I was up late one night, busting up rocks on a scene. I had worked well past exhaustion, so blocked creatively that I was ready to hang it up. Just then I caught a bit of an interview on late night TV with Springsteen, reminiscing on the tumultuous period following the runaway success of Born to Run.
After an ugly split with his management, he holed up with his band mates, pondering: "What if this is the last record I get to make?"
The result? The shirtless all night songwriting/jam session that produced Darkness on the Edge of Town!
Since then, I have kept this affirmation taped under the glass on my desk: "This might be the last time I get to do this."
For an entrepreneur like me, this is powerful language. I'm a self starter by nature; still, some days end before I can reach the end of my to-do list.
The Bottom Line: Springsteen’s sentiment never fails to remind me that serving others - my clients or my team- is a privilege. Following world events of late, The Boss' message is as timely today as it was back then: Get busy producing yourself. Time's a’wastin’…
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
At the Climax, Some Things Really Are Best Left Unsaid.
My blog looks so boring today after visiting this one. http://www.trouthammer.com.
I found it by following a link from someone's Twitter feed. The post called it out as adorable. Guess I was in need of adorable. Turns out, it was a blogger named Jim's marriage proposal to his girlfriend Julie.You can check it out on the web here. Hang on in there... through the yakking... (!) to the video at the end. It's, well... adorable.
At first, I admit I hung in there just to see if Julie's reaction was natural or contrived. I mean, surely Jim wouldn't post this uber-private moment without his future wife knowing it in advance? Would he?
As a screenwriter and movie lover, I'm accustomed to exploring the lives of my characters. Characters are people too, after all; BUT... characters live in my head. Not in Brooklyn! Watching Julie's eyes move across words I had already seen... knowing that I knew something she didn't... felt weird and voyeuristic, even a bit creepy. By then, I was too riveted to look away. One, I'm an unabashed sucker for love stories. And two, like most audience members, I hate to be left hanging. I wanted to see Julie say yes.
When the climactic moment arrived, I did look away. Even though the kiss happened off screen, that moment was too private, if not for them, for me. I clicked off the video. Only then did I notice the filmmaker's name: Babb. Jim Babb.
ooooooooo weeeee uuuuuuuuu...
It's a small, small world.
As I skipped around the rest of his blog, I discovered that Jim is a man of his word. It's one thing to perform a white boy rap for your school chums. To post it on a billboard to the world is quite another. It proves that Jim has taken his lady love's advice to heart: He's perfectly willing to laugh at himself... and allow the rest of us to do the same. No wonder Jim wants to spend his life with Julie. Maybe that's the fun of it all.
The Bottom Line: When constructing the climax, give the audience exactly what they need to see. Nothing they don't. Some blanks the audience are perfectly happy to fill in for themselves. It pays to be brave enough to let them.
I found it by following a link from someone's Twitter feed. The post called it out as adorable. Guess I was in need of adorable. Turns out, it was a blogger named Jim's marriage proposal to his girlfriend Julie.You can check it out on the web here. Hang on in there... through the yakking... (!) to the video at the end. It's, well... adorable.
At first, I admit I hung in there just to see if Julie's reaction was natural or contrived. I mean, surely Jim wouldn't post this uber-private moment without his future wife knowing it in advance? Would he?
As a screenwriter and movie lover, I'm accustomed to exploring the lives of my characters. Characters are people too, after all; BUT... characters live in my head. Not in Brooklyn! Watching Julie's eyes move across words I had already seen... knowing that I knew something she didn't... felt weird and voyeuristic, even a bit creepy. By then, I was too riveted to look away. One, I'm an unabashed sucker for love stories. And two, like most audience members, I hate to be left hanging. I wanted to see Julie say yes.
When the climactic moment arrived, I did look away. Even though the kiss happened off screen, that moment was too private, if not for them, for me. I clicked off the video. Only then did I notice the filmmaker's name: Babb. Jim Babb.
ooooooooo weeeee uuuuuuuuu...
It's a small, small world.
As I skipped around the rest of his blog, I discovered that Jim is a man of his word. It's one thing to perform a white boy rap for your school chums. To post it on a billboard to the world is quite another. It proves that Jim has taken his lady love's advice to heart: He's perfectly willing to laugh at himself... and allow the rest of us to do the same. No wonder Jim wants to spend his life with Julie. Maybe that's the fun of it all.
The Bottom Line: When constructing the climax, give the audience exactly what they need to see. Nothing they don't. Some blanks the audience are perfectly happy to fill in for themselves. It pays to be brave enough to let them.
Monday, July 4, 2011
My Independence Day Blgo: Let Freedom Ring!
Yes, dear reader; I meant blog.
