Muhfukka, I'm Dre!

So, I've decided to get off my bloody ass (literally. My period came early) and do something about my seeming inability to break into the world of playwriting. To that end, the better part of the afternoon was spent researching playwriting classes and wouldn't you know that two colleges near me offer classes? Wouldn't you also know that registration is now closed? Ha, but did that deter me? What??! Naw! Muhfukka, I'm Dre! So, me (and my alter ego Dre) emailed the professor of this "Writing for Stage and Screen" class and told him that, although I'm the second coming of Neil Simon (prolific playwright, not Paul's brother), I'm having trouble convincing anyone else. Would he please a) vouch for my brilliance and let me into his class and/or b) allow me to intern for him in exchange for some brutally honest, rogering-without-the-benefit-of-KY feedback?

I also broke down and ordered my copy of the Dramatists Sourcebook- the definitive source for playwrights and anyone connected with the theatre. It is the most comprehensive listing of theatre companies both in the US and abroad, who accepts submissions and what they're looking for. After all, maybe I'm just not sending my stuff to the right people. And $19, it was a small price to pay for a ray of hope.

Tomorrow, the results of another playwriting competition I entered will be posted on the theatre's website. I'm sure I didn't win, place, NUTHIN this time, too, but I'll check-- just for closure's sake. In the meantime, I'll continue to plug away at my SIX UNFINISHED projects...all the bosses at work are out of town on a retreat for the rest of the week, so a sista is chillin' like penicillin. Tomorrow, I'm gonna get my toes and hands done and my car washed. I'm also bringing in the ol' Mac so I can finish up my latest 10 minute jobby- a comedy about mothers-in-law.

All in all, it was a pretty productive day. I'm excited to see what tomorrow brings.

wouldn't it be nice?

Of the twenty-four plays selected, mine was not one of them. That's right, kiddies. There will be no NYC production for my stuff, at least not by this company. I was worked up about this one because they have a space in Times Square and it all would have been so perfect, you know? One of the playwrights even had two of their plays selected. I would be jealous, but there's no point. Will jealousy somehow improve my writing? Nothing to do but soldier on, but wouldn't it be nice if- just once- my name came up on the winner's side of a playwriting contest? Just once.

the age of aquarius

I don't know if it's the mercury in the water or what, but I've been feeling rather spiritual lately, especially toward my writing. I've adopted this "what will be, will be" attitude that is surprisingly freeing. It's kind of like I'm a lost cast member of the production "Hair" (one of my favorite movies of all time) or something: running around the park, wearing fringe, smelling musty, but on some groovy vibe. This aquarius-ness of my current state, though, is not keeping me from being totally excited about the playwriting contest.

Today the results are posted on the website of a certain theatre group in NYC! I'll keep checking the website to see if I've made it. Those playwrights that win get 100 bones and a fully staged production of their work. Naturally, I'm all about the production, since it is one of my two writing goals for the year.

Ya'll know I live in this little wacked out, country fried town, right? Well, we actually have local theatre here. Unfortunately, I've had nil luck getting my stuff on stage. So when I received a call for donations from one of the theaters, I was tempted to wipe my butt with it, stick it back in the envelope and send it off. But since I was having trouble moving my bowels, I decided against it. Well, while I was shoving fiber down my throat, I received another email from another company. As it turns out, they are looking for judges for their 3rd Annual Kid's Playwriting Competition. I wrote the Artistic Director and told her I was the bomb ass playwright, but I'd be willing to take a break from fabulousness to help judge the compo.

In my experience, the best way to stave off self-pity is to step outside yourself in service to others. So that's what I'm doing. Wow, if that doesn't sound flower child enough for you...

like two dogs caged

Mmmkay- yesterday my husband dropped the biggest shit bomb. Seems we may not be leaving this hell hole in a few months as we'd previously planned. This is terrible news! I can't stand this place. We live in a tiny, crack-ass town where folks don't wear shoes to Wal-Mart and there is a disproportionate number of midgies. This reminds me of when my mom told the famiy that we were going to stay in our little wack-ass German town for two more years (we'd already been there for about seven years already). I went berserk. I literally tried to rip the plastic bars off my window and fling my desperate little body to the street below. Anyway, we won't know for another week yet about our present situation, so stay tuned. If you don't hear from me, you'll know what happened: I tore the motherf*ckin' roof off like two dogs caged.

Other than my life being over, things are going quite well. It's Saturday, but between paydays, so I'm in the ol' home office, listening to the Beastie Boys and querying. I found a listing on mandy.com (wonderful, FREE resource for entertainment hopefuls) for writers to craft short scripts on teenage morality. Teenage morality? Not to be funny, but doesn't a script on teenage morality HAVE to be a short? When I was fifteen, I would have sold my mother for an hour of grab-ass with my boyfriend. Then again, I was a horny heathen.

