marination

recently i had lunch with a screenwriter friend and we were talking about a date gone bad. basically, the girl questioned his career of choice and how he spends his days. she wasn't trying to be mean, just very logical. the conversation went something like this:

girl: so how long does it take you, on average, to write a screenplay?
my friend: well, now, about 3 to 4 months or so.
girl: and how long is an average screenplay?
friend: about 110 pages.
girl (doing the math): so you're telling me that you write about a page a day?
friend: um, yes, i guess so.
girl: and this takes you all day?
friend (actually being a very disciplined writer): um, yes.

how do you explain to someone that getting that one page takes blood, sweat and tears? that it takes hours of procrastination, surfing facebook and the internet, finding every excuse to eat, to go to the bathroom, to take a nap, watch some youtube, play some games, while still being chained to your laptop? that it takes hours of rooting around in the back of your brain, taking up room just festering and marinating, until suddenly a few words or phrases come sliding out of your fingertips like magic? or that it takes years of disciplined "writing" (what looks like procrastination and laziness to the outside world) to be able to assemble notes, outline a story, write up a treatment and then expand it all into a tightly-edited presentable draft within three months? at the end of which, no, there is no guarantee that it will get sold, or even more difficult, actually get made?

how do you explain to someone that an artist is not made overnight, nor produced on a linear path like so many other things in life? in any other profession, you put in a certain number of hours and years and slowly progress up the ladder, in seniority, pay scale and skill. but as an artist, every start is as daunting as the first, and past history of success is no determinant of the future. even the best are equally capable of stinking, failing, falling, bombing, time and time again.

and how do you explain that the drudge work is utterly devoid of glamour, unrecognized, looked down upon, and will only ever merit value if you become a commercial success, yet you still feel fiercely compelled to keep doubling down? how do you explain that though they doubt you, you doubt yourself even more?

there is an unspoken code, a mutual recognition when i meet other artists. the understanding of the frailty, the vulnerability, the darknesses, the scars, the faith required, the anxiety, the highs, the love, the resilience, the aching, the terror, the joy. but this very thing, is what makes us, us. that innate response where we rise up again and again, despite all logic, despite the abyss, to paint our selves across a night sky.

it is the very best in me that i have to give. it cannot be measured by my bank account, the house i live in nor the number of seats i sell. it is solitary. my work is created for an audience of one, myself. but that feeling you get when your heart stirs or you're moved to tears or laughter? when two solitudes overlap for a fleeting moment and the recognition occurs? that, my friends, is the rainbow we're chasing.

by the way, my friend has suddenly become hollywood's it darling with his latest script, so i'm incredibly happy for him. from one artist to another... i just get it, what it all means. and to be able to witness someone finally marinate long enough to have things start happening... lights, baby, lights.

(nyc)