This weekend I did something I've never attempted before. I drew a cartoon. Ok, Ok, with respect to real cartoonists, it's not so much a cartoon as a doodle. But I had an idea, one I thought was funny enough to give it a shot. I only encountered two problems: What to draw, and what to write.
I can't draw, so that meant I had to figure out what absolutely had to be seen on the page. Which meant figuring out what information was important. Or, perhaps more importantly, what wasn't.
It all started the way most good art does, with a true life experience. It was a Sunday like any other, except for the fact that my soon-to-be-estranged husband and I were actually (shock!) sitting at the breakfast table, at the same time, contemplating breakfast, to be eaten together. If you've ever been caught in the soon to be estranged scenario, then the aforementioned shock will make sense to you. (If not, well then, bully for you... and I hope you never do!)
So on this particular morning, we were communicating, verbally, with one another, instead of via an iPhone (me) or the internet (him) with others. You see, my husband abhors national politics, and I abhor local ones, so he reads a local paper and I read a national. On this one occasion, for one odd reason or another, it just worked. We talked. And we laughed. It was a rather refreshing change. Perhaps we are not so soon as I once thought to be estranged.
We had a lovely breakfast. Then, with the plates finally scraped and the dishwasher humming, I sat down to my trusty sketchbook. I always keep on hand, (doesn't everyone?) just in case such an occasion should arise. It's good to be prepared. Drawing, I found, was nothing like writing. I didn't ponder where to start; or what to draw. In fact, now that I look back on it, I just sort of held the pencil, and let the brain tell the fingers where to go.
All through breakfast I thought about the dialogue between the two principles. I couldn't think of what to write. Something catchy and insightful, or at the very least clever. I gave up and drew in a placeholder. That's when it hit me... it really didn't matter what was being said, as much as who said it, and how. Like Uncle Ari says: Dialogue is character. Bingo! That was that.
The Bottom Line: I'm Al Lee, and I am recovering Perfectonista.
Today I declare myself free of the bonds of my Revisionist tendency to proffer over-edited voiceless text. In the name of Sorkin, King and shipping, I declare my independence, so that The Voice survives and The Work gets done. Perios.
This weekend I did something I've never attempted before. I drew a cartoon. Ok, Ok, with respect to real cartoonists, it's not so much a cartoon as a doodle. But I had an idea, one I thought was funny enough to give it a shot. I only encountered two problems: What to draw, and what to write.
I can't draw, so that meant I had to figure out what absolutely had to be seen on the page. Which meant figuring out what information was important. Or, perhaps more importantly, what wasn't.
It all started the way most good art does, with a true life experience. It was a Sunday like any other, except for the fact that my soon-to-be-estranged husband and I were actually (shock!) sitting at the breakfast table, at the same time, contemplating breakfast, to be eaten together. If you've ever been caught in the soon to be estranged scenario, then the aforementioned shock will make sense to you. (If not, well then, bully for you... and I hope you never do!)
So on this particular morning, we were communicating, verbally, with one another, instead of via an iPhone (me) or the internet (him) with others. You see, my husband abhors national politics, and I abhor local ones, so he reads a local paper and I read a national. On this one occasion, for one odd reason or another, it just worked. We talked. And we laughed. It was a rather refreshing change. Perhaps we are not so soon as I once thought to be estranged.
We had a lovely breakfast. Then, with the plates finally scraped and the dishwasher humming, I sat down to my trusty sketchbook. I always keep on hand, (doesn't everyone?) just in case such an occasion should arise. It's good to be prepared. Drawing, I found, was nothing like writing. I didn't ponder where to start; or what to draw. In fact, now that I look back on it, I just sort of held the pencil, and let the brain tell the fingers where to go.
All through breakfast I thought about the dialogue between the two principles. I couldn't think of what to write. Something catchy and insightful, or at the very least clever. I gave up and drew in a placeholder. That's when it hit me... it really didn't matter what was being said, as much as who said it, and how. Like Uncle Ari says: Dialogue is character. Bingo! That was that.
The Bottom Line: I'm Al Lee, and I am recovering Perfectonista.
Today I declare myself free of the bonds of my Revisionist tendency to proffer over-edited voiceless text. In the name of Sorkin, King and shipping, I declare my independence, so that The Voice survives and The Work gets done. Perios.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Everything Old is New Again: Trolls, Redfined
Trolls, as defined by millenials and SM (that's Social Media) pros.
What Trolls Can Teach You About Reputation Management
written by JD Rucker, of Flowtown.
Hmmm... methinks my next mov(i)e is in there, somewhere.
Gotta go brainstorm... Enjoy the post!