If I do get my "big break", what then? Will I have the courage to chase after it or will I remain with my family because of that nagging voice that accuses me of not being a good wife and mother? Or do I shut that voice up once and for all by taking the bull by the horns and claiming what's mine?

what an extra thirty minutes sounds like

I'm back at home doin' the same old two step, while Omega's doin' the same old Q step. However, I've managed to wrestle back from the cruel clutches of time my extra thirty minutes. Yes! This is my second blog of the morning and it's not even seven a.m. It makes me feel productive when things come together like this.

Kat's enabling ass sent me a notice about a new menswear Mary Jane that just hit the street. I'm such a whore for menswear. The shoe was so gorgeous that I did the neutron dance right there at my desk. To make matters worse, it's only $150. Methinks I may have to partake.

Anyway, while watching "First Sunday" (mediocre comedy that Katt Williams saved and Tracy Morgan's constant impression of a retarded chocolate camel tried to ruin), I got an idea of what was missing from my teenage religious noir screenplay. Motivation. And no, not my motivation to finish the damned thing. But character motivation. As of now, they are too flat to refuse the initial call to action and then what in their background would make the nuns not believe them when the students finally told them the truth? Motivation, children. What a filthy word.

Update on my projects: Still no word from BBC or Hollywood regarding my formulaic, but highly entertaining romantic comedy. The wait is irking the shit out of me. Trust, I'd pull my hair out if it weren't so expensive.

a change gon' come

I was born by the river in a little tent. And just like that river I've been running ever since...

I'm just kidding. My black ass was born at Silas B. Hayes hospital in freaking California. And yes, Virginia, it is just like Compton. ANYways, I have good news! I received an acceptance letter from www.longstoryshort.us. I have apparently duped them into thinking that my story was entertaining and they, in turn, have agreed to publish it. Yay!! It'll be available to see on 7 February, so pop on over and take a look, eh? Speaking of jet lag (so sorry, but my segeway gauge is broken), jet lag is beating me down. It is 7:30 in the morning and I should be done with my blog, no? I should be in the shower, rinsing down all five feet of the chocolately goodness, but I can't seem to wake up earlier than 7:00! Missing my extra thirty minutes is killing me.

My fashion designer friend is now hobbing the knob of Mr. Randolph Duke. Freaking Randolph Duke! Halston/ HSN Randolph Duke! I'm telling you, she's gonna make it big time. She rocks hard.

I've gotta be at work in forty minutes and I'm not even out of my drawls yet. Lawks a mussy!

Y'all gon' make me lose my mind...

So we're back from the horrendous ski trip where I very nearly lost my mind and my frail, opinionated Mother-in-Law almost lost her life. Yes, dear readers. I'm back in the saddle. The wretched bikini has been cleaned and shoved into the far reaches of my closet where it belongs.

On another note, I've decided to work on being a better person. To that end, I'm going to send my spineless, "gotta call my mommy every five minutes ere I die" sister-in-law a birthday card. In a couple of weeks, she turns "too old to be calling my mommy every five minutes", but I hadn't planned on sending her a card. She probably won't get it anyway because her bald-headed, wanna-be Marcus Garvey idiot of a husband SCREENS THE MAIL and throws out stuff he deems inappropriate. What a douche bag. But, on my quest to become a gentler, more empathetic Fantastika, I'm going to send her a card. She doesn't have any friends and her life sucks, so the least I could do is send birthday greetings.

My son, on the other hand, won't be the recipient of such mercy. I'm going to string his thin yellow ass up by his toenails in about ten seconds. See, he's taken to rolling his eyes and trying to argue me down about anything. The boy is in second grade and thinks he knows everything. I feel like DMX "Ya'll gon make me lose my mind, up in here, up in here..."

Gotta go and get ready for work. First full day back. Woo-hoo. That's joy, by the way.

bikini rock bottom

One more thing: I had to buy a flippin' swimsuit for this flippin' trip and, because it's January, the only flippin' suit I could find in the flippin' mall cost a flippin' $80!!! I bought the shit, but not before riling off at the unfortunate shop boy about this. He was sport, though and didn't call security. Nevertheless, the experience was so traumatic, that I felt compelled to write a poem:

There are many things
On which to spend eighty bucks
A lifetime supply of Fun Dip
Or a sweet ass sweet pair of Chucks

Eighty dollars is not something
We should be wont to throw away
Just ask those hollow-eyed orphans
Who're sponsored for pennies a day

Instead I've spent my orphan loot
On two trifling pieces of fluff
A green and white monstrosity
That barely covers my butt

Okay, okay so I'm kinda lying
The money wasn't for orphans
It was more like a gorgeous handbag
That caught my eye in Nordstrom

It was patent leather royal blue
And there was a red one just the same
Would you believe this extraordinary bag
Was actually calling my name?

