A writer on writing

My life in Madrid for the past month has been incredibly exciting for me, and for others it may not be so exciting, but I’ll write of what I’ve been doing. My friend, Cody Harris, and I have decided to make a movie. Cody is an aspiring film maker who as work on several projects. Some were his own, which he wrote, produced, directed, edited…did the whole thing. He’s also worked with other film makers doing editing work and camera work. He’s no novice.
Before I left Boise, Cody and I were at the Tenth Street Station drinking gin and tonics talking about a story I had been working on. And then the conversation shifted to the latest film Cody had been working on. I had made the comment that he needed a better script, that all stories must have a point, must have a thesis, must have some truth of life that must be exposed. He started telling me of new ideas he had for other short films and when he told me about one, which had already titled, “A Place Called Bliss,” I got very excited because I knew it was a story I could write. A story I wanted to write. He had gotten the idea from a news article he had read somewhere over the years about a girl from London whose car broke down in some back assed town in the western united states. Cody had thought it would make a good story and though Bliss, Idaho would be the perfect city to set it in. And I agreed.
Cody had a rough outline of how he thought the story would go. He had ideas for a good and artistic ending. But, he needed all things in the middle that got the characters from point A to point B. We spent the rest of the night talking non stop about how we could make the movie. What kind of problems the characters were facing. What the characters’ flaws were. We both became incredibly excited and had agreed that when I would return from Madrid we would shoot the movie.
This is where my past month in Madrid begins. I did not work on the movie much when I first arrived in Spain, and the things I did work on were ultimately cut by myself. But, for the past month “A Place Called Bliss,” has consumed my life. It is all I could think about, and all I’ve wanted to do.
I wrote the first draft by hand. I always prefer to write first drafts by hand. Every day after class for two weeks, I’d go to a new part of Madrid that I hadn’t really explored, find a nice café with a nice shaded terrace and work. I’d order café con leche and waters, and smoke cigarettes and write in the beautiful city of Madrid. The weather was perfect for those two weeks too. Every day the sun shone and there was seldom a wind to blow my pages and interrupt my work. Typically, I’d write one scene, or one important exchange of dialogue, which would take me an hour or two, though in movie time it is probably four minutes, and then I’d pay for my café, load up my things and walk around Madrid for a while. It was a very romantic way to live. My soul would be filled with the feeling of beauty that overtakes me when I’m writing something I feel is good, and I’d walk through the narrow streets with tall building of architectural design that I still can only describe as “European.” I’d sit on benches in plazas with fountains and watch children play, old men bicker, young lovers love, and think constantly how all of this related to how Elle and James (the main characters of APCB) were existing in that uncertain and uncompleted moment. Eventually, after wandering through many barrios, I’d find another café where the terrace tables were level and there was a tree shading the terrace perfectly, and I’d sit, order a café and write another passage of dialogue. I did this for two weeks. Everyday after class. It was wonderful, and my soul was fulfilled in a way that only a fellow writer can understand. The creation of people and emotions that do not exist and feeling them as if I were there, as if I were saying the lines of dialogue myself, is a physically draining and emotionally enlightening experience.

the forgotten poet apologizes twice,
repeats,

“I do not exist to the outside world.”

Later repeats,

I am charged to discover
truth and beauty
alone

This was a really cool way to see more or Madrid as well, and to meet new people. While writing at a doner kebab restaurant (a very popular style of food here…very cheap…) I met Houssan. Houssan was from Iraq. He was very kind to me and, as it seems I always write, he did not speak much English so we talked the best we could in Spanish. Houssan had welcomed me to Spain, told me of schools he knew where I could learn Spanish cheap. I told him I was already paying way too much to learn Spanish at a university. Clearly, with him being from Iraq, the topic of the war arose. I asked him why he left Iraq, and he told it was because of the war. He told me his home was too dangerous to live in anymore, and that he heard Madrid had a good Arabic community (which it does). So he moved here. At this point, I said something which seemed very natural, but afterward left me slightly confused. I told him I was sorry for the war. As though it was a decision I had made. As though I had lead troops in battle and killed his countrymen. He quickly told me it wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t his fault. It was politics and our governments. Which is true…but…I don’t know. I felt bad. He’s an actual human being, the faceless ghost that the citizens of a country at war choose to imagine does not exist. He is Iraqi. He is my country’s enemy. He is not my enemy, nor am I his enemy. I don’t know. I guess it’s still a big thing I’m trying to understand fully. But, I am sorry. I am sorry he had to leave his home, which he said as soon as his country is safe to live in, he will return to it. I am sorry for something that is not my fault, but I still feel somehow responsible for…