What Trolls Can Teach You About Reputation Management
written by JD Rucker, of Flowtown.
Hmmm... methinks my next mov(i)e is in there, somewhere.
Gotta go brainstorm... Enjoy the post!
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Thou shall not kill.*
Just read Michael Moore's commentary on the killing of the world's most notorious terrorist (in the recent past.) Love him or hate him, Mr. Moore is one of the great critical minds of our time. Which is to say, one of the great directors of our time.
Read the entire post here. This part grabbed my attention:
"I was thrilled that the Osama bin Laden era was over. There was now an end to the madness.
Being near Ground Zero that night, I decided to head over there and join with others who saw this event as a chance to have some closure. On 9/11, Bill Weems, a good and decent man I knew and worked with (we had just recently completed a shoot together in Boston), was on the plane that was flown into the Twin Towers. I dedicated Fahrenheit 9/11, in part, to him.
But before leaving to go to the former World Trade Center site, I turned on the TV, and what I saw down at Ground Zero was not quiet relief and gratification that the culprit had been caught. Rather, I witnessed a frat boy-style party going on, complete with the shaking and spraying of champagne bottles over the crowd. I can completely understand people wanting to celebrate – like I said, I, too, was happy – but something didn't feel right. It's one thing to be happy that a criminal has been captured and dealt with. It's another thing to throw a kegger celebrating his death at the site where the remains of his victims are still occasionally found. Is that who we are? Is that what Jesus would do? Is that what Jefferson would do?
I was reminded of the tale told to me as a kid, of God's angels singing with glee as the Red Sea came crashing back down on the Egyptians chasing the Israelites, drowning all of them. God rebuked them, saying, "The work of My hands is drowning in that sea – and you want to friggin' sing?" (or something like that).
I remember my parents telling me how, on the day it was announced that Hitler was dead, there was no rejoicing in the streets, just private relief and satisfaction. The real celebration came six days later at the announcement that the war in Europe was over. THAT'S what the people wanted to hear – not just the demise of one evil madman, but the end to all the killing."
WOW. Talk about "eliciting an emotional reaction."
When I heard the news that Osama Bin Laden had been shot, I'm pretty sure I felt the same as most of America: Shocked, and then relieved. Happy? I can't say. I didn't go to any keggers, nor did I take to the streets, champagne in hand. Quietly I bought up every major newspaper I could find, to A) get the facts, and B) assure myself that the news was (is?) indeed true. I imbibed in Jon Stewart's comedic catharsis. I guess you could say that I, too, rejoiced, in my own way.
Then on this Saturday morning, at o'dark thirty, I read this. And I asked myself a question or two. Questions like, who IS America today? And where HAVE the statesmen gone?
It brought to mind another great line: Thou shalt not kill. No if's, ands, buts, or other disclaimers attached.
The Bottom Line: If the duty of Art is to question, then Really Good Art demands that the viewer question himself.
Read the entire post here. This part grabbed my attention:
"I was thrilled that the Osama bin Laden era was over. There was now an end to the madness.
Being near Ground Zero that night, I decided to head over there and join with others who saw this event as a chance to have some closure. On 9/11, Bill Weems, a good and decent man I knew and worked with (we had just recently completed a shoot together in Boston), was on the plane that was flown into the Twin Towers. I dedicated Fahrenheit 9/11, in part, to him.
But before leaving to go to the former World Trade Center site, I turned on the TV, and what I saw down at Ground Zero was not quiet relief and gratification that the culprit had been caught. Rather, I witnessed a frat boy-style party going on, complete with the shaking and spraying of champagne bottles over the crowd. I can completely understand people wanting to celebrate – like I said, I, too, was happy – but something didn't feel right. It's one thing to be happy that a criminal has been captured and dealt with. It's another thing to throw a kegger celebrating his death at the site where the remains of his victims are still occasionally found. Is that who we are? Is that what Jesus would do? Is that what Jefferson would do?
I was reminded of the tale told to me as a kid, of God's angels singing with glee as the Red Sea came crashing back down on the Egyptians chasing the Israelites, drowning all of them. God rebuked them, saying, "The work of My hands is drowning in that sea – and you want to friggin' sing?" (or something like that).
I remember my parents telling me how, on the day it was announced that Hitler was dead, there was no rejoicing in the streets, just private relief and satisfaction. The real celebration came six days later at the announcement that the war in Europe was over. THAT'S what the people wanted to hear – not just the demise of one evil madman, but the end to all the killing."
WOW. Talk about "eliciting an emotional reaction."