Ah, but I've gotten off track
So sorry to digress
We were lamenting my inability
to escape looking a hot, bikini'd mess

The idea of mama's ass meat
Jiggling around like lukewarm jello
Makes the thought of dark ages dentistry
Seem quite mellow

So, dear friends, you feel my anger
Know my dread and understand my plight
I hope the folks at the pool brought their shades
'Cause it's gonna be a chocolate moon tonight!

far and away

Remember all that talk about how I was looking forward to the ski vacation? Do me a favor: find the heaviest bus you can and squash that sentiment underneath. This resort- besides the actual skiing -is the ninth circle of hell. Mama is so far from civilization and wi-fi service, that I am literally going insane. As it is, I'm writing this from the community lounge downstairs. We are sharing a 500 square foot condo with my in-laws and, because there's only a bed and a nefarious looking couch downstairs, my husband and I are sleeping in the attic Anne Frank-style. The food is atrocious, the accomodations are wanting and I really, really want to go home. I would murder someone for an airlift out of here. And that's not even the half.

My mother-in-law is the Queen of Opinionated. After spending three days with my son, she announced that he needs more protein in his diet and I should feed him what I eat. I'm not lying nor am I exaggerating when I tell you that I almost separated her from her life that day. She has no idea how I raise my son and she damned sure has no idea what goes in his belly. Unfortunately for my husband, I have to spray paint these feelings on a wet tee shirt for him to understand. No matter. We only have two and a half more days before this hellacious "vacation" is over. I cannot wait to get back to my friends, my bed, my office, and my charmed life.

Not much to report on the writing front. While checking my email via phone the other day, I saw that I'd received another rejection letter. This one was from a playhouse in Minnesota (I think?). Anyway, I took it in stride and have been working on the re-working of my dramatic opus (the 60s squatters of Haight-Ashbury thingie). In reading "Elements of Playwriting", I realize that I wasn't employing The Unities (time, location and theme) in this full length play. I'm sure I would have recognized it, had I majored in Drama or English, but now that I know, I've been a revising fool. From the opus, I've removed two characters and tightened the timeline between the first and second acts. I had to leave in the three weeks long gap between the second and third acts to give Mitzi's drug addiction time to take hold.

My entries into another playwriting contest have been submitted and the winners will be posted on 22 January on their website. Woo-hoo!

interesting day

Firstobal (I had a friend from Puerto Rico once and she would always write "firstobal"; I think it was supposed to be "first of all" but whatever), I had a conversation with an ex-Special Forces Vietnam Vet today at work. He just popped by my office to chat and chat we did. Usually, I would have been steamed at him for interrupting primo online shopping, but it was a Friday at two o'clock and, truth be told, I wasn't doing shit anyway. So, we talked about history and the fall of Saigon in 1975. I love history, so listening to him talk was better than any lecture from my nice enough, but incontinent college professor.

That wasn't a typo. Dr. So and So was very competent, but he would wee indiscriminately- like a field mouse. The man used to wet himself mid-lecture. That kind of issue is hard to hide in a baby blue seersucker leisure suit.

I also received a rejection from a playhouse in Ohio. This one was for my awesome full length hippie play. I'm not too broken up about it. You see, I'm currently reading a book called Elements of Playwriting and it has pointed out to me all the things that are wrong with the play. Of course, I didn't know all the rules going in, but now that I'm aware, I realize my masterpiece needs tweaking.

Then, I received an email from an ex of mine. He's in "love" again, going on and on about his latest conquest. He also asked me what I thought. I told him he needs to slow his roll because this time last year, he was switching up phone numbers and skipping town because he was being stalked by the Ghosts of Conquests Past. He chalked that situation up to him putting it down animal style; I know it's because he's a pompous manchild who is allergic to monogamy. "Put it on them"? Home skillet needs to peddle those wack tales to someone who doesn't know any better. I'm not one to swallow and tell, so I won't. But let me say that, although he was a nice enough person to hang out with, it wasn't all that memorable. Straight up Pink Floyd, ya'll: just another dick in the wall. I know how to pick 'em and whenever we talk, I'm thankful that I left that shit on the vine.

