A week or so ago I was reading a review of David Lindsay-Abaire’s new play where the critic basically blamed the crappy ending (in his opinion) on Lindsay-Abaire’s foray into Hollywood:

“…The actors perform skillfully, but Lindsay-Abaire, who won a Pulitzer Prize for his play “Rabbit Hole,” has been spending time in Hollywood, and the industry’s habitual glibness infects the ending of the play, which seems as fraudulent as it is bewildering.”

That “habitual glibness” (which, I think, means a consistent paint-by-numbers approach no matter the film’s subject matter, although it’s such a wide-open phrase that it’s hard to tell) is definitely a part of screenwriting, but what this critic and many critics across the board seem to miss is that unless you’re one of the few high ranking writers known by name, there really isn’t any other way to get a movie made in Hollywood.

So by saying Lindsay-Abaire’s new play was “ruined” by a Hollywood sheen, what the critic is really saying is, “you know that ‘habitual glibness’ [excuse my vague phrase] that’s basically essential to getting a film made and screenwriter paid? I don’t like it.  And it makes for terrible endings.  And I refuse to get to the root of the problem which is that it’s really, really difficult for a writer to simultaneously make a critic and producer happy [even in theater] – so I’ll just blame it all on the writer.  For refusing to be creative.”

Critics and producers are like divorced parents who are so obsessed with their own agenda, they can’t possibly see that they’re tearing their child into pieces with their vastly diverging opinions. Read more »

[Note: this article was written before the airing of the March 8th episode. If the episode tonight is suddenly extremely awesome, this post may be moot. ...But I doubt it]

Glee, you broke my heart.

In the beginning, you made me happy.  In the beginning, you made me believe that TV was entering a new realm of sophistication and creativity.  Now?  You just mostly make me sad.  And also a little annoyed.

When you first premiered, Glee, I was one of your biggest fans.  As someone who spent two years of her life learning the art of musical theater, I continuously advocated for music and drama to combine on the small screen – it was uncharted territory (okay, not completely, but I think we all want to forget that strange, strange LSD trip that was Cop Rock), territory that had the possibility of reaching millions of people and providing them with an emotional release the way that only music and lyrics can.  When you came along, Glee, I finally felt like my prayers had been answered.  Not only were you hilarious and fresh, you were also keenly aware of how a well-placed song could move people.

But then…something started to happen.  You got…less fresh.  Sure, there were – and still are – moments of wip-smart humor, but you also started to come down with a case of cliche-itis.  Your drama began to veer down Cheesy Lane and your songs began to feel awkward – and you didn’t seem to care. Read more »

I’m relatively young and relatively hip, and while I know writing those two things down automatically makes one older and more unhip than they were two seconds ago, I categorize myself this way because what I’m about to say might make you assume I’m 70 years old with a permanent sour face and a “Stay Off The GRASS” sign on my sad, unmowed lawn:

I hate the idea of a Kindle.

I will never buy one, and I can’t fathom why anyone else would, either.  At least anyone who works 9-12 hours a day on the computer.

Don’t you people want some time away from that damn screen?! (<–as my mom would say)

Books, while sometimes weirdly expensive, are a luxury.  Their pages are perfectly aligned.  They have a book smell.  Thick ones tell the world that you’re intelligent and focused (or at least good at pretending to be) and thinner ones say that you’re a literary bandit.  A Rumi or Kahlil Gibran volume on your nightstand assures your relationships that you are, indeed, a deep and romantic thinker.  Conversations are started over books being read in coffee shops and on the subway.  Books can be lent or borrowed.  Books take up space.  They’re real.  Something to hold onto when you’re lonely or sitting on a park bench.  Books are a nerdy kid’s best friend.

Plus, when you lose a book, you can just go out and buy a new one without wondering if your bank account is going to hate you.

No one was ever asked out for coffee based on what was on their Kindle.  You can’t see what that hot, mysterious-looking guy is reading on the subway if he has a tiny electric screen shoved in his face.  The selling point of a Kindle is that its lightweight; there’s no feeling proud after you finish page 822 of Moby Dick on a Kindle because there’s no last page to turn.  Read more »

[Let me preface this article by saying that usually, I can take criticism, and I can take it well.  I took it in college. I took it (in bushels) in graduate school.  I took it from studios and producers who later ended up not giving a shit.  Hell, I even take it at my job...every day.  And usually, I take it with a smile.  Or at least a half-hidden grimace.  Because most of the time criticism helps more than it hurts and is an essential part of being a writer.  Okay.  Now that we're clear...]

For most of my writing career, I’ve entered contests.  While some of them are designed to take your money and nothing more, a lot of writing contests – espescially the ones that include feedback – are a good way to actively let the world know who you are and what you do.  They can be great resume boosters, and sometimes even lead to contacts.

These days, I still enter the occasional contest, but have also started to work for a few, providing the oh-so-important feedback.  So I know how it works.  I know that sometimes readers get slammed with entries and have to juggle their judging along with their own work. I know that sometimes, most of what they have to wade through is awful.  I know they often do it for so little pay it’s laughable.  But I also know that they freely sign up for all of it.

Which is why I was so pissed when I received coverage on a script of mine from a certain contest that shall remain unnamed.  Actually, pissed is an understatement.  Slamming-cupboards-looking-for-nothing-in-particular-kind-of-angry is more like it. Read more »

Violence doesn’t turn me on.  In fact, gore is the fastest way to make me run out of a movie theater crying like a little kid.  There are lots of reasons why horror movies don’t do it for me – not the least of which is knowing some dude (because let’s face it, it’s mostly dudes) had to come up with those scenarios – but the long and short of it is, if someone’s getting cut up into little pieces, I’m probably not watching.

