The Writings of Mary Lewys

Tell me to write it and I will.

I have the worst luck when it comes to writers. In every writing advice book or article, I’ve read that it is essential to have a support group. In the last podcast to which I listened, a couple of the contributing writers recommended a support group that didn’t consist of friends or family. So, as I signed up for the writing seminar last month, I dreamt of finding a few fellow writers with which I could bond.

No such luck. Granted, most of the class attendees were retirees filling their days, I found myself at odds with how to go about incorporating someone into a support group. All friends are random happenstance of joy. I couldn’t predict when I met my friends that they would stay my friends. I left the seminar empty handed.

The first professional, published writer I thought I had befriended years and years ago hated any support I offered. It wasn’t a snobbery thing, I don’t believe, but I haven’t any idea why my words of encouragement were constantly shot down. The next writer ended things with a rather lengthy e-mail claiming I was a jealous, shallow creature. I haven’t had opportunity to try since then – and looking at those two examples, no wonder I was gun shy at the seminar.

Imagine my surprise when a stranger contacted me via IM. He had found my profile at a scriptwriting forum I attended when I was writing my Doctor Who script. Surprisingly, he was nice and sociable. My initial skepticism melted away when I forced it; I said to myself, be open to new opportunities.

Last night, he slammed out of IM because I couldn’t come up with a reason for him to keep writing that he couldn’t argue. No matter what I said, no matter how sympathetic or understanding I was, he had a quick quip of "I know" followed by a weak string of excuses I’ve used on myself. Finally, I said I didn’t know what to tell him, other than what I read was good and he should keep going, and he abruptly signed off.

I will chat with him the next time he signs on, if he does. Perhaps I’m wrong in my assumption that it had something to do with what I said. However, I want to find some random stranger who will take the time and effort to talk away my fears and doubts while lifting my spirits.

One more class. The drive to and from has worn all my nerves down to the fray. If it isn’t the construction, it’s the drivers with nothing better to do than waste my time. Between the twenty five miles one way and the mid-day walks through a shade-less campus in ninety-degree-heat, I am worn out.

No, I didn’t go to the poetry open mic. In my Writing for Children and Young Adults class, I received several positive, ego-affirming comments. The teacher even went, "Oooo," after I finished reading my exercise. While the sound of applause might have been nice, I opted to go to dinner with my hubby. He took me to a beautiful sushi place in the Village. I haven’t had tuna that lovely since Detroit.

And before you get on me, I promise to find a place where I can receive applause that doesn’t require a fifty mile trip. I promise.

At 11:32pm last night, I checked my e-mail. The screenwriting professor cancelled his emergency trip to see his sister and his pre-mature niece. Class was back on. I was the last to respond, stating I would attend as well.

I was up earlier than planned. I was on campus by 9:00am. I was the only paying student in the class. A professor attended as well. It was very educational. I wasn’t aware of the two schools of scriptwriting the professor brought to my attention. I have another class with him in the morning to discuss query letters, pitches, and the business.

The way I feel right now, I may not go. I am exhausted. In a week, the boy returns from college. Hubby spent the day cleaning the house. I need to do my share! Plus, we have plans to clean out a space in our back yard so we can start our garden. If not tomorrow, when?

Since coming home, I have been a bit depressed. With the exception of Dr. Cronin, I have yet to meet a happy writer. A woman dropped out of our Writing for Children and Young Adults class because she claimed she would never write a children’s book. The mystery writing professor expressed the lack of interest in ever writing a script.

I suppose I can understand, but I went to play. It’s class. It’s study. It’s not for pay or trying to be paid. I’m there to play, to push words around, learn better ways, and just have fun. While I have been learning, fun has been in short supply.

Also, Vince Courtney read a number of his works at the end of the class to simply share. He read a number of stories that were engaging and well-written. All I could think was if he cannot get published regularly, what chance do I stand? Any?

I came to grips with the fact that I will never be published by someone else. I’m okay with that. Maybe I have to become that which I have feared all these years: I have to simply write what I like, do my best, send it out to the appropriate places, and obliviously go on. I can’t drown in trying to figure out what words I could have chosen or what idea I should’ve wrote. I can’t try to write whatever it is someone else wants me to write to be published. What I write may never be published, but it will be what I write.

I attend my first of three sessions on writing for children and young adults. My friend Lolly talked me into it thought it didn’t take much. The professor, Vince Courtney, gave me the best critique to date several years ago. He said my story couldn’t be fixed and explained why. He was absolutely right. Frankly, I felt more like a writer afterwards than any other time.

Fascinating tip: I have yet to encounter a male student. All my teachers are male. All the students are female. I don’t know what that means.

Vince taught as he did years ago about CPR (Character, Problem, and Resolution). He came with great examples of his own work as well as referencing other writing classes he has taken. At one point, he touched upon Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey. He stated up front that he couldn’t remember all the steps, but did a good job stumbling through a few. He used the Wizard of Oz to help.

I raised my hand. A few years ago, I blended Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey with the four act structure many writing resources reference. So, I had Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey on my laptop. He was pleased.

It took me a bit to find the document. But by the end of the class, two of the students reminded him of the Hero’s Journey. I recited the journey’s twelve steps while they took notes. It was such an odd moment; one that put me in a weird place.