Well, friends and neighbors, it's time to head off to bed. Tomorrow morning we're off to Colorado for skiing. Should be fun. A change of scenery, new energy, new inspiration. Don't look now, but I think I'm actually looking forward to it!

the other side

People are like planets. No matter what face we're shown, no matter how genuine they seem at the time, there's a side that is completely shaded from view. Personally, this is my darkest, most frigid side. One of my goals in life is to acknowledge this and stop hiding it from the world and from myself. Today I caught a glimpse of the dark side of Fantastika. See, I visited my brother's myspace page and saw that his hero was our sister (the fashionista). Hmm. I'm his older sister and I always thought I was a kick-ass role model. Not so. Truth be told, we don't even know each other. The last time I spoke to him was about eight years ago. He's never met my son. If we did speak, what would we talk about? I doubt we have anything in common. I don't know if we ever did.

I leave on Saturday for our ski trip with the in-laws. Ya'll, I'm not in the mood to take any shit from these people, all right? Not eating fish head soup, not entertaining lectures on more children/less career/more fiber in my diet/less diet in my diet. The only good thing coming out of this will be visiting with my friend and sometime-muse, big D-Pain. I haven't seen her since last year's writing conference. This woman is so literate, it's humbling. The weight of her mind is staggering and she plays a mean game of Monkey Weave! Good times, people. Good times.

Today I had an idea for a play. Yes, another ten-minute jobby. In my wildest dreams, I envision all four or five of the ten- minuters produced as a Playwright's Showcase of some kind. None of them are related; it would just be neat to see. Anyway, the play would be about swingers in the 1970s. Maybe a swinging couple or a husband and wife with an open marriage. I was grooving to my 70s FM classics (don't sleep on Bread!) and was inspired.

Introspection break-a lot of my work, especially the plays, revolve around a certain time period. I have a fifties play, a sixties play, and a seventies play. This will be my second seventies play. Gotta think up a working title...

a series of unfortunate events

It's been awhile, so let's catch up, shall we? After that last blog, I had a couple of other sucker punches to the confidence. Most notably, a writer friend of mine called to let me know she had an interview with Russell Simmons' prod co and then of course my sister calls me one night just to tell me how fantastic her life is. Normally, I would be extremely happy for her. However, when I am feeling sorry for myself, I tend to pour it on thick, mold it, stitch it together with pity and wear it as a sport coat. I haven't heard from her since the night she called me with that mess, so I figure she's upset with me. Or maybe she's met Michael Jackson and was invited round to his place for Jesus Juice and conversation. It's L.A. Anything is possible.

Life is now looking up. After a short sabbatical from work yesterday (left three hours early. I've got mad sick hours and need to use those babies up before I leave in May), I feel refreshed and ready to rejoin the game of life. I even bought the newest Poets and Writers magazine yesterday! I also mailed two submissions yesterday. One was "Rick Revisited"- the essay I've been trying to find a home for for about a year and a half. The other was my Potty Mouth play. Oh yes, Manilow-mania rears it perfectly coiffed head. Again, we'll see what happens.

By the way- the results for a play festival I entered are announced on the 22nd! Wish me luck!

Last but not least, I feel compelled to opine about one of my top three television shows: Martin. I received the third season on DVD for Christmas and have been steadily watching it. I got to the last episode on the last disk last night and it's the episode where Martin and Gina got married. I turned it off before it ended. I can't watch that shit. They're getting married. In Season 4, the dynamic is bound to change. Where is the conflict between Martin and Gina? There are also episodes of this season that have absolutely no resolution and cut to commercial at awkward places in the story. Of course, when I was in the ninth grade watching this, none of this mattered. However, after reading about TV writing and practicing writing my own shows, it's plain as day. Not that I will ever stop watching Martin, mind you. Just thought I'd share.

Catch you on the flip side, Clyde.

you can't always get what you want

"You can't always get what you want". Truer words have never passed Jagger's bloated lips. For instance, I didn't want to wake up this morning, and yet here I am. Last night, I had chest pains and I don't know if it was too much caffeine or simply stress. After all, I am the queen of psychosomatic symptoms. Anyway, I managed to sleep and when I woke up this morning, I can honestly say that I was disappointed. Still, I soldiered on. Got dressed, went to work, fucked around, went to the gym, and came home. Ah, but the fun doesn't stop there! I arrived home to the news that my full-length play (a tour de force about urban squatters during the summer of love) had been soundly rejected by a Texas theatre. Ya'll, this is all getting to be too much. I couldn't catch a break these days with a net and a prayer. Maybe there's another plan for me, but if so, why me? Other people get to do what they want to do, why not me? I wonder if Joan of Arc felt this way. "Girls my age are all marrying and starting families", she must have said. "This crusade shit is bunk".