When I heard the news that Osama Bin Laden had been shot, I'm pretty sure I felt the same as most of America: Shocked, and then relieved. Happy? I can't say. I didn't go to any keggers, nor did I take to the streets, champagne in hand. Quietly I bought up every major newspaper I could find, to A) get the facts, and B) assure myself that the news was (is?) indeed true. I imbibed in Jon Stewart's comedic catharsis. I guess you could say that I, too, rejoiced, in my own way.
Then on this Saturday morning, at o'dark thirty, I read this. And I asked myself a question or two. Questions like, who IS America today? And where HAVE the statesmen gone?
It brought to mind another great line: Thou shalt not kill. No if's, ands, buts, or other disclaimers attached.
The Bottom Line: If the duty of Art is to question, then Really Good Art demands that the viewer question himself.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
April 15... and counting.
It's April 15. You know what that means...
You guessed it. The midpoint in this month's Script Frenzy writing challenge!
I'm in. Are you?
It's not too late...
http://www.scriptfrenzy.org/
love,
AL
You guessed it. The midpoint in this month's Script Frenzy writing challenge!
I'm in. Are you?
It's not too late...
http://www.scriptfrenzy.org/
love,
AL
Saturday, March 26, 2011
If Social Media Were A High School... Courtesy of Flowtown.com
Here's a great way to help define your characters. Where did they fit in back in high school?
Besides, it's just cool.
Class of 2011: If Social Media Were A High School by Ethan Bloch
Thanks Ethan!
Besides, it's just cool.
Class of 2011: If Social Media Were A High School by Ethan Bloch
Thanks Ethan!
Saturday, February 12, 2011
The Skinny on Body Image (as It Relates to Character)
I was, (cough) writing in the local, branded coffee shop this weekend. I go there for the people watch as much as for the coffee. While sipping the light froth from a "skinny" caramel macchiato, I warmed up the (brain) muscle by surfing the net... and accidentally crash-landed in the middle of a debate over a controversial campaign for soda pop. Pepsi's new ads featuring the "skinny can" have raised a collective eyebrow from the body image police. Apparently, there are people in the modern world whose perceived self-worth in relative to the circumference of a Pepsi can.
Call me crazy, but it sounds like a marketing coup. Who knew that, in the age of Red Bull and Vitamin Water, Pepsi Cola still wielded such infleunce?
Just when I had formed a solid opinion, which was not to have one, a young-ish couple entered the shop. They had a boy of about five in tow.
Dad looked like Dads do. Sweat pants. Athletic shoes. Mom looked a little out of place. Dark skinny jeans. Tall motorcycle boots. Like maybe she was headed for the runway rather than the minivan. I nibbled my bagel, trying not to be oh-so-obvious as I watched this little family affair. What caught my eye was notsomuch her teetering about on nosebleed-high heels, but how uncomfortable she looked in them.
I love jeans, and love wearing them, but... having lived through the 80s once already, skinny jeans are but one tiny piece of fashion history one wishes would not repeat. Not unlike leggings and the infamous mile-high poof, but that's another day's rant.
Now, before one judges me harshly, pause to consider that yes, I am old; but probably not as old as you might think. Watching this young mom tower above, barely able to hold her little boy's hand, I found her behavior more curious than alarming. I firmly believe that regardless of age or body mass, the best accessory is and always will be confidence.
For women, this creates an embarrassing double standard.
Thankfully, as my body's changed, so, too, have my tastes. While my legs are still good enough to get away with skirts above my knees, these days I prefer them accompanied by opaque tights and/or tall boots. That said, shopping for "professional attire" has become quite the challenge. Some claim forty as "the new thirty." It's tough to maintain a youthful exuberance without appearing desperate to cling to paradise lost. The line between the two is terribly fine.
What has any of this rambling got to do with your movie?
Truly great films have the ability to show us something about ourselves. They capture the human condition. Every choice matters. Consider Citizen Kane. Here is a great example of how wardrobe choices can convey character. Roger Ebert gives his thoughts on on his all-time favorite classic on his web series, Ebert Presents. He describes the film as "...fresh, every time I see it." Listen to his commentary here.
Welles was a master of shadow and light imagery. But he also has an uncanny ability to capture the mundane. As Ebert points out, the dinner scene he uses wardrobe and physical proximity to maximum effect, to highlight a relationship disintegrating over time.
When writing character, it's helpful to think about your character's body image. Which life stage your character is in. How they view themselves is as every bit as important as how your hero views the world. How you choose to show that is crucial.
Who can forget the line from Twelve Angry Men, when a juror, breaking down eyewitness, describes her as "...a woman wearing clothes of a woman ten years younger." That one line of dialogue encapsulates that character... so that we will know her instantly when we see her.
The Bottom Line: Wardrobe screams character.
How many pairs of shoes does your protagonist own? Whjat condition are they in right now?
