#1 His document file remains untouched …
In the beginning it was a passionate love affair, there were not enough hours in the day for “said typist” to satisfy their needs, to spend every minute solely on him, slaving, slathering, salivating as the story hit the page in graphic detail. Oh’ the fervor was electric, his character and energy, building, growing, escalating and wait, excuse me, what’s that? Yeah…exactly, crickets! Where the heck did that #$!@&%*go? Hello? Author, we are not finished here!
#2 His creator accidentally calls him by a different name …
When, finally “said storyteller” opens the word file lamenting lame excuse after excuse, having not been able to find his specified folder, mislabeling the work, or worse, accidentally deleted their idiosyncratic draft. How could this have happened to their supposed one-of-a-kind, spiritually satisfying soul-mate, “I will die without you” connection? Suddenly typing starts again at a furious pace, rushing down the poetic highway at lush breakneck speeds when his name is written wrong. Hans??? Who the H – E double L is Hans? My name is George!
All hail Kristen Lamb…
I eagerly prepare to attend a class where public flogging is an anticipated event. Weary authors will stand in line, heads hung in despair and maybe a fleeting quiver of hope lodged like vomit bubbling in the back of their throat, humbly bowing before their master, waiting for THE “shredding” Knees quaking, writers will clench between white-knuckled-fingers a two sentence description of their manuscript. Peeping through half-closed lids, fearing the removal of an outstretched hand, we will offer our meager sacrifice stained in hours of coffee slobber and sweat.
How is it that one can be filled with an obnoxious combination of enthusiasm and apprehension at the same time?
Adrenaline has become this, moi, writer’s bubbly, knocking it back as an eager freshman. There is definitely something peculiarly wrong with this picture. I feel as though I am a dark age villager, preparing her lunch to watch the beheading of another crier of the written word, a fellow peer, and friend, standing first row before the hovering guillotine, hoping mid-bite, perhaps, that I shall be the next oblation.
And if called upon, what will I do?
A year and a half ago, I would have shrunk behind the crowds, disappearing into the swarms of rowdy peasants hailing curses and throwing rotten tomatoes. Fast forward to present day, I will be first to watch the spectacle. My glasses pushed high on the bridge of my nose with pencil sharpened, journal wide-open, praying to absorb the ink splatter. And will dance with Gene Kelly as he belts out,“Singing in the Rain,” shouting, “Pick me! Pick me!”
So you ask what is a log-line? I found Gideon’s Tips and he describes it like this …
“LOGLINES are a 1-2 sentence description of your script. They aim to identify the main character, the tone, the conflict and give an idea of theme and plot. Some loglines can stretch out to 3-4 sentences and are more like mini-synopses. A new trend is emerging to describe your film in 25 words or less. Whatever the format, the purpose of the logline is for you to quickly pitch your script to a producer and talent to convey the general concept. Another recent trend in loglines is to pose a hypothetical question such as “what if”? or “imagine if”?
The basic anatomy of a logline is: Character A must achieve a goal, but character B blocks him in a unique way different to other films. Character A emerges a changed person by learning something about themselves or humanity at large.”
Thanks, Gideon! I’ll let you know how it went.
Write On! ❤ Jessica
Forgive me bloggers for these things about me you should know…
#1-When you follow me I send silent wishings of well-being to your gravatar.
#2-I purposely receive the computer generated follower notice so I can e-mail salutations that you’ll never see. Because they are labeled do not reply. But I issue you a personal thank you and hit send.
#3-At the same time my overwhelming energy of wellness to humanity holds me fiercely in a death grip. Even if you post something that I may not agree on. I will like it for the spirit in which it has been written.
Why do I write this needless article you wonder? Is is needless? Well, as I sit weekly and return dozens of emails that are absorbed by space, I thought, “is this weird?” From previous entries you know I am a strange-bird. Cue adorable picture.
My humor as staid as my personality, boring and yet full of life. Smiling, I walk on.
What is the purpose? Well, I will tell you what it is for me. I cannot help the urge to spread hope, wishes of well-being and genuine love throughout the universe. You see my daily ramblings @upliftingquotesdaily.com. A vocation to which I dedicate the heart of who I am, wholly.
There is such need for us to stop and appreciate. Ourselves, in this breath and since we have pressures unbounded piled atop of us at breakneck speeds, I hope to do so momentarily for you. A twinkle passing over you in the wind. Positive streams of light and guided energy released and headed to your front door or inbox.
I appreciate you. I care. You matter.
We are all connected in spirit and strength, together we do make a difference. Believe in all things great. You, yours, what can be.
Life’s pressures breed vulnerability. Every day we are fed negativity through various forms of influence and media, everything awful in life for its sensational appeal. And easy to roll into. A flea-ridden blanket riddled with holes offering us misguided comfort. That should be our warning, easy, life is not easy, love is not easy, we as beings are not easy. Forced to believe we are not worthy, but we are.
Take control, project light, move forward, write on! ❤ Jessica
Ps…Does this have anything to do with writing as this blog was intended? Absolutely the bleep not! Breathe pretty flowers, dance.
This day commiserates a multitude of milestones for me. Two years ago, almost to the day, I left my career to settle into a brutally agonizing field called writing. A satisfying and desolate place where I have met my dearest friends, you!
First, I would like to apologize for missing last month’s post.
What was it that kept me away? Of course, I’m going to tell you. I signed up for a writing class called publish your non-fiction e-book in 10 days. The no shits and giggles guide to get off your ass and get a writing project done.
