Okay. Iggy is done. Dead.
If you're still reading this, then listen up.
My name, my real name, is Danny.
Every time I start out to write a story, I have two things in mind: a beginning and an ending. I know where I'm starting and I know where I'm going, and the journey in between almost seems to write itself. It seems like this is the best way to write stories. There's so much fun discovering where the middle takes me, through the high country and the pits of death, and somehow I end up exactly where I was going the whole time.
Well -- here I am -- in between a beginning and an ending.
For me, Hollywood is now a closed, locked, and barred door, but see, it's locked and barred on the outside. I chose to shut the door on myself. For better or for worse, I've left my "dreams" of screenwriting sitting just by the foot of the door.
Where the middle will take me next, I honestly have no clue. There is One who knows. I leave it entirely in His capable hands to lead me through the high country and the pits of death, and if I ever come back to the door of Hollywood, I'll be ready with His help to pick up my dreams off the floor and knock.
Plus I had this incredible idea for a script that I can't share with anyone to this day, because someday I might be writing it. I guarantee though, it's so good an idea that I actually need to take a few years, just to get better at writing and life, before I do anything with it. I DO NOT want to mess it up.
But until then... I'm just walking through the middle, and I have no idea where I'm going.
I guess things are no different than before.
Except -- there is a difference. A peculiar kind of difference that I couldn't have predicted, or dreamed of eight months ago.
The difference is hope.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
tales from the edge
Still no Quest update. I've been writing a lot lately. It's mostly not stuff I'm going to be posting on Blogspot anytime soon. But I'm still writing, and I want you to know, I'm NOT letting my creative dreams die. No matter what. Times are tough, but they'll get better and until they do, I can't be just giving up on everything in the mean-time.
Well, okay I'll post something. Just to prove I can. Dig it! (
***
"block party"
There once was a man whose name was Stan.
Stan lived in a little brown townhouse in Kalamazoo.
Every morning Stan's garage door would open and a little green sedan would roll out -- but nobody was inside. The car would drive away down the street, and then the garage door would shut.
Hours later, like clockwork, the little sedan would reappear on the street, drive back up into the garage, and the door would shut again -- all without a single soul in sight.
Eventually the people of the neighborhood decided to confront Stan about this. They waited until the next morning, when the garage door opened once more and the ghostly car rolled out -- and after it had gone, they stormed the place. Some came through the front. Others went around the back. Doors were kicked in. People were climbing through windows, trampling flowerbeds, breaking glass. Somebody even stepped on Stan's cat.
They ransacked the entire house, but Stan was nowhere to be found.
Instead of leaving, the mob decided to wait for the car to come back. They raided the kitchen for snacks and beer. Someone turned on dance music. Before long a fairly large-sized party had broken out. Folks were showing up at Stan's house from all around the neighborhood, greeting friends, bringing more booze. The downstairs quickly became overrun with revelers. The upstairs bedrooms were occupied almost as fast.
At one point somebody in Stan's living room thought he heard a garage door open. Everyone around him was busy browsing through Stan's personal DVD collection, weighing and debating Stan's taste in quality movies. Nobody else had heard anything. The matter was dropped.
Weeks later the little green sedan was found gutted and hollowed out at the bottom of the Michigan River. There was no body inside.
The police went to Stan's little brown townhouse in Kalamazoo to inform him that his vehicle had been destroyed. They knocked on the door. A topless woman opened the door. She said she didn't know who Stan was, or anything about him. She ran out into the street and disappeared.
The police came into the house, only to discover a massive four-alarm block party raging at full force. They unplugged the music, flushed all the illicit substances, and cleared everybody out -- then searched the house top-to-bottom for Stan. But he wasn't there.
Meanwhile, the mad party continued out on the street.
Well, okay I'll post something. Just to prove I can. Dig it! (
***
"block party"
There once was a man whose name was Stan.
Stan lived in a little brown townhouse in Kalamazoo.
Every morning Stan's garage door would open and a little green sedan would roll out -- but nobody was inside. The car would drive away down the street, and then the garage door would shut.
Hours later, like clockwork, the little sedan would reappear on the street, drive back up into the garage, and the door would shut again -- all without a single soul in sight.
Eventually the people of the neighborhood decided to confront Stan about this. They waited until the next morning, when the garage door opened once more and the ghostly car rolled out -- and after it had gone, they stormed the place. Some came through the front. Others went around the back. Doors were kicked in. People were climbing through windows, trampling flowerbeds, breaking glass. Somebody even stepped on Stan's cat.
They ransacked the entire house, but Stan was nowhere to be found.