Open your own closet. Take a peek. You'll be glad you did.
Call me crazy, but it sounds like a marketing coup. Who knew that, in the age of Red Bull and Vitamin Water, Pepsi Cola still wielded such infleunce?
Just when I had formed a solid opinion, which was not to have one, a young-ish couple entered the shop. They had a boy of about five in tow.
Dad looked like Dads do. Sweat pants. Athletic shoes. Mom looked a little out of place. Dark skinny jeans. Tall motorcycle boots. Like maybe she was headed for the runway rather than the minivan. I nibbled my bagel, trying not to be oh-so-obvious as I watched this little family affair. What caught my eye was notsomuch her teetering about on nosebleed-high heels, but how uncomfortable she looked in them.
I love jeans, and love wearing them, but... having lived through the 80s once already, skinny jeans are but one tiny piece of fashion history one wishes would not repeat. Not unlike leggings and the infamous mile-high poof, but that's another day's rant.
Now, before one judges me harshly, pause to consider that yes, I am old; but probably not as old as you might think. Watching this young mom tower above, barely able to hold her little boy's hand, I found her behavior more curious than alarming. I firmly believe that regardless of age or body mass, the best accessory is and always will be confidence.
For women, this creates an embarrassing double standard.
Thankfully, as my body's changed, so, too, have my tastes. While my legs are still good enough to get away with skirts above my knees, these days I prefer them accompanied by opaque tights and/or tall boots. That said, shopping for "professional attire" has become quite the challenge. Some claim forty as "the new thirty." It's tough to maintain a youthful exuberance without appearing desperate to cling to paradise lost. The line between the two is terribly fine.
What has any of this rambling got to do with your movie?
Truly great films have the ability to show us something about ourselves. They capture the human condition. Every choice matters. Consider Citizen Kane. Here is a great example of how wardrobe choices can convey character. Roger Ebert gives his thoughts on on his all-time favorite classic on his web series, Ebert Presents. He describes the film as "...fresh, every time I see it." Listen to his commentary here.
Welles was a master of shadow and light imagery. But he also has an uncanny ability to capture the mundane. As Ebert points out, the dinner scene he uses wardrobe and physical proximity to maximum effect, to highlight a relationship disintegrating over time.
When writing character, it's helpful to think about your character's body image. Which life stage your character is in. How they view themselves is as every bit as important as how your hero views the world. How you choose to show that is crucial.
Who can forget the line from Twelve Angry Men, when a juror, breaking down eyewitness, describes her as "...a woman wearing clothes of a woman ten years younger." That one line of dialogue encapsulates that character... so that we will know her instantly when we see her.
The Bottom Line: Wardrobe screams character.
How many pairs of shoes does your protagonist own? Whjat condition are they in right now?
Open your own closet. Take a peek. You'll be glad you did.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Threes
Today I mourn the loss of a very dear friend.
For what seems like as long as I can remember, I have prayed... for peace, for him, for comfort, for me. Today the Universe sent me a reply. Framed in the three-story window of my hotel, I saw God’s face... smiling.
I noted not the window itself, but how it framed the world outside. Magic hour sunlight ignited fires of gold and crimson in the trees beyond. As if God himself had left the door to Heaven propped open, affording me a peek inside. God, the Master Designer of the ultimate Creation. Like a cinematographer, practicing his craft, He shines His light on what is to be seen immediately. And casts in shadow that which He chooses to reveal later.
I thought about Adam in the garden. Of Life's three consistencies... Time. Love. Experience.
Beginning. Middle. End.
My lizard brain tells me that to all things, there comes an end. There can be no beginning anew without. As a teen, I remember my mom at her mom's funeral. From my vantage point in the corner, surrounded by blue-hairs, toddlers, and a host of others whom I barely knew, I watched... as mom leaned over the casket. She kissed her mother good-bye. I felt confused. I went over to Mam and touched her hand. It was cold as Death.
I felt confused, and a little angry, even. If Mam's soul had flown to Heaven, as I had been raised to believe, then why kiss this lifeless body now? I was too young to understand grief.
That has since changed. I know now what I wish I didn't. Human beings are selfish creatures. And the Heart wants what it wants.
It’s been less than twelve hours, yet already I want my friend back. I curse this new Future without him.
Why do we wait until someone threatens to leave our lives forever before we find courage…enough to show and tell them what they mean to us? Surfing the 'net just now, I saw that The Huffington Post has a new blog, devoted entirely to divorce. An attempt to glorify? Or help others deal?
It is some comfort to know that I am not in this boat alone. Even the mighty TV don Tony Soprano, waxing poetic to his son, J.J., tipped his hat to heartbreak: “There’s an entire industry dedicated to lost love. It's called music.”
Music. Literature. Movies. And centuries of poetry… from Plato to Longfellow to Kanye.
"That that don't kill me, can only make me stronger... " ("Stronger", c. Kanye West)
The Bottom Line: Grief sucks.
I searched a million words for a nicer way to say it. There is none.
Our spiritual background, or absence of, informs how we look at death. Which in turn, informs the way we live our lives. In the game of Life, there are no absolutes… only belief. (Or, sadly, the absence of it.)
Want to avoid the new HuffPost blog? Easy. When you love someone, SHOW them. Just don’t wait too long.
For what seems like as long as I can remember, I have prayed... for peace, for him, for comfort, for me. Today the Universe sent me a reply. Framed in the three-story window of my hotel, I saw God’s face... smiling.
I noted not the window itself, but how it framed the world outside. Magic hour sunlight ignited fires of gold and crimson in the trees beyond. As if God himself had left the door to Heaven propped open, affording me a peek inside. God, the Master Designer of the ultimate Creation. Like a cinematographer, practicing his craft, He shines His light on what is to be seen immediately. And casts in shadow that which He chooses to reveal later.
I thought about Adam in the garden. Of Life's three consistencies... Time. Love. Experience.
Beginning. Middle. End.
My lizard brain tells me that to all things, there comes an end. There can be no beginning anew without. As a teen, I remember my mom at her mom's funeral. From my vantage point in the corner, surrounded by blue-hairs, toddlers, and a host of others whom I barely knew, I watched... as mom leaned over the casket. She kissed her mother good-bye. I felt confused. I went over to Mam and touched her hand. It was cold as Death.
I felt confused, and a little angry, even. If Mam's soul had flown to Heaven, as I had been raised to believe, then why kiss this lifeless body now? I was too young to understand grief.
That has since changed. I know now what I wish I didn't. Human beings are selfish creatures. And the Heart wants what it wants.
It’s been less than twelve hours, yet already I want my friend back. I curse this new Future without him.
Why do we wait until someone threatens to leave our lives forever before we find courage…enough to show and tell them what they mean to us? Surfing the 'net just now, I saw that The Huffington Post has a new blog, devoted entirely to divorce. An attempt to glorify? Or help others deal?
It is some comfort to know that I am not in this boat alone. Even the mighty TV don Tony Soprano, waxing poetic to his son, J.J., tipped his hat to heartbreak: “There’s an entire industry dedicated to lost love. It's called music.”
Music. Literature. Movies. And centuries of poetry… from Plato to Longfellow to Kanye.
"That that don't kill me, can only make me stronger... " ("Stronger", c. Kanye West)
The Bottom Line: Grief sucks.
I searched a million words for a nicer way to say it. There is none.
Our spiritual background, or absence of, informs how we look at death. Which in turn, informs the way we live our lives. In the game of Life, there are no absolutes… only belief. (Or, sadly, the absence of it.)
Want to avoid the new HuffPost blog? Easy. When you love someone, SHOW them. Just don’t wait too long.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Strengths and weakness
Ever wonder... from where do the people around you draw their strength? Other people? Prosperity? Places? Faith or prayer?
What do you suppose might happen if that source of power is removed? I.e.,what - or who - is their weakness?
Scarlett had her Tara.
Achilles had his heel.
Figure out who or what has power over them, the power to humble them, and there you have it. You can open any door if only you have the right key.
The Bottom Line: Knowing the source of strength or weakness is the key that will open the door to your character. Guaranteed.
What do you suppose might happen if that source of power is removed? I.e.,what - or who - is their weakness?
Scarlett had her Tara.
Achilles had his heel.
Figure out who or what has power over them, the power to humble them, and there you have it. You can open any door if only you have the right key.
The Bottom Line: Knowing the source of strength or weakness is the key that will open the door to your character. Guaranteed.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Where have all the statesmen gone?
In the wake of the Tuscon shootings, looks like Sarah Palin took a hit.
She stood by her crosshairs. Now it's her supporters who have run for cover.
Mrs. Palin gambled. She lost.
That's what makes a great character. A statesman, fit for national public office?
Time well tell.
The Bottom Line: Drama is good. Especially in politics.
In leadership, perhaps humility is better.
AL
She stood by her crosshairs. Now it's her supporters who have run for cover.
Mrs. Palin gambled. She lost.
That's what makes a great character. A statesman, fit for national public office?
Time well tell.
The Bottom Line: Drama is good. Especially in politics.
In leadership, perhaps humility is better.
AL
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Stop! or I'll keep going...
Sometimes the smallest things stop me. I'm a writer first, so procrastinating comes easy.
My morning exercise is delayed because my headphones went missing. Then the dog came in the house with muddy paws. This morning's pages get put off because my pen is M.I.A.
Not a pen, mind you - THE pen. The one I scribbled with last night, when I woke up with a whole new Act Three resolution in my head. The one whose ink flowed so open and freely that my thoughts, too, whizzed miraculously across the page.
Never mind that I write mostly on, uhm, a keyboard.
Amid all this talk of action, and its motivation, which is essentially the point of this blog, it feels prudent to pause, to give some cred to the why nots.
Why won't she tell the man she loves what she's really thinking or feeling? Why doesn't he call?
The Bottom Line: Freud nailed it.
If Love brings out our Inner Hero, i.e, causes me to make the sacrifice, take the bullet for my valentine, or prompts him to make that call... the one that will stop her from getting on the plane... then perhaps its nemesis, Inertia, too can also be boiled down to one thing: Fear.
Beyond that, the devil, as they say, is in the details.
My morning exercise is delayed because my headphones went missing. Then the dog came in the house with muddy paws. This morning's pages get put off because my pen is M.I.A.
Not a pen, mind you - THE pen. The one I scribbled with last night, when I woke up with a whole new Act Three resolution in my head. The one whose ink flowed so open and freely that my thoughts, too, whizzed miraculously across the page.
Never mind that I write mostly on, uhm, a keyboard.
Amid all this talk of action, and its motivation, which is essentially the point of this blog, it feels prudent to pause, to give some cred to the why nots.
Why won't she tell the man she loves what she's really thinking or feeling? Why doesn't he call?
The Bottom Line: Freud nailed it.
If Love brings out our Inner Hero, i.e, causes me to make the sacrifice, take the bullet for my valentine, or prompts him to make that call... the one that will stop her from getting on the plane... then perhaps its nemesis, Inertia, too can also be boiled down to one thing: Fear.
Beyond that, the devil, as they say, is in the details.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
As a matter of fact, words do matter... or don't they?
It was a bright and sunny day.
A woman addressed a crowd.
A man pulled a gun.
The woman fell down, silenced.
Seven others followed. Everyone left standing ran. Some, screaming.
The woman is now in the hospital. The man is now in jail.
The woman now clinging to life is Congresswoman. She can no longer speak.
The man is a local student... a malcontent, to say the least. He can speak, but refuses.
Soon we learn that the Congresswoman was afraid of being shot. She had good reason: She had been threatened before. Her office had, in fact, been vandalized... recently. With a gun.
She wrote to a colleague, confessed her fears... about divisive political rhetoric - "hate speech"- among peers and constituents. How to curb it? What could be done?
Who, if anyone, responded? Does it matter?
Meanwhile, a deranged student bought a gun.
What did he say to the dealer who sold him a semi-automatic weapon... one so feared, that it was outlawed in the US... until 2004. Does it matter?
Do words matter?
When I was a kid, a young man, also a student, also a malcontent, offed himself.
His parents blamed his penchant for Ozzy Osbourne records.
In the wake of his death, a local pastor staged a bonfire. He called upon parents to burn books, albums and other materials deemed "offensive to God."
Parents and elders came. Teen and 'tweens were dragged along.
I was lucky. My parents thought this behavior was odd, even for religious folk. After all, WE were religious folk.
My sister had an Ozzy Osbourne record. No one insisted, but... she threw it out anyway.
Curious, I snuck outside. I dug the album out of the trash bin, with the tenacity of a bird dog.
I looked for the words, the ones behind the fuss. I found them. I hid the record in the garage until morning.
After school the next day, I slipped the contraband out of my bookbag, and showed it to a friend. He also liked Ozzy records.
I pointed out the offending song title: Suicide Solution. "It's about alcohol..." he said, rather flatly, swirling his index finger around in a circle, as if stirring an imaginary glass. "A warning," he intoned, as only a high school senior can. "If you drink too much of it, you can die."
All that wax, gone to waste.
Can mere words incite violence? Maybe not for the sane...
Words do matter. They mattered greatly in Rwanda, where government radio broadcasts incited genocide, even murder against rival Tutsi "cockroaches."
They mattered when General Dallaire pled to the United Nations leadership for "guidance." And their absence mattered greatly when the UN refused to respond.
That said... words alone do not kill. People kill. They do not necessarily need guns to do it.
I borrowed the below quote from Robert Edsel's insightful blog post, dated 2009... just 2 weeks after the eighth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks:
German poet Heinrich Heine said: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Bucher verbrennt, verbreent man auch am Ende Menschen.” (“This was only foreplay. Where books are being burned there will eventually be humans burned.”)