I finished my class on comics and independent film by talking about scriptwriting. Dr. Cronin, the professor, runs the Melbourne Film Festival and has made two movies. While he stated he wasn’t a professional, I found his presentation to be very thorough. He had excellent tips for making independent film based on personal experience and research.

He told the best story. His buddy who helped on one of his movies and he were cast as extras in the movie Armageddon while filming in Florida. He said he spent most of the day as a member of the press, climbing a chain link fence. He never did say if that part made it into the movie.

Anyway, his buddy was good looking enough to catch a production assistant’s eye. She asked if he wanted to shoot an additional scene. He said, yes. She asked if he would take the bus when he was done. So, he did. Dr. Cronin did as well, though wasn’t personally invited. Needless to say, the control room shot didn’t have need of him.

All the extras met Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer. Dr. Cronin requested every so politely to sit behind them while filming. He promised to be very quiet. Bay and Bruckheimer consented. So, as he watched the screen for the shot, he noticed his friend wasn’t in it. Silently, he raised his arm and pointed in the direction his friend should move.

In the movie, during the control room scene before the space shuttle launches, the control room tech that shuffles into scene and starts typing on a computer is his friend. And Dr. Cronin said he directed his friend in that scene – which he technically did.

I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut. I said I marveled at the way he could stay so positive and see things in such a way. He said it was the power of positive thinking. Not so much like the secret, but that it was a choice to be like that.

As a challenge, he said I should attend the open mic poetry social event tonight. He challenged me to read a poem as myself and sit in the power of the applause. I laughed that anyone would applause. Frankly, based on the attendance in the classes, I figure six people may show up for the open mic.

Six people applauding. I suppose my ego could use it. What if they don’t applaud?

So when u call up that shrink in Beverly Hills
U know the one – Dr Everything’ll Be Alright
Instead of asking him how much of your time is left
Ask him how much of your mind, baby

‘Cuz in this life
Things are much harder than in the afterworld
In this life
You’re on your own

And if de-elevator tries 2 bring u down
Go crazy – punch a higher floor

     -Prince

At 4:00pm today, I clicked on the radio button to set my work e-mail to Out of Office. Then, I booked it – well, I had to double back and pick up my Kenneth Cole computer back containing my laptop because yes, I was that nervous – down into bit town and the Florida Institute of Technology. I circled the campus to figure out where things are before I found a nice, shady tree to park under. As I walked towards the building, I looked up to see a young woman crossing the street towards the same building. She wore a silk, black trench coat, patchwork jeans and knee high black boots. Her hair was braded over her head like a headband.

Yeah, I figured we were heading to the same place.

It was a small auditorium with narrow seats. Nothing like a college campus setting to remind you of how old and fat you are. I managed to wedge myself into a seat far and away from everyone else for the free lecture by the comic book writer and publisher professor. He spoke briefly about his comic books in favor of showing off his television show idea. At the end, he tied the two together loosely. But considering the crowd, he was smart. Of the dozen or so audience members, three of us stayed for the class afterwards.

Of those three (of which I was one), all were women. Kind of awesome.

Where I was disappointed with the free lecture, the professor made up for it with the class. He spent the appropriate amount of time discussing writing and page layout. He had a slide presentation that he didn’t read with visual examples. He talked about character creation and visualization. He quoted some excellent creators and referenced remarkable comic books.

The last half of the class, he passed out a piece of paper with three boxes on it. He stated he wanted us to write a comic strip. He asked what we thought and looked to me, I suppose because I was the elder she-wolf in the room.

"I think I want to sit at the table with you to do this."

So, I gathered chairs and we all sat down. The professor said he read somewhere that you could make a movie if you had a girl, a car, and a gun. So, we decided to do strips on that, but branched off into discussion about topical subjects we could do. All my art was strict stick figures, but as I was a writer it was accepts. The one of the young women had completed a full comics, writing, penciling, inkling, coloring and letters, for her senior year in high school.

She made me feel like I should leave the room.

It was a good glass. The professor liked my level of knowledge of movies and comics. We ended up innocently recommending to Warren Ellis’ novel, A Crooked Little Vein, when the professor asked me if I had read it. Of course, when I tried to dissuade the young women away from it, they wanted to read it all the more.

Tomorrow night, we discuss making independent film in relation to comics. I have my Writing for Young Adults course tomorrow too. I have a huge zit on my chin from working myself up into a frenzy of fear this afternoon. I’ll have to take to it tomorrow morning.

Oh, I did ask the professor about what to do with fear induce writer’s block. He gave me some wonderful advice. I am going to try it. This is step one.

What if I were one of the girls
With stars in her eyes
Walking around in gossamer dresses and
Picking daisies out in left field?
I could paint my nails a pretty coral
And rub the sun from eyes for staring too long.
With sands between my toes,
I would laugh at the waves and the dark skies.
I couldn’t hear the tramping feet
Stomping up behind me or hear the wail
Of the baby birds who have lost their mothers.
That deep, red stain would be Kool-aid or punch.
Moldy, dusty smells wouldn’t turn me on so much.
I could wear gold and talk about housewives
And see that grass is green and the sky is blue
With nothing more to it than that.
Nothing between the lines to read or
Secret symbols scrawled into the flesh
For fingers to find in the night.
I could be one of those girls easily enough
If I made castles in the sky from cold, dry cement.

© Mary Lewys, 2010