Instead of leaving, the mob decided to wait for the car to come back. They raided the kitchen for snacks and beer. Someone turned on dance music. Before long a fairly large-sized party had broken out. Folks were showing up at Stan's house from all around the neighborhood, greeting friends, bringing more booze. The downstairs quickly became overrun with revelers. The upstairs bedrooms were occupied almost as fast.
At one point somebody in Stan's living room thought he heard a garage door open. Everyone around him was busy browsing through Stan's personal DVD collection, weighing and debating Stan's taste in quality movies. Nobody else had heard anything. The matter was dropped.
Weeks later the little green sedan was found gutted and hollowed out at the bottom of the Michigan River. There was no body inside.
The police went to Stan's little brown townhouse in Kalamazoo to inform him that his vehicle had been destroyed. They knocked on the door. A topless woman opened the door. She said she didn't know who Stan was, or anything about him. She ran out into the street and disappeared.
The police came into the house, only to discover a massive four-alarm block party raging at full force. They unplugged the music, flushed all the illicit substances, and cleared everybody out -- then searched the house top-to-bottom for Stan. But he wasn't there.
Meanwhile, the mad party continued out on the street.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
speaking of slow summers
Maybe it's time for Iggy to take a little break.
Once the Quest starts rolling again, I'll be back here with something to say, but for now the blog is on hiatus until further notice. I'm going to work hard on a few different little projects, keep incubating some other ideas. If anything develops you'll be the first to hear about it. Otherwise, there's not much to talk about here.
Until next time...
Once the Quest starts rolling again, I'll be back here with something to say, but for now the blog is on hiatus until further notice. I'm going to work hard on a few different little projects, keep incubating some other ideas. If anything develops you'll be the first to hear about it. Otherwise, there's not much to talk about here.
Until next time...
Sunday, August 23, 2009
big pink fleshy things
This is an honest question I've been asking myself. What kind of person actually succeeds in a career of directing movies?
I used to think it didn't matter what kind of person you are -- as long as you're able to consistently make creative and interesting choices. If you make enough good choices, people will enjoy your movies, and zip, bang, pow, you've got a career.
But there's another side to Hollywood, particularly for a director. The people side. No kidding -- a great director is the type of person who can unify hundreds of people on a crew under his-or-her "vision", and then, further, can actually sell his-or-her "vision" to the suits. That's really the first step, because no matter how creative or interesting your choices, you've gotta get shit done, and to do that, you've gotta get ears. Lots and lots of ears, all tuned and in agreement with every word that drops out your mouth. Without ears, you don't make a movie.
And remember, always remember, there are thousands of other kids waiting in line right behind you, waiting for you to fail so they can whip out the big grin and lay on the charisma and get all the ears YOU wanted to get, and then they're getting shit done and making movies and you're laid out in your apartment stoned watching Whose Line reruns at two in the afternoon on a motherfuckin' Wednesday.
So maybe it doesn't matter how talented or smart or creative you are, if you can't get ears. People have gotta listen to you. Respect you. Take you seriously. And you gotta win those ears and win them over fast, or you're Farrah Fawcett.
But hey, at least I can write. Right?
In other news I just won "most morbid blog post reference" for the second month in a row! Score.
I used to think it didn't matter what kind of person you are -- as long as you're able to consistently make creative and interesting choices. If you make enough good choices, people will enjoy your movies, and zip, bang, pow, you've got a career.
But there's another side to Hollywood, particularly for a director. The people side. No kidding -- a great director is the type of person who can unify hundreds of people on a crew under his-or-her "vision", and then, further, can actually sell his-or-her "vision" to the suits. That's really the first step, because no matter how creative or interesting your choices, you've gotta get shit done, and to do that, you've gotta get ears. Lots and lots of ears, all tuned and in agreement with every word that drops out your mouth. Without ears, you don't make a movie.
And remember, always remember, there are thousands of other kids waiting in line right behind you, waiting for you to fail so they can whip out the big grin and lay on the charisma and get all the ears YOU wanted to get, and then they're getting shit done and making movies and you're laid out in your apartment stoned watching Whose Line reruns at two in the afternoon on a motherfuckin' Wednesday.
So maybe it doesn't matter how talented or smart or creative you are, if you can't get ears. People have gotta listen to you. Respect you. Take you seriously. And you gotta win those ears and win them over fast, or you're Farrah Fawcett.
But hey, at least I can write. Right?
In other news I just won "most morbid blog post reference" for the second month in a row! Score.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
don't live here
Another night in Orange County, land of the rich and the bored, where the climate never changes and all the bars close at 11PM sharp.
This place is a prison, and these people aren't your friends.