That is, until I stumbled upon AMC’s new series “The Walking Dead.”

I didn’t plan on watching it.  Too many Facebook status updates happily describing how violent it was had me sure I would never see an episode.  But then I got bored.  And started writing something that teetered on the supernatural.  And since iTunes was letting me download the first episode for so cheap, I decided that watching it on my computer would not only give me some creative ideas, but also allow me to switch to YouTube videos of laughing babies if stuff got too gross. Read more »

The Jersey Shore.  It’s one of the most popular shows on TV right now, has single-handedly made MTV relevant again and is constantly in the news – so why won’t anyone admit they watch it?

Not only will no one over the age of 17 admit they watch it, but ragging on the guidos and guidettes that make this show so successful has become a national pastime. A recent article in Vanity Fair is a prime example:

“…which is more than can be said for MTV’s Jersey Shore, a cynical slumming exercise whose carefully chosen cast of lower primates with limited vocabularies would seem to get the last laugh by becoming famous for accomplishing nothing, the new American Dream…”

Okay, so James Wolcott hates The Jersey Shore. Or at least he thinks he does.  The reason I’m not sure he actually hates Snooki and the gang is because his description of the show is hardly its reality.   In fact, I’d like to wager that most people who turn their noses up at MTV’s newest sensation (Wolcott included) haven’t really watched it.  Because if they had…they’d realize the “cast of lower primates with limited vocabularies” are actually just a bunch of people who aren’t afraid of being exactly who they are. Read more »

It was a Sunday night.  I was exhausted and on my second glass of wine and that’s probably why I didn’t protest when someone suggested putting on a movie starring Gerald Butler, Jamie Fox and the worst plot ever imagined.

I knew this film would suck.  I could just tell by looking at the DVD cover.  Also, I remembered critics panning it months back.  Two strikes.  But like I said: wine and exhaustion.  So someone slipped it into the TV and we all sat back to watch what turned out to be exactly the kind of lame, violent, stupidly plotted movie I thought it would.

What frustrated me about this film wasn’t the acting, or the surprise violence (I’d like to be warned before a bullet makes a person’s head explode, thank you very much), it was the fact that it even got made in the first place.

As freshly minted writers, every opportunity that comes our way is always packaged in a “this is your one chance so don’t screw it up” kind of way.  We work our asses off writing, rewriting, swallowing mind-numbing critique and even giving up scenes we’d practically date if given the chance.  We run mental triathlons because, well, our art has to be perfect – or no one’s going to give it a second thought.

So we beat ourselves up to create this expressive masterpiece, and then someone brings over a DVD that’s so full of every writing Don’t it makes our mouths hang open in disbelief.  How the hell does something like this get made?!  It’s awful.  Don’t tell me this was someone’s magnum opus.  It’s impossible.  The only way this makes sense is if a bunch of big execs came up with it in the back of a party van on the way to a strip club. Read more »

Jealousy scares me.  It scares me in relationships, and it certainly scares me when it’s connected to my career.  It’s a sneaky emotion; silently climbing into my chest and then sticking it’s claws in when I least expect it.  I’ll be walking along, enjoying my goodness and my dedicated moral compass, when all of sudden I’ll read about someone else’s success and feel my knees buckle under the weight of envy.

I was born with a nice, thick jealous streak.  But you know what?  Jealousy can be undone. It can’t be un-felt, but it can be lessened.  Because after all, isn’t jealousy just a quick way of saying insecure?

As artists, we’re freely entering into a world full of people who can do it better.  They can schmooze better, they can land deals better, they can just plain write better and will most assuredly become successful before us.  Now that we know the slight craptasticness of this world, let’s allow a thought to seep into our brains: just because someone else achieves their dream, doesn’t mean there isn’t room for us. Read more »

Let’s be real, here: grief sucks.  It sucks so, so bad.  On the list of Emotions That Are Hard To Deal With, grief is at the top, florescent and harsh and without a hint of remorse.

When you’re drowning in grief, it’s like the world stops, the air goes out, and all you can see and hear is the echoing of your own pain.  Running from it is impossible, and it clings to you for much, much longer than it should.  It grabs your neck and punches your heart and laughs while you shrink down onto the floor or collapse onto the bed; grief doesn’t give a shit.

Which is why it’s so hard to write when you’re not directly feeling it. Read more »

I do my best to stay calm.

In between barely making enough money and working on my art (and occasionally watching True Blood), I force myself to meditate, breathe with intention and stay mindful.  I’ve bought into all that stuff, because I want a balanced, fulfilled life.

But then something happens — something that knocks me over and causes my heart to drop or break or just generally stop — and I doubt all of the work I’ve ever done.

You’re just not built for peace.

At least that’s what I think when I’m crumpled in a heap on the floor, feeling sadness and pain in places like my knee caps and right shoulder.  …Because that isn’t how normal people act.  Normal people aren’t wrecked for years after a break-up, writing songs and plays and short stories while filling journals to the brink with stuff that would make even Sylvia Plath blush. Normal people don’t stay in on a Saturday night so they can exorcise demons with a keyboard.  I have normal friends.  They agree with me on this one.

And so that’s why I wonder: can true artists ever live a “balanced” life? Read more »