Of course, the gap between burning books out of fear and ideology and taking human lives is thinner than any of us want to consider. The importance of Heine’s observation is timeless: they are words of warning to us all…to pay attention…to think for ourselves, and to speak up and act when the very freedoms all people of good will cherish are under attack.
Kinda makes you rethink Mrs. Palin's special brand of political humor, now that a Democratic Congresswoman has ended up in the cross-hairs for real, doesn't it?
One can only hope so.
A woman addressed a crowd.
A man pulled a gun.
The woman fell down, silenced.
Seven others followed. Everyone left standing ran. Some, screaming.
The woman is now in the hospital. The man is now in jail.
The woman now clinging to life is Congresswoman. She can no longer speak.
The man is a local student... a malcontent, to say the least. He can speak, but refuses.
Soon we learn that the Congresswoman was afraid of being shot. She had good reason: She had been threatened before. Her office had, in fact, been vandalized... recently. With a gun.
She wrote to a colleague, confessed her fears... about divisive political rhetoric - "hate speech"- among peers and constituents. How to curb it? What could be done?
Who, if anyone, responded? Does it matter?
Meanwhile, a deranged student bought a gun.
What did he say to the dealer who sold him a semi-automatic weapon... one so feared, that it was outlawed in the US... until 2004. Does it matter?
Do words matter?
When I was a kid, a young man, also a student, also a malcontent, offed himself.
His parents blamed his penchant for Ozzy Osbourne records.
In the wake of his death, a local pastor staged a bonfire. He called upon parents to burn books, albums and other materials deemed "offensive to God."
Parents and elders came. Teen and 'tweens were dragged along.
I was lucky. My parents thought this behavior was odd, even for religious folk. After all, WE were religious folk.
My sister had an Ozzy Osbourne record. No one insisted, but... she threw it out anyway.
Curious, I snuck outside. I dug the album out of the trash bin, with the tenacity of a bird dog.
I looked for the words, the ones behind the fuss. I found them. I hid the record in the garage until morning.
After school the next day, I slipped the contraband out of my bookbag, and showed it to a friend. He also liked Ozzy records.
I pointed out the offending song title: Suicide Solution. "It's about alcohol..." he said, rather flatly, swirling his index finger around in a circle, as if stirring an imaginary glass. "A warning," he intoned, as only a high school senior can. "If you drink too much of it, you can die."
All that wax, gone to waste.
Can mere words incite violence? Maybe not for the sane...
Words do matter. They mattered greatly in Rwanda, where government radio broadcasts incited genocide, even murder against rival Tutsi "cockroaches."
They mattered when General Dallaire pled to the United Nations leadership for "guidance." And their absence mattered greatly when the UN refused to respond.
That said... words alone do not kill. People kill. They do not necessarily need guns to do it.
I borrowed the below quote from Robert Edsel's insightful blog post, dated 2009... just 2 weeks after the eighth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks:
German poet Heinrich Heine said: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Bucher verbrennt, verbreent man auch am Ende Menschen.” (“This was only foreplay. Where books are being burned there will eventually be humans burned.”)
Of course, the gap between burning books out of fear and ideology and taking human lives is thinner than any of us want to consider. The importance of Heine’s observation is timeless: they are words of warning to us all…to pay attention…to think for ourselves, and to speak up and act when the very freedoms all people of good will cherish are under attack.
Kinda makes you rethink Mrs. Palin's special brand of political humor, now that a Democratic Congresswoman has ended up in the cross-hairs for real, doesn't it?
One can only hope so.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Happy V-Day! An early gift for you: Flanders article on "why murder is a spectator sport."
As my VIEW changes, due to the move - due to the flooding - I am once again short on space, and face time with my pc. No time to whine, or ramble, as I have no time to kill.
Today I offer you, instead, a link to an article on murder, and story. I found it terribly inspiring.
Today I offer you, instead, a link to an article on murder, and story. I found it terribly inspiring.
One of my New year's resolutions is to think less; ACT more.
I.e., Note really think less. Analyze less. Obssess less. Use what I know. Explore what I don't.
You know, SHIP more.
You know, SHIP more.
If the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior, then I expect that reading this will inspire someone to write. That is, put fingers on the keyboard and type.
Hey - What do you know- I was right!
In her article, Judith Flanders waxes poetic on why some stories are inherently more interesting than others. "Murder, at a distance," she writes, is "a spectator sport."
If you were diligent - or just plain curious- enough to follow me here, then I hope you, too will find it inspiring enough to act as well. Then both our efforts will be rewarded. How cool would that be?
by Judith Flanders
Happy reading!
Happy reading!
love,
AL
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