We've built a pretty damned comfortable existence for ourselves in this little enclave of the world. Consider the length of life's evolution, from boiling sludge in a primordial ooze, through all manners of beasts and filthy creatures, ranged across a brutal world trapped in the terrible grip of entropy, time, death and decay. Now here we are, little pink fleshy creatures with baseball caps and pay phones and space programs. Humans. The pinnacle of all Creation. And we're so terrified of the rest of the world that we build places like Orange County, where people can go to pretend they're dead and in Heaven, to hide far, far away from all the nastier aspects of existence on Earth.
If you've ever been here, it's quite amazing. They might as well play theme music from hidden speakers in the rocks. It's Disneyland for grownups -- except nobody who lives here realizes it's not real, it's a sham, it's just a shiny happy bubble filled with shiny happy people. No one here could tell you that. They show you the theme parks and the beaches and the strip malls, they show you the million-dollar houses, the bright white sidewalks and rolling green grass. It's all really very impressive, actually. I should know -- I lived here for eighteen years.
Then you leave here and the bubble pops. And you realize, now you're in the Real World, you're fucked.
But that's okay too, because in the long run, everybody's fucked! We're all just fleshy organisms -- we eat, we sleep, we die.
All the nifty little plastic things you bought for yourself are going to be melted down for fuel someday. All the complexities of your social hierarchies and the rules you've invented are houses of cards, and a simple breath of wind will blow it all away. None of it matters. You just didn't know it before you left Orange County.
The illusion of permanence. Perhaps that's the greatest sin of this place.
This place is a prison, and these people aren't your friends.
We've built a pretty damned comfortable existence for ourselves in this little enclave of the world. Consider the length of life's evolution, from boiling sludge in a primordial ooze, through all manners of beasts and filthy creatures, ranged across a brutal world trapped in the terrible grip of entropy, time, death and decay. Now here we are, little pink fleshy creatures with baseball caps and pay phones and space programs. Humans. The pinnacle of all Creation. And we're so terrified of the rest of the world that we build places like Orange County, where people can go to pretend they're dead and in Heaven, to hide far, far away from all the nastier aspects of existence on Earth.
If you've ever been here, it's quite amazing. They might as well play theme music from hidden speakers in the rocks. It's Disneyland for grownups -- except nobody who lives here realizes it's not real, it's a sham, it's just a shiny happy bubble filled with shiny happy people. No one here could tell you that. They show you the theme parks and the beaches and the strip malls, they show you the million-dollar houses, the bright white sidewalks and rolling green grass. It's all really very impressive, actually. I should know -- I lived here for eighteen years.
Then you leave here and the bubble pops. And you realize, now you're in the Real World, you're fucked.
But that's okay too, because in the long run, everybody's fucked! We're all just fleshy organisms -- we eat, we sleep, we die.
All the nifty little plastic things you bought for yourself are going to be melted down for fuel someday. All the complexities of your social hierarchies and the rules you've invented are houses of cards, and a simple breath of wind will blow it all away. None of it matters. You just didn't know it before you left Orange County.
The illusion of permanence. Perhaps that's the greatest sin of this place.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
what a weird pic
Ahhh... Nice, slow summer!
It's a slow summer nationwide, actually. We're all a bit stuck in the mud these days. The economy is a goddamned mess, and all the smartest people know it's going to get worse before it gets better. Personally... I blame Enron.
So, is it just me -- or are a lot of the movies this summer pretty much awful?
I mean last year we had Dark Knight, Iron Man, Wall-E, Tropic Thunder... hell, even Kung Fu Panda and Get Smart (which was CRIMINALLY underrated!!)
This year we've got The Ugly Truth... Ice Age 3... Bruno... I Love You Beth Cooper... Year One... and of course "Julie & Julia". Not to mention the three movies linked above.
Pretty dire.
To be fair here -- 2008 had its share of crap -- and 2009 has produced a few solid flicks.
But my point stands, I think. I'm just not extremely impressed with the current state of affairs in Hollywoodland. It's all a little too brain-dead for my taste, and I think America would agree with me.
But then again, box office business is booming.
It's a slow summer nationwide, actually. We're all a bit stuck in the mud these days. The economy is a goddamned mess, and all the smartest people know it's going to get worse before it gets better. Personally... I blame Enron.
So, is it just me -- or are a lot of the movies this summer pretty much awful?
I mean last year we had Dark Knight, Iron Man, Wall-E, Tropic Thunder... hell, even Kung Fu Panda and Get Smart (which was CRIMINALLY underrated!!)
This year we've got The Ugly Truth... Ice Age 3... Bruno... I Love You Beth Cooper... Year One... and of course "Julie & Julia". Not to mention the three movies linked above.
Pretty dire.
To be fair here -- 2008 had its share of crap -- and 2009 has produced a few solid flicks.
But my point stands, I think. I'm just not extremely impressed with the current state of affairs in Hollywoodland. It's all a little too brain-dead for my taste, and I think America would agree with me.
But then again, box office business is booming.
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