Tag: script writing

Losin’ My Muse

I’ve lost my muse. My supernatural writing mentor vanished two weeks ago, leaving me alone and devoid of inspiration. Unfinished blog drafts sit neglected on my desk; a half-written movie script collects dust instead of Oscars; even my shopping lists are dull and lacking in pace.

Have you seen this chicken... I mean, man?Have you seen my muse anywhere? He’s an overweight, hairy guy called Dave. I know muses are usually beautiful Greek goddesses, but Dave was cheaper. I thought we would work well together. He wasn’t bothered about grammar rules and all that verb-participle stuff, but he liked a good laugh and a cold beer. So I took my chances with Dave.

Maybe it’s my fault. I didn’t appreciate him when he was around. To be honest, he spent most of the time asleep on my couch, waking only to scratch his ass and shout “Have ya written anything yet? No? Get on with it! Write about bees or something.” Then he would fall back into a drunken coma. Did I mention he liked his beer?

Dave might have been drunk and asleep most of the time, but whenever I felt my inspiration slipping away I could rely on him to slap me on the back, belch into my ear, and give me a few words of wisdom:

“Get drunk. Works for me!”
“Copy someone else’s stuff!”
“Go for a walk. I’ll come with ya, if we can stop at the hot dog stand.”
“Drink more.”
“Why don’t ya write about bees?”

Sometimes Dave would disappear for days on end. He would always let me know where he was going; he was good like that. He would leave post-it notes on my desk that read “Bored. See you Tuesday” or “Gone to a rock festival – back when sober”. Oh well, at least Dave’s absence gave me an excuse to procrastinate. I’d work on that storyboard when he got back.

Writer's block? Blame hot dog eating competitions.One time, Dave attended a muse convention. Muses from around the world came together, shared their literary horror stories, and took the piss out of their protégés. There were drinking games and hot dog-eating competitions too. Dave returned from the convention hungover and smelling of mustard. I had hoped he’d learned something, and would be bursting with inspiration.
“I got nuthin’ for ya. Wake me up in a few days and we’ll work on that bee story.”

This time, Dave didn’t leave a note. He just left. Maybe he read my latest script and lost the will to live. Maybe he was tired of all my penis jokes (and no man, not even Dave, can persuade me that a penis is not funny). Maybe he is now asleep on someone else’s couch, smelling of beer and mumbling about bees.

If you have my muse, please, please can you send him back? I promise to be a more attentive student. I promise to get that story finished. Tell him I have hot dogs.


Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinteresttumblrmail

Bill C-10: It’s Not Porn, It’s Art

Say NO to C-10! Grrrr!

Those of us involved in the Canadian creative community (and those of us pretending to be, for the purpose of this story) are worried. The government is trying to introduce a Bill called C-10, a draconian law preventing artists from using government loans to finance ‘challenging’ movies. Canadian banks are often reluctant to finance such movies, citing pathetic excuses like “They’re usually drivel”.

Just in case C-10 passed, I thought I’d better get my claim in with the Tax Credit Department before the men in grey totally destroyed my freedom of expression. I felt my luck was in with my latest venture, a scarifying indictment of capitalist urban society entitled The Cock Whisperer.

Auditions were going very well.Based on a true experience, The Cock Whisperer is the powerful story of a girl who has the gift-like ability to banish men’s rampant and uncontrollable sexual desires by sitting in a room with them for five minutes. I’d assembled a cast from the many out-of-work actors in my neighbourhood and spent several hours sweating over the script.

Unfortunately, the Tax Credit Department did not share my enthusiasm for the project and demanded vicious rewrites before they would consider scribbling out any cheques. They claimed my touching tale about touching todgers was merely an excuse for me to film attractive gentlemen without their underpants, and was not in the Canadian public interest to fund it.

I remonstrated that actually the Canadian public wanted, nay, demanded to sit in a movie theatre for two hours looking at men’s units – all my friends had said so. Apart from the male ones. And the local vicar. And my neighbour, who actually called the cops when I asked to borrow their hot tub for a few scenes. I think the cops are beginning to tire of being called to my street.

My fight with the Police State suits will continue as I refuse to compromise my artistic integrity. Like filming Titanic without the iceberg, you cannot have a story about cocks without cocks.

Failing that I’ll borrow my mate Sparky’s video camera and produce the bloody movie myself without their stupid tax credits.

Anyone got a hot tub I can borrow?


Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinteresttumblrmail

Tiggy’s Hollywood Movie

You like me, you really... oh, maybe not.

I didn’t know what Hollywood scriptwriters looked like until I saw them on the picket lines during the recent writers’ strike. They looked normal enough – they didn’t drive up in their Ferraris flashing botox smiles like Tinsel Town big shots. They wore normal clothes, had normal faces and probably had messy houses and an overdraft like everyone else.

Hollywood needs them. Can you imagine if they were filming CSI: Las Vegas and the director says to the cast “Hmmm, maybe someone can pretend to be dead, here’s some fake blood. Fucked if I know, just make it up as you go along…” Gil Grissom wouldn’t look like such a know-it-all forensic fancy pants then.

Awesome Movie
Maybe I had what it took to be a movie screenwriter. Stupidly, I wondered out loud to my friends how easy it must be. All you need is to think up some characters, put them in a situation and then resolve that situation, somehow, in about 95 minutes. Go on, my friends said. At least come up with an idea.

My movie script needed careful planning. I had to come up with fascinating characters and an intriguing plotline with plenty of twists. Half an hour of solid work through my lunch break later, I had the foundations of my awesome movie – a dark road trip comedy with a clever subplot. I’d hardly finished my cup-a-soup as I typed out my synopsis. I am in the wrong job, I thought. Just wait until my friends read this. I wonder which producer will call me first?

Hot Dog-Eating Monkeys
My friends’ reviews were lukewarm. “Um, Tiggy, hasn’t this been done before?” “I don’t get that bit about the monkey and the hot dog eating contest…” “I’ve noticed one major flaw in your plotline…”

What a bunch of loser armchair critics. How dare they trash my idea! I played the whole movie back in my mind – it was fantastic! I’d pay to see it several times at a theatre. I sulked like a diva for the rest of the day.

Maybe I’m not cut out to be a screenwriter. The pressure to come up with original, logical and entertaining material is too much for me. The trauma of a rejected idea is unbearable. These Hollywood writers must have a thick skin, even without the botox.


Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinteresttumblrmail