Prose-ish
I was in a prosey mood tonight. Why? Fuck if I know. I think I'm anticipating my Writer's Workshop class with this professor I don't get along with. I need to write 20-30 pages of fiction for the class so I started early. Now, I'm used to the terse eloquence of screenwriting, so don't be too critical. It's hard to alternate between the two styles, especially when you work with one more than the other. Anyway, here's a sample:
Johnny Craven had writer’s block. He’d spent the past hour staring at his autographed copy of Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak. Did Maurice Sendak ever get writer’s block? Probably not. After all, he was Maurice Sendak, author of Where the Wild Things Are… and a bunch of other brilliant children’s books that Johnny Craven didn’t write. But how did Maurice Sendak get so good? He didn’t have his PhD in Children’s Storybook Writing, not like Johnny Craven. Maurice Sendak didn’t spend his weekends attending Children’s Storybook Writing improvement workshops or drawing idea webs on college-rule notebook paper – a highly effective method of brainstorming. No, Maurice Sendak didn’t do any of those things. He won Newberry Medals.
For the first time in an hour, Johnny Craven looked up at his blank Wordperfect document. Microsoft Word was much too costly for second-grade teachers. The cursor blinked. On good nights Johnny imagined it was a pretty lady winking at him over and over again. On bad nights she