Then, there was my afternoon I spent in Chueca. Chueca is the gay district of Madrid. And I knew this before I chose a café there. And I had been there more than many times, and never had any sort of idea that it was the gay community. But, a funny occurrence arose. I was writing in a very small and posh café, which did not have a terrace, but it was early in the morning and still chilly, because I had decide to skip class that day in order to work, so I didn’t mind sitting inside. I was working away when I heard the man behind me speaking English to the waiter. He was tyring to ask for food. So I leaned my head back and helped him, only to find out the café didn’t serve meals, only pastries. This sparked an hour long conversation with my one time friend (whose name has already left me so we’ll call him….chris). Chris was a forty year old man from Greece. He was gay and very well kept and if I was an old gay guy I would def. be interested in him. The start of our conversation went like this:

“So, how’s Madrid for you, what are you doing here,” asked chris.
“I’m a student studying Spanish…I love this country.”
“Have you met any boys?”
“Boys?”
“You aren’t…” he looked me up and down with a perplexed look, “You aren’t gay?”
“haha, No. I’m not gay. I just like this area of town.”
“Are you sure?”
“yeah, I’m sure.”

Later he apologized to me for thinking I was gay. I said it was nothing, I could care less. And he saw I wasn’t offended in the slightest by it, he told me I looked gay, and if I was gay I’d be bringing in all sorts of boys. It was a nice compliment, and based upon my fairly Spanish girlless existence in Madrid, Spanish boys don’t sound too….jk. I guess I look gay. But, I became aware of that fact after ward and while walking through Chueca I did notice more men looking at me than usual…or was it all in my sick head?
Chris and I talked mostly about Greece. He was from Athens, and he told me oodles of information about it. I asked if I were to travel there, where should I go. And in my notebook he wrote me pages and pages of information about cool historical places and what have you.
At the end of our conversation, when we both said we had to get going (he because he had to meet some friends, and I because for an hour I was half talking to Chris and half thinking of where I left my characters in the story), the waiter, who was a young and strong young lad, fashionable and wore a mullet, brought each of our checks over. The waiter said, “veo que vosotros habeis conocido.” (I see you two have meet each other) And then he looked at me stroked my face with his hand and said, “Eres guapo.” (you’re hot). Then he looked to the old man and told him he was hot too, but he didn’t stoke Chris’s face. Chris tried to tell the waiter I wasn’t gay, but he didn’t know how. I didn’t know the words either so I said, “no me gustan chicos…me gustan chicas. Pero, si me gustan chicos…tu eres guapo!.” (I don’t like boys, I like girls, but if I liked boys….you are hot!). Which made him feel better I think, cause he looked worried as though he may have offended me by touching my face.

After two weeks of writing I sent Cody what I had written so far…after about eight hours of typing it into word…scripts are a pain in the ass…you constantly have to change format…center align this. Right align that. Make this is bold…anyway, it was a long and arduous process. Cody liked what I had written. He was excited and told me the way Elle had played out was exactly how he had imagined it in his head time and time again. He was enthousiastic about what was on the page so far. Which, as a writer, is always a very exciting thing to hear. You get so involved with your writing, and your story, that while writing it you are certain it is great, you are certain you are doing great things. But, afterward, once it settles, and you spend eight hours rereading it and typing it into the computer, you start to think it’s shit. You start to think it’s complete crap and you’ve wasted all your time. I was very relived when I got the positive feedback from Cody…even Lindsey, Cody’s wife sent me an email telling me she thought it was good and was very excited for the long process of making the film play out.
Originally, Cody and I had talked about making a short film, around thirty minutes long. But, the script was already at an hour worth of movie time. I told Cody I had ideas on how to trim it down, but really I was lying to him. I had no idea what so over. I knew more had to be added…but…in the end I knew I could have, I just needed to think about how to do it. But, Cody, with umpf and gust, decided, “let’s go for it, let’s make a full length film.” Which made me a whole lot happier, because it is way more exciting, and I knew adding more would be far easier than cutting the script in half.