This whole writing thing reminds me of the story of the little boy who asked God for a pony. He begged and begged, but still no pony. Finally one night, the little boy prayed again. "Why didn't you answer my prayers for the pony?" he cried. Then God calmly said, "I did answer your prayers. I said no".

I don't know about you, but that short story makes the book of Revelation look like an Archie comic.

effing sad

How effin sad is this?

My friend just called me and told me she's made it through another cut of her reality show audition. Of course, I'm stoked for her. I'm also jealous as the fuck. Seriously. She called me while I was in the middle of writing my own "Inside the Actors Studio" (I'm not an actor, so I was pretending I was part of a special writer's series. Hey, it's MY fantasy!). I want to cry and I would, except all my extra fluid is currently being pooled into a mini-pad between my huge thighs. So now I'm listening to Casting Crowns, desperately trying to "praise Him in the storm". On the one hand, this is a prime opportunity to trust God in the middle of emotional pain. But on the other, petty, more tempermental hand, I need to ask Him the question that He has to be tired of hearing: Why not me? Why not my dreams? Ha. I know why not. Because I haven't done anything to deserve them. I'm rude and nasty all the time. I don't give a shit about anybody but myself and sometimes I pee in the shower. You have no idea how hard I'm trying not to write the words: Kay, you suck as a human being.

I don't want to get up in the morning. Not for all the toast in China.

Okay- so I've had a good cry and now I'm just numb. My entire mind, body and soul are exhausted. My friend wants me to help her write some kind of script or something. I don't mind because she's cool peoples and and she would do the same for me, but again it's more pro-bono work (sidebar: if I am pro-bono, does that mean I'm anti-Cher?). I am, however, mildly comforted by the fact that I'm actually writing more than my WGA brethren and sistren are right now. I'm gonna write her a draft script and send it to her tonight.

I really, really don't want to wake up in the morning.

wanted: fresh, new ideas

So you wanna be a writer, is what I hear from the jaded agent.
Well, yeah, actually. If I may be so bold, I am a writer. Been writing for years. Decades, even. What is it you need? Sitcom bibles? Completed pilots? Feature scripts, feature treatments, treatments about features and features featuring treatments. I’ve also got armloads of poetry, essays and collected ideas, plus a particularly engaging essay about the fat around my belly. But where has all this gotten me? Nowhere.
People may say I haven’t tried. Oh, but they are so wrong. I check the wga.com east website. I check the wga.com west website. Sometimes twice daily. There’s a listing of agents willing to accept material from new writers. I click on it in desperate hopes.
The list has been disabled. Surprise, surprise.
WGA.com/west doesn’t even have an agent listing.
Good luck with that strike, by the way. They say Karma’s a muhfukka.

I also spent a pretty penny on the Hollywood Directory. This thing was supposed to lay at my size 7s all the “legitimate” agents in the biz. Agents who, as it happens, are gagging for fresh, new material. I called sixty-seven agents. I was hung up on six-four times and yelled at twice. One agent showed promise, though. He actually took my name, email and home address. Why the address, I wondered? I soon found out the reason when three days later, I received a rejection letter from said agent- before my query had left my desk.
Friends, Hollywood is a tough nut to crack. I’m black, but I don’t write “urban” movies. Sometimes my characters are black, sometimes they’re Japanese. Sometimes they’re half black and half Japanese and possessed by demons. What is it I write about? I’m all over the place, really. A true renaissance woman. I write family horror. I write teen religious noir. I write about old people getting laid.
One fine day, I’m going to crack that nut. And when I do, I’ll avail myself to all those young, frustrated writers who have new and fresh ideas. If they’re really good, I’ll offer them a job. We’ll always need more fresh, new ideas for on “McGyver: The Movie”.

trying desperately not to do a damned thing

Yep. The title basically sums it up. I'm so not trying to do much of anything today, if you must know the truth. Look, today is the first day Nickelodeon is accepting applications for their Writing Fellowship for 2009, so mine flies the nest today. I'm sending in my "Cavemen" episode as a sample. Other than Nickelodeon, my day is wide open. Full of promise or, as it were, cramps, headache and other lovely PMS symptoms. Why didn't that doctor just remove my uterus when I asked him to? The Egyptians had the right idea. Cart out the ol' canopic jar, yank out the offensive plumbing and voila'! Of course, there's that whole mummification issue to contend with, but anything has to be worse that expending blood and tissue and living on Motrin 800 for five days.

I'll let you know if I run across any of those jars.