Thinking On Short Films And The 2009 Willamette Writer’s Conference
The heat of July has reached something of its zenith in the Northwest. Five days from the end of the month and the weather has taken its annual upturn to over 100 degrees. It lasts maybe a 4 days to a week. Usually no more.
By Tuesday, some have forecast the summit at 103 degrees.
I remember the last 103 plus temperature. Lisa and I were on all fours in the living room of my Clinton Street apartment doing tedious art department work for my first short film, “Too Many I’s”. We were set to shoot the next day. We had three consecutive days like this. Our poor actor, Gaelen Poage had to do numerous takes wearing a dark blue shirt and tie, tucked into tan pants.
From The Working Set of "Too Many I's"
I have strangely fond memories of taking his shirt (actually my shirt which he borrowed) and drying it off with a hair dryer between takes. Among the most striking memories, and something that won’t leave me as long as there are scorchers is the sheen of sweat on his back as he stands from the table.
That film is long gone though. And I wouldn’t post on the weather.
A piercing sun is a harbinger for the coming Willamette Writer’s Conference in Portland, Oregon. It’s the third year I’ve attended the four day event. The third August weekend I’ve allowed my hopes to climb as high as the anticipated temperature. In 2007, I was followed around by a documentary film crew as I pitched “The Wager” to some hope but ultimately no avail. Last year I pursued agent Ken Sherman to uncomfortable ends throughout the Airport Hillton hoping to get his attention for a family based feature “At Cross Purposes”. In the end, I think he was more interested in getting fed, seeing the town, carousing with other agents who too were seeking work by day and play by night. We stood at the crossroads between lobby and guest rooms, staggering drunk and all I could muster was a slurred, “have a nice night.”
Like the weather, I’m not posting to detail where my two forays into the writing world have gone nowhere. My missteps are not entertaining. I’ve been stood up for pitch meetings only to steal a hurried word. On Sunday mornings, I’ve spent whole meetings with hungover talent managers talking about the Cleveland Indians pitching staff and wondered who should be paying for the favor. In late July, my concerns become this: that all hopes will inevitably rise and they will run unchecked for as long as I allow.
That my hopes will rise and I won’t quite know their most advantageous seizure.
There are reasons to think this conference will be something different. I’m wiser, I believe. By one year, I’m a better writer. I have a good, solid dramatic screenplay with a female protagonist that I’m pitching (some manager bios are asking for just that). I’ve even got a web series that’s high concept. For the first time in three years the new media idea is being brought to the forefront and it might be time to move on something of the sort. My two closest writing friends won’t be there, and although that makes me sad, it changes my approach to Saturday night at the Columbia grill so that I might be able to schmooze a little more.
All signs point to this being a different time for me to pursue the old hopes.
I’m writing this as a criminally shy person when it comes to what’s most important to me. I’ll walk in there in my new Pierre Cardin white cotton shirt and slender Ben Sherman tie and feel very good about myself. I’ll drink a cocktail — something I rarely do, cupping something other than beer in my palm — while sitting on the corner of the bar (where they say to sit, sure to get a good view on the room). I might even tout my work, speaking in a loud and steady voice about what I’ve spent the year working on. I’ll bend someone’s ear about the latest, high concept, dark comedy that I’ve been writing the last few weeks, “Patrick, Killpatrick”. I’ll bend their ear until they laugh hysterically because I know that piece is very funny.
Who I’ll do these things with and who I’ll subject them too is the essence of why I’m at the conference as a paying guest, instead of having walked out as a success story. No one has asked me to speak because I’m thirty-three years old and tremblingly shy to the deal makers. I joke well. I talk good on baseball. I sell badly. Perfectly comfortable amongst my peers, I’ll talk to writers similar in their career arc and achievement, certain that they can do very little to expose me. Get me in front of Ken Sherman and I’ll tell him about the best burger in the mid-valley with authority.
I’m thirty-three and I’ve got something completely backwards. I’ve never compelled the likes of him to take me out for one.
I’ve been driving around thinking about this since I registered for the conference a month ago. Like in most scenarios, I approach the people I like to write about most easily. I can go into any room filled with subjects and hold court. Not with the people who can help me get paid to write. If it’s a problem then it’s one I’ve had for most of my life. There is a certain monotony in knowing what turns you on too well. I’m living it. My working class people — my vulnerable, hopefuls — all of these story subjects are far more interesting. How can I turn this valve off? If not completely dry, then how can I part the spigot so that it flows equally well from each one?
It’s a skill I’ve yet to master.
Today, a paltry 93 degrees. Stifling without the intermittent breeze. I ran the bike from Salmon Street and Water Avenue up to foot of the Sellwood Bridge wondering what would the remedy be. How can I make 2009′s Willamette Writer’s Conference the one, true breakthrough? I burned hard, exhausted my legs. I turned up the iPod to frenetic punk rock just to see if I could block everything else out.
It’s hot. But in two weeks, my hope is that I can muster something hotter. A thing more focused.
Kasper Coming For A Job In The Film "Too Many I's"
This afternoon my imagination went to a strange place. In the aforementioned film, “Too Many I’s” the main character is Kasper. He’s a neophyte worker bee, fresh out of school and has just been handed the almost unworkable temp work task of counting every letter in the Sunday New York Times. The way I wrote it, he took the strange challenge with genuine zeal and made a career of it.
Perhaps I should spend the next twelve days looking to my own work for inspiration.
Posted: July 25th, 2009 under Commentary.