With a brilliant writing coach, named Jennifer Blanchard, who proves in a systematic method the process of writing, editing and publishing such a UMC, unidentified-mysterious-creature, otherwise known as a finished book, most assuredly can be completed and done so, satisfactory.
The experience was fantastic. Yet, with every writer high, occasionally, (for me-always,) comes a rock-bottom low. And while I lay wallowing in the depths of my self-imposed mire, a needed realization finally hit home. A projection that before was only half tapped.
I always believed if I was a good person people would be good to me, the reality, not so much. I always believed if I were truthful, kind and sincere the inhabitants of the human world would do so likewise, pretty major disappointment. If I showed support, I would receive support. If I left feedback, I would get feedback. If I smiled, the gesture would be returned. I always believed that what I gave in this lifetime I would get back, tenfold would be an even worse joke. I promise you I did not go that far.
Instead, this mindset was a major posit for failure. When the world would crash the dejection became internalized and the belief turned into it must be me. If you, too, are an alien being, you don’t know how to take a compliment when one is graciously given, closing yourself off. In steeling myself from repeated pains, the stone wall I erected truthfully kept me from receiving, anything, including everything satisfactory and good.
This horrible addiction and repeated habit took Sandi several years to break me. The simple act of crossing my arms deflected any kind words given or shown toward me as though I was undeserving. But there is more, the pattern of negative self-abuse prevents you from your given gifts of abundance that life waits to bestow upon you.
I always knew I had a devastating level of high expectations. One by one I learned to let a few of them go. Expectations must fully be replaced with intention. By doing this, the manifestation is yours alone and not one outside force can interfere with the mindset you have set forth. I knew I was getting close, but this hurdle I had yet to knock over.
A realm where one cannot jump into half-cocked. Positive was who I have always been, there were no problems there. But accepting that I deserved abundance was another thing, freeing my mind of what I once believed would set this forward motion and intent free.
The act of completing a project within a confined time frame leaves no room for those self-doubting negative monsters from the otherworld to play with your gullible hide. You just do and while you feel the fangs of frustration breathing on your neck you continue and before you realize the end goal is done and you can exhale.
I fooled me into thinking that because I was working with like-agenda creatures we would all be supporting each other in a similar fashion. Full throttle forward and bestowing handshakes, five-star reviews, and praise. You tell me the outcome? Another crushing let-down. Why? Again, I placed MY reward into someone else’s hands. A very dangerous thing.
But the message finally came in loud & clear.
I have always known there is a higher purpose for me. I am not going away. I will work in a constant fashion to be better than the day before. Guidance, knowledge, health, wealth and happiness will come naturally. (Again able-minded, willing to see our individual accountabilities and open our western minds to receive.)
I am there and ready to fully absorb this abundance that solely belongs to me. The difference now and the most beautiful thing is-I care, you matter, and, I have a need to share. I refuse to die until I have done something for humanity.
My deceased father’s birthday gift, today, his day, now in his honor has become mine.
Write on! ❤ Jessica
The time has dawned upon us when we reach out to one another, desperately grappling to grab the lifeline offered by an individual who feels such as we. Shall I say it out loud? Insecure. Hence our writer’s group.
The build up is always so much better. Laughing out Loud, felt like writing the whole thing out there. It is quite possible I spend too much time alone in my cute little office-like roomy-thing.
So mid-week is here and a tough one for my favorite friend. I love her our little Sandi of American Writer’s Exposed. And today I wish to bring her a smile, through the expense of my abhorrent ridiculousness.
Fourth of July always brings with it a tremendous amount of traffic to the coastal villa where we both live. I am talking about gridlock in an unsuspecting town of two thousand full-time residents, okay there is eight thousand, but we behave like two. Traveling the full-length from the north-end of the city to the south is already a pain in the derriere not to mention when added vehicles crowd her highway. This tarmac panics, freezing under the pressure.
We are talking total shut down. Local yolk-hols usually stay home if they can help it, so traveling can be hashed out by the visiting populace. We watch our fireworks on the nightly news or over the beautiful lake not many visitors know about yet. But there are some who live right next to the bay where all three million congregate.
The things I think about as I am stuck in traffic are probably more similar to my writer peeps. In my mind, I finish dangling chapters, work on new scenes, fall in love with new characters, talk it all out loud. No one has to be in the car. Easily I can be swayed into new book hooks and future projects to work on.
There is one thing that baffles me while I try to sound out the vanity plate ahead of me, another past-time in which I more often than not fail…if it can’t be spelled or rolls off one’s tongue it makes no sense. Not to the other half-trillion of us behind you.
Bikers. They baffle me. This breed has no rules when it comes to the road. They are a mysterious conundrum all black leather and bad, leaning back on their chaise lounges skirting between cars while trimming their toenails. These outlaws sport ponytails or pleasure cabs and have a secret code that us drivers lack.
The two fingered flag pointed in a perfected angle toward the ground. Yes, there is proper waving etiquette. Why is it when they pass each other heading down the opposite six lanes do they get to wave? And not the one with a middle finger, like us? It matters not what type of bike they sit astride.
I think the gang must laugh at us in our sweltering vans, three car seats stuffed in the back while running out of gas. Ahh…to be a biker and not the one with the four-foot flag.
But comradery…that is a grand thought.
So my writing community what do you think? How can we distinguish each other in the middle of gridlock?
TO BE CONTINUED…
Write On! ❤ Jessica
Psst…I am waiting. I’m serious here people what can our driver type thing be?