Thinking of writing fills me with fear and dread. I’m scared of it, scared of doing something, having nothing really to say. It’s not a joke. It’s bad.
And then I remember that writing is like driving to Florida. You don’t do it all at once, but state by fucking state.
“Have you seen Chris anywhere?” Blaire asked Davis, her heavy breasts pushing into arm. “Did he come?”
Davis looked around the half-crowded bar, the view of Granville Island and Burrard Inlet behind it obscured by the overpass stanchions. He didn’t recognize half of the people even though he had apparently been in college with all of them 25 years ago. “I thought he was dead.”
“Oh, hey, what?”
“Bad joke. I don’t know where he is.”
“Same old Davis.” She stepped back and crossed her arms over her beer. “Always saying crazy things.”
“That’s what my wife says too. She might be finally done with me.”
“Oh, hey, I’ve been there and it worked out okay for me.”
“I’m sure it will be fine. Yeah.”
“Hey, there!” Minnie, Blaire’s sister, arrived and kissed them both. “How are you, Davis? I haven’t seen you in years.”
“You know, living the dream.”
Minnie was prettier than Blaire but she had more a boyish figure and no breasts, not that Davis hadn’t tried back in the day. “You’re still writing?”
“I don’t know what I’m thinking. I personally hate it when people say that. ‘Living the dream’. It’s really stupid. Sorry about that.”
“Okay.” Minnie and Blaire laughed.
“I’m teaching. That’s what I’m doing, teaching. Although the way it’s going now, I don’t know.”
Minnie leaned in. “Nothing bad, I hope.”
“Bad? No. I think I’m going to get fired and my wife is kicking me out.” He threw his arms out. “But I feel good. I do. Could be the gummy bear, I don’t know.”
“Oh, hey, Davis, I’m sorry.”
“I’ve actually got a bone to pick with you?”
“Yeah?” She leaned in, smiling, and it seemed like no time had passed, like they were in a bar at college, and the weekend had just begun.
“You owe me money!”
“I don’t owe you money! That’s not true.”
“You’re right. You don’t. But what I wanted to say is that, as much I loved the good old days, there wasn’t enough sex.”
“You and Lynnie had lots of sex.”
“No, I mean me and you, me and Blaire, me and you and Blaire!”
They looked at each other, barely offering a smile.
“Not to be crass, but it would have been good.”
Minnie glowered. “Okay, Davis.”
“Hey, Davis, old buddy!” Jackson crashed into their tiny circle. “I haven’t seen you forever, man! Forever!”
“Jackson, hey.” David looked back, curious as to why he wanted to talk. They had never talked in college and, if anything, had been acrimonious. “What are you up to?”
“Who the fuck knows?” He looked back and forth between Minnie and Blaire hello. “Who the fuck knows?”
“Hey, uh…” Davis leaned into Minnie. “Sorry about that. I’m just…”
“It’s okay.” She looked over at Blaire. “It’s okay.”
“It’s okay, Davis,” Blaire agreed.
“Yeah, Davis, man, it’s okay!” Jackson slapped him on the back.
“I gotta go.” Davis was going to kiss Minnie goodbye but turned and fled down the steps and was in a cab. “Number Five Orange. You know it?”
You think you know. And you do. You know what’s being said.
And you go over, ready to do say what it is, forgetting that it’s a program, just a program, and then you forget.
Don’t touch it! Leave it like it is.
Leave it before you measure and weigh it and see what it is and all that.
Just let it be. At least for a while.
This is about nothing
I’m sure of that
But then realize
You think this is
Whatever you think it is
I wrote all day. And then I wrote more. I went at it too long, and now I feel stupid and stoned. I was out of it, that was certain, all those images and words gone from my head. I was voided. There was nothing.
I remember thinking that the story was important. But now…I don’t know. It seems more a never-ending thing about drugs and sex and redemption too, but all towards death and forgetting, tomorrow and tomorrow and who cares.
My hands looked weird, and I didn’t know where I was. I tried to think if I could still get booze at the store and got vertigo. That was all I had. And I needed something for tomorrow. I knew that. And the day after that. I just didn’t know what.
“We worked only two hours a day,” Screenwriter Julius said of he and his identical twin brother Philip’s routine. The concept of concentrated brilliance was foreign to producer Jack Warner, who believed in a full day’s work – or at least a full day’s presence – for a full day’s pay.
“One day, we came in at 1:30 or 2:00 and Warner was furious. ‘Read your contract!,’ he said. ‘Bank presidents get in at 9:00 and you’re coming in the afternoon?!’ We had a half-finished script in our office and sent it to him and said, ‘Have the bank president finish the script.’
“A year or so later, we came in at 9:00 and sent him a scene. ‘The scene is terrible,’ he told us. Philip said to him, ‘How is it possible? It was written at 9:00.’
‘I want my money back!’ Warner yelled. My brother told him, ‘I’d love to give you your money back, but I just built a pool. If you’re ever in the neighborhood and feel like a swim…’
*Excerpted from Lax and Sperber’s Bogart
It’s just a half-realized thing. I can see it. Or feel it. That’s a better way of putting it. The thing is half obscured but there. I look the other way and pretend I’m thinking about something else. Something mundane. And then it flares out, a word or phrase or image, or just bits of those things. And so I continue to pretend to think about dinner, even think the phrase “Nothing going on here.”
It pops out, suddenly in the clear, an image, dialogue too, but’s it’s slippery and goes off again. I can’t chase the thing. I can’t think about it, not directly. I just have to sit and think about not thinking. And then it’s there, electric and brilliant, and I write.
It’s strangely intense, like I’m no longer me. I stay with it as long as I can, hammer away, even if it’s turning into nonsense, because maybe it isn’t, until it’s no longer and my brain only wants to think about dinner.
I claim that I am making a comment on social media when I post images of dead animals. I tell everyone to not like these posts and only wish there were a dislike button.
The truth is that I like it when people like what I say about not wanting likes. Which is the same as liking likes, or disliking being ignored. (Please like this post.)
Nobody cares if I have a breakthrough in the narrative. Nobody cares if I nail the dialogue or a description. Nobody cares if I write one word or a thousand.
Nobody cares what I do today. Huh.
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