Monday, May 19, 2003 4:54:32 AM Joe Coluccio
The dreadful desperate dark world of writing.

I make no secret of it. I write. I do however when I am approached at a brisk café typing somewhat contentedly on this laptop computer, tell the person that I am merely getting some business document ready for the next day. So, my measure being took, I am then asked by the mostly retired person, who has been sold a bill of goods about the wonder of the computer and the internet, if I can get stock quotations fresh from the sprawling web right there in the restaurant. My immediate mental response is, 'What the hell would I do with them?' but I realize that I have established myself as some far seeing technologically savvy business maven, so I just explain that I don't have the proper wireless gear to grab greedy market wisdom.

I make no secret of it. I write. Except to myself. In the past I have needed all sort of personal prodding to get me to confront the blank screen that is portraying a blank piece of paper. The screen that is and is not pristine white paper actually makes my progress easier. Soiling white nothing with black ASCII code that I can completely erase with ease and will, silly spelling mistake and even sillier thoughts that I can change with equal ease but a bit more energetic act of will, and self publishing via copy and paste or FTP (really both) to the internet so that people can read has made a whole world of difference to me. (Aside: If the gods of microsoft and allied software vendors are insufficiently amused I lose power or some molecule collides with some bitful switch and just causes the whole thing to cascade to black. My world folds. I sigh! I reboot!) Here then is the true miracle of the dub dub dub, even I can make a fool of myself open for the whole world in 19 degrees of separation to view. So, those of you who actually take the time to read this, thanks, I can truly say, “I need you!" And can only hope that it pays some dividend to you.

I make no secret of it. I write. Last week I wrote a screenplay. This weekend I purchased a piece of software called Storyboard Quick 4.0. Here we encounter again the miracle of our new digital heritage. I search engined (hey, if you can Fed Ex?) to find software that would help me, I found a page with a demo, I was convinced by the pretty pictures, I purchased the product and downloaded it. About a half an hour later I was drawing my story. Story boarding is a process where you develop a screenplay visually. The results are much like a comic book. It is true that you can storyboard by artistic hand with sheets of paper or cards, but my drawing skills are as close to nonexistent as I have made them. PLUS I realize I only have my own dim understanding about the way in which a movie is structured. I storyboard to learn.

I make no secret of it. I write. I was at once exhilarated and appalled at what happened as I put, shot by shot, the scenes together. I have noticed in the past that as I write I become woefully upset as the depth of what is in my mind becomes more and more limited and hopelessly complicated. It never ends up as the simple, clear beautiful thing that I thought I was writing. Characters get in the way, Plot gets in the way. 'Why, I cry, would any sane person put up with this?' As I worked with the new program, those people and visual angles became concrete and started to limit even more of my vision. I became desperate. Every image as it became stable, no longer shimmered with the magnificent potential that I dreamed.

I make no secret of it. I write. "What,' I reasoned after some fortification of spirit, 'is telling a story but the process of limiting and molding the unlimited gloop that runs through my thinking?' There was still something more to consider. Without those choices, without that limitation, you really have nothing resembling narrative. Maybe an inchoate mess of streaming image and words. What was disturbing me was the jolt of emotion and viscera that sit behind all the lightning of words that rush to create an image which tries to stand. The great ones make it stand. The manifestation of the jolt of guts and memory.

I make no secret of it. I write. It is like firing a twisted arrow from a warped bow blindfolded at a target that only appears capriciously. That is writing. I ride and seek to tame the rush of it. Eventually portray it. With some joy I have discovered that after the initial work of writing, after the rough fashioning of story, comes the work of recreation where if I haven't precisely achieved this vision of emotional target, it is at least indicated. What happens after I pen Finis is in your court.

I write. It is a great secret that I explore, deplore and adore.