaurant in Westchester, NY.  I was working on a small movie with a lot of big stars, and it would have been awesome if I hadn’t been miserable.  I didn’t totally love some of the other crew members, and we were kinda’ undermanned so I was unhappy.  To top it off, I got food poisoning from the caterers.  So, we are undermanned already and now I am green hued and nauseous.  I do as much as I can, but I reach a point when I am forced to hang out by the potties.  Well, while I am standing by to be sick Catherine Keener drops by to, you know, freshen up.  Now, she is a super sweet lady, and was very kind to ask me if I was doing all right.  Of course I told her that I would be ok but this time my brain was silently telling Catherine Keener “I wish I wasn’t meeting you while I am all pukey.”  That was a sad day. 

When I get older my life will simply be a compendium of embarrassing moments in front of people, famous or otherwise. 

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Choose Your Words Wisely


have some thoughts on word choice I would like to share with y’all.  (I like to announce things, maybe you have noticed?)  Yesterday while riding in the crew van from location to the studio for lunch* the teamster had the Daily News or the Post, whichever one does the stupid headlines, opened to the story about the South Brooklyn rapist.  The article began by discussing a young lady who had been “brutally groped.”**  I am both appalled and amused by such a strange juxtaposition of words.  I am appalled because a young woman was groped; I am appalled and amused that it was brutal.  How is one “brutally” groped?  Can someone please explain this to me?  I understand the word “grope” to imply roughness and brutality anyway.   

Specificity in communication and writing has always been very important to me, especially in terms of word choice.  I love words, their variant meanings, and the nuances that a carefully chosen word can evoke in my mind.  I hope that when others read worlds within the words open up to them in the same way.  Evocative phrasing feels like finding treasure in a way.   Conversely, poor word choice is anathema to me.  There is nothing more grating in conversation than imprecise, convoluted, and poor wording, because in the end, if you cannot pick the right words, how can you make your point?   It is for this very reason that I am left baffled by a brutal groping. 

I started thinking about this subject again on Monday, before the newspaper article.  I say again, because words are what I love about writing.  I am more interested in the words I am using than the story I am telling.  The story is basic and can be parsed down to two sentences.  A girl meets a boy and they enter into a business relationship.  They become romantically attached and have to work through and look past their differences before living happily ever after.  That isn’t really publishable, as such.  Luckily, I get to pick all the best words I can to create a whole world around this little story. 

Now, I was thinking about all of this on Monday because I woke up with the worst sinus headache I have had in easily six months, but more probably a year.  I had the day off (thanks Columbus! Side note, the Italians probably called him “Columbo” so why do we Latinize his name?  Anyone know?) and I really needed to get some work done but I couldn’t stare at a screen so I called in a favor.  Last week I took the ex to pick up a seventies sports car he bought a while back (what?  I wanted to see the car.  It looks like this only in blue.) and so I called him up and was like “yo, type my shit.”  Not really, I texted him and was very polite, as befitting a lady.  Anyhoo, because I was not typing he would occasionally question me in my choices, which was challenging in the best way possible.  I became more careful, more concise, in a word, precise.  As the clouds rolled in and the air pressure equalized, my head started to feel better and I could think.  So I thought about words, and maybe became a little bit better at writing than I had been the day before.  Or maybe not.  Meh, I will figure it out eventually.



*Sorry for dropping you in to this crazy world of crew vans and teamsters and lunch.  Basically, they feed us at work so that they only have to give us a half hour break as opposed to an hour, and on Monday they set up lunch at the studio because the location was not big enough to accommodate a whole buffet.  The crew vans are kinda’ self explanatory with such context I hope, and teamsters drive them.

**I found it in the Post.  ”B’klyn Perv Strikes Again” By David Seifman, Rebecca Harsbarger and Larry Celona. New York Post October 11, 2011.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

That Old Trick


Insert joke about an elderly prostitute here:___________________________

I don’t actually want to talk about, you know, that.  That is depressing.  The old trick I am interested in is what I like to call the “miscommunication gambit.”  Sitcoms and romance novels LOVE the miscommunication gambit to create drama or complicate the situation.  I call it a gambit because many miscommunications in popular culture seem highly unlikely and therefore a calculated construction to advance plot.  Or so I thought until Monday.

Last Friday I went to the doctor for the usual annual physical and they took a bunch of blood.  I was pretty O.K. with it too, until I realized that it was my BLOOD and not dyed corn syrup.  Anyhoo, on Monday the doctor’s nurse called and since I missed the call so she left a message.  The message was fairly straight forward, explaining that I am in overall good health EXCEPT!!!  The woman actually said “except!” Except one of the test results was not in yet.  So I spend the whole night thinking I had a disease.  The specific disease is not your business, kids.

If my life were a romance novel either I would need to contact my old flame because I need his marrow, or blood, or platelets.  Or maybe, I got pregnant and I have to figure out what I am going to do, but eventually the father, or some new dude finds out and we live blissfully together, raising some other guy’s kid. 

My life is not a novel.  I am fine.  No sickness or babies or nothin’.  I was just stuck with a really horrible night of thinking I was diseased.