Anyway, that’s how the first two weeks of writing the script went. Traveling around, writing it all by hand, finding moments of perfect solitude to work and refind some creativity that I haven’t been tapping often enough while in Spain…not that other parts of my brain haven’t been challenged constantly. The second two weeks are far less romantic and are border line unhealthy. I’ve spent a lot of time in my room working. Sitting with my pink walls and my photos of puppies as my ashtray overflows and empty water bottles and dried cups of tea accumulate into one disgusting mess. This is the part of writing that separates (how to say this without sounding completely arrogant?)…well…want to be writers and writers who will write good things, not saying will be great or ever publish anything grand, just writers who will write whole and complete stories (which generally are the only stories that get published).
After the first draft my secondary main character was highly underdeveloped. I spent a week developing a story for him. Figuring out what his problem was, how would it play out with Elle, how to get his story into the frame I had already created. It wasn’t easy. Intact, one night I had a near breakdown certain it was impossible and if I was going to do it I would need atleast a month to figure it out. But, that’s how I work. I panic. I obsess. And I get back to work for it. By the end of that night I had it figured out. I knew how to work James in. I knew his problem, I knew how it tied in with Elle. And in the next four of five days, I had a new draft ready for Cody, which was damn close to being a completed story.
I’m not sure which is my favorite part of writing, the first draft stage, or the revision stage. I love them both for separate reasons. The first draft stage is always very romantic. It’s falling in love with people you create. It’s writing something completely new, that when you start writing it you have no idea where it is going. But, as each line unfolds you discover that on some subconscious level, your writing is being directed. This happens to me often I’ll write a few lines, read back over them, and see they are going in a direction I had no intention of taking it. And then I just play follow the leader and keep going. I know some writers who I do not believe write like this. They think out every scene before hand, they know exactly what to say. But, I am not like this. I cannot lie in bed and think of every line of dialogue I want. The only way my writing comes out is to write and see where it goes. Which, often leaves me with many errors and holes and underdeveloped things. But, I have the ability of revision, and I can fix all those problems…
So revision. The second stage of writing. This is where I find all those holes and I fix them. For me, writing a story, whether it be a short story or a screenplay, is like putting together a puzzle. I know the whole picture. I know where the characters begin, I know where they end. And I know I have to hole here, a space there…a piece in this hand, a piece in that hand. Revision is simply finding out how to get all of these pieces together in order to have a complete picture, a complete draft. And I love this process. It’s so fun. Because, by the time I reach this point, I know my characters. I know how they think. I know how they would react to any scenario. So putting all the pieces together “is like a mind puzzle, it’s an awesome mind puzzle” (can anyone name where I quoted that from?).

So here I am now. The draft is close. It’s damn close. I know it is. Not to say it’s perfect. I know it isn’t. But, I have just about taken it as far as I know how. I’ve tried a new process of revision that I’ve never tried before. And, trust me, I don’t like it. I’m mass letting people read it. I’m getting all the input I can get from people. I’ve let people I’ve talked to twice in my life read it. And I’m collecting all the feedback and considering it all fully. I’m still assuming I have more authority over writing than that girl I met on the bus and had a conversation with, but I still considered fully if the first kiss did come too soon, and whether or not I should write a cheesy line of dialogue to precede it. I chose not to.

Anyway, that’s what my life has been for the past month. I’m working. I’m working hard on something I have to believe is going to be good.

Cody has started a website at www.aplacecalledbliss.com. As of right now, there isn’t much on it, but we are going to be slowly adding things as new developments come. Storyboards, script pages, blog section, and what not…I’m not really sure. Cody is the brains of the operation. I’m just the poet with the heart.

Huzza!
Jake.