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Created this for The Scent of Lavender's Facebook page. Feels good to be PhotoShopping again.

On Freedom

I've become increasingly perplexed by America's curious relationship with the concept of freedom. We believe we are absolutely entitled to it and that no-one can take it away and to even suggest we forfeit certain privileges is a violation of our constitutional rights. We've become so far removed from the events that created and sculpted the Constitution (not to mention the Bill of Rights) that we've forgotten the colossal sacrifices previous generations have had to make.

"Sacrifice" is another word that seems to have been co-opted by a specific group of people. "Sacrifice," especially when it relates to "freedom" now only applies to the men and women in our military. I in no way want to downplay the significant role the military has played in securing not only our freedom but the freedom of others around in the world. What men and women in the military (along with their families) have sacrificed these 300 years is incalculable. I recognize that and am humbled by it. But what of the civilian sacrifices? What about the men and women who have lived in this country who have had to sacrifice certain freedoms for the greater good of society? What about the minority groups who have had to live in the shadow of the majority, hoping to one day have the equal rights the majority of Americans enjoy? What about the sacrifices activists have had to make to ascertain equal liberty for all American citizens?

A sense of entitlement is infecting America. The sense of entitlement isn't specific to one party or one group of people. Everyone feels entitled to something. What's disturbing about the "entitlement" phase of our relationship to freedom is that it negates any sacrifice I might have to make but demands the sacrifice of others. Why do we feel so entitled? What have we done to earn or deserve this freedom? And if the majority are entitled to these freedoms, why isn't the minority entitled to such freedom?

You religion. Your guns. Your right to an abortion. Your right to marry whoever you choose. Your health. Your privacy. Your education. Your right to speak your mind. Your job. The money you earn. Your home. Your comfort. A trial with a jury made up of your peers in which you are innocent until proven guilty. The safety net of welfare.

What would you be willing to sacrifice for the freedom of others?

In Tense

I've been struggling to find my narrative voice. I never had a creative writing teacher that challenged me (except the exceptional Dr Byrd) and so I've had to find my own voice and my own style when it comes to my writing. It seems like such a natural, why-should-anyone-have-to-worry-about-that sort of thing.

For the last ten years, I've cultivated my "screenwriter" voice, a voice that speaks to directors, producers, and actors. It tells everyone involved in the filmmaking process exactly what they need to know, painting a vivid picture of the scene, explaining why and how it's happening, but ultimately leaves the specifics up for interpretation. For a screenplay, that's fine. For a screenplay, that's great. But I like prose that's vivid. I like words that come alive and transport you somewhere as they paint intricate scenes, characters, and locations. While books are a medium for the imagination, I crave specificity.

Which is why I've been struggling with the opening chapters of Oasis (its working title). The words aren't connecting. Everything feels clunky and everything sounds like I'm trying so hard -- which is, quite frankly, something new for me. Writing is easy. It's exciting. It's relaxing. It's freeing. It's not hard work.

Kelly kept telling me to relax and stop thinking about it. "That's when you write your best stuff," she said, "when you just have fun with it." But I couldn't. I couldn't have fun with it. I wrestled with every sentence, despite the fact that the story I'm telling is a fairly light one, filled with drama and childhood trauma, sure, but I want to veer more into adventure than horror.

Then I figured it out. I needed to let my characters tell the story. Specifically, I needed to let Benjamin Blakeney, the eyes and ears of the story, tell the story. He needed to use his own words. Switching from third person to first person was a game-changing decision that has made all the difference in the world. Now the scenes and the dialogue just flow from my finger tips, as usually do.

I just needed to stop trying and just do.

Catching Up

It's been a bit.

I'm not ignoring you, I just haven't had much to report. I've been spinning my wheels with very little traction to be found. I've had a couple of projects fail to get off the ground and I've found myself in the kind of gloom only John Cusack in High Fidelity can rescue me from.

But I've started writing again. I've often flirted with this idea that I call "Oasis" and I've just decided to sit down and make a young adult novel out of it. If you follow me on Twitter (@ScottishFogg), I've been posting word count updates at the conclusion of every night. It's my way of boring my followers and keeping myself honest. If I have to report progress (or the lack of) on a nightly basis, I find myself compelled to write. I hate not updating the word count but I hate updating the word count with a nearly insignificant increase even more. And while I have ideas every day, sometimes I don't. But I still need to be writing and there days when writing is just putting one word in front of another until you stumble on another great idea. Drafting will, hopefully, fix those boring bits.

I've also been approached about acting in the upcoming web series The Scent of Lavender. It's a bit of a murder mystery -- which is outside the realm of entertainment I usually find myself in so I'm excited. I'm also excited to be acting again, without worrying about the script or directing or editing or . . . anything else really. I've been working on some promotional art for the series and I'm an administrator for the series' Facebook page, but that is such a light load when compared to all the other hats I usually wear when I'm involved in a project.

Anyway. I'm off. I'll try to not let so much time go by between now and my next post.

McKay Books: You Never Know . . .

My latest commercial for McKay. I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out.

Blue

A day doesn’t go by where I don’t write something. Usually it’s part of some bigger plan (a web series, a graphic novel, a feature film) and usually it ends up being discarded or forgotten about. Most of the things I’ve written are now collected cyber dust on my hard drive.

But every once in a while, I get to be part of something special. Enter Tanya Musgrave. She came to me a little over a year ago with a short story that she wanted to adapt into a short film. We went back and forth and I wrote three or four drafts of the script before she put the final touches on it and put it into production. I feel a little strange saying that it’s a gorgeous, wonderful film in every way possible — but it is. I'm not saying that because I helped write it, I'm not saying that because I know the original story it came from and I'm not saying that because I dearly love every one on the crew. I'm saying that somehow that crew and those actors were able to take my rough words and inappropriate jokes and turn it into this:

Check it out and make note of all those cast and crew members at the end. They’re names everyone’s going to be talking about in a few years.

Writing Novels Graphically

I remember the first time I told my mom I had bought a graphic novel. She didn't hear the term "graphic novel" as a singular noun. She instead heard the adjective graphic being applied to the noun novel. She got real pale and asked what the content of the book was and, "do you . . . you know . . . have any questions?"

After assuring her that the novel was not actually graphic, it was just filled with graphics, she calmed down a bit and then muttered, "they need to call it something else."

I love the graphic novel. I love comic books in general, but the graphic novel specifically speaks to me. As I get older, I find myself slowly growing away from the tights and the fights of superheroes and find myself gravitating towards the quiet introspection of graphic novels. I didn't understand the appeal of cozying up to a book until I discovered books like Craig Thompson's Blankets (or his Habibi, for that matter).

I can read a graphic novel as quickly or as slowly as I want. I can speed through the sparsely-worded pages and claim (too proudly) that "I read an entire book in an afternoon," or I can take my time and let the words and art work in tandem to take me places I've never been before and give me ideas I've never pondered before.

I have received so much from the time I've spent with my comic books and graphic novels that I have decided that it's time I give something back. It's time for me to write my comic book -- or my graphic novel.

There is, however, a problem. Two problems, actually.

1. I cannot draw.
2. I do not know how to write a comic book script.

Problem 1 is more insurmountable than 2. Problem 2 can be fixed by applying what I know about writing a film script with what I will learn from reading a few books. Problem 1, though, requires finding someone that (A) I like (B) I get along with (C) I trust (D) trusts me (E) is willing to take this leap of faith with me.

So I'm going to get to reading and writing and . . . seeing to Problem 1.