You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Writing the great American novel.
So what do I want to write about? What do I have to say?
They say write what you know.
But is that sexy enough to sell?
I’ve written what I know, I’ve written what I think I know, I’ve written what I think they want, I’ve written what I think will be commercially viable.
So far I’ve had agents read my work, but nobody has ponied up to the literary bar to buy me a drink and try and take me home for the night.
“Last call for alcohol fellas? No takers?”
No one wants to read me!
If I was a ball player, I wouldn’t even have a baseball card, no batting average, not even a uniform.
I’d be somewhere in the minor leagues, South of the Border paying my corrupt manager money to put me in the line up.
“You no play. You cook tacos” he would scream.
“What? I’m a ballplayer?” I would lament. “Give me a damn uniform,” I would shout as I shred cabbage in some disease filled cockroach emporium under the stadium.
“Cat Tacos anyone?”
I’ve tried to sell my writing so many times over so many years. It’s a wonder I even still want to type.
I’ve donated more plasma in my life than I’ve sold writing. And I’ve never sold Plasma.
You see what I’m saying?
I’ve tried and tried and tried and so far I got an Easter Basket full of air. I have a donut with all hole.
So what to do? What to do?
I’m going to write. That much I know.
I am the tide, rhythmic and unchangeable.
I am the tortoise moving toward the sea, slow and steady, constantly pecking away at the key board.
“Cat tacos anyone?”
So do I write something I live and breathe, like news?
Or do I reach into the soft tissue of my brain and write something that lives in the phantasmagorical sphere of developmental hijinks?
I can conjure science fiction like no one’s business.
The fear is I write something outside my knowledge base. What if it rings impure, untrue, forced?
If it is soiled, then is it truly worth expending the energy?
I am tempted to simply open the laptop, let the page turn on and start carving away at the stone. This is how I’ve done it a thousand times before?
While ruminating over the best option for the great American novel, I go to my pantry closet.
There is a box labeled screenplays.
Why I keep this box in the pantry below the Frosted Flakes and next to the half consumed bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum is anyone’s guess.
I pull the box down and put it on the counter.
A layer of dust from the paleolithic era puffs into the air.
After coughing like a canary in a coal mine, I pull open the top.
Inside, I find a treasure trove of memories.
I pull out stacks of manuscripts, screenplays and teleplays.
I pull out three Star Trek Next Generation stories, 60 pages each. Each teleplay is a fresh new idea. Each story features Warf and Data and Captain Jean Luc Picard. These are characters America has long forgotten. But back in the early 90’s, this show was a prime time hit, and I wanted to be a part of it.
So I took it upon myself to write stories for the series. Fatal Vision is the title of one. Superstition, the title of the other.
I woke up every morning, before work and banged on my prehistoric word processor. I finished a teleplay, approximately 55 pages long and then mailed it in.
With the teleplays I find a note from some mope at Paramount. It’s dated July 19th 1995. I was living in Michigan at the time. The form letter from It basically says thanks for writing but we don’t accept unsolicited materials from non represented writers.
So much time, so much effort.
It’s been 24 years and that one still hurts.
I pull out another screenplay. The paper is yellowed and the pages fraying at the edge. The title page says White Boy. I wrote this one 25 years ago. I have written and re-written it. White Boy is about a young man who experiences reverse racism in the ghetto. The young man befriends 3 transients while fighting a neighborhood drug dealer. This story always felt real and authentic and raw. I always felt it could be produced on a shoe string budget because the writing was crisp and it was all about characters and story and not special effects. I sent this screenplay and the query letter associated with it to so many literary agents, I have lost count.
I put the screenplay down, with a sigh. This story reminds me of how hard it is to be rejected continually. It reminds me how long I have tried to get someone to take notice.
“Hey motha F***er. Want a Cat Taco?”
I pick up another screenplay; Deadline: I wrote this one while living in Greenville North Carolina, right around the birth of my 1st child. The story was about something I knew, a story about a newsman who uncovers corruption in North Carolina. It’s filled with mystery and action. It sheds insight into the news business and is fast paced. I always wondered why nobody liked this story.
Then there was Time Zone; a story about a death row fugitive who flies a helicopter back through a time vortex. He uses the technology to take over a town and convince native Americans he is a God. He is tracked by a scientist in modern time, and a sheriff in the 1800’s. It’s complex and unpredictable. It’s a bong hit of holy shit, what has that boy been smoking. I thought it was high concept and commercially viable. I guess I was high.
I am surprised how many stories are in this box. I see Meltdown: A global prison in Antarctica for the world’s worst criminals. I remember simply liking the concept and going for it. I developed the story and characters along the way. I wrote this story because I thought it was cool and had commercial appeal. Apparently, it had no appeal. Back in the box, bitch.
Block 10: I wrote this around the time that Lethal Weapon was all the rage. It’s a story about two L.A. Police detectives hunting a mass murderer who kills only people of color. I believe it is action packed and edgy and commercial. Apparently not. I can’t even remember if I could get anyone to read it.
I dust the cover and put it on the side with the other dead soldiers.
There is a screenplay I wrote in Nashville. The story is about an astronaut and the exploration to find water on the moon. The title page is missing. I wrote it before the birth of my 3rd son, and honestly, I can’t even remember what I called it. I sent it to an agent and he said one of my character’s was too something or other and he panned it. It took weeks to write. It took weeks to market. It took a douche bag with a bad attitude to read 10 pages and kill my literary spirit.
And finally, there is a single spaced manuscript that is 200 pages long. It is heavy and full of words that seems to chronicle everything and anything I had ever done in my young life.
I wrote this in 1988 and it appears that I sent it to a literary agent who read it or at least part of it. Someone named Lyle Steele in New York City thanked me for the chance to read this type written abortion of prose and prolixity. He said he enjoyed much of the writing, though it was not commercially viable. The highlight? He enjoyed my stories regaling the Mexico Road trips from my college days.
“Makes me think I had missed out on something in life,” he wrote a hundred years ago.
So if my writing can make him wonder if he has missed out on something in life, WHY NOT TAKE A CHANCE MOTHA F****!
GET IN THE RING
COOK ME ANOTHER CAT TACO
SOMEONE WIPE THE BABY’S ASS!
I have other boxes with other works that nobody has read.
There’s a movie called Static Charge: This one is about a news man who’s dating a woman who has a secret crack addiction. she brings her child to the drug dealer’s home in exchange for dope. He tries to do his job while at home his life is unraveling in an unimaginable way. I like this one. It has grit. I may just steal from myself.
And that is the reason I went to the box of crushed dreams?
I wanted to see what I had written, what dormant ideas I might try and resuscitate, perhaps steal from myself to jump start my campaign.
Is it a waste of time?
No.
I was going to write anyway.
As long as the words put a smile in my heart, the rest is just gravy.
So I’m about to set sail, leave the literary dock and sail toward the setting sun.
The only question?
Do I steal from myself, or stare into the white page and let the words loose?
I’ve done it many times before.
Writers write.
Now it’s a matter of what?
Life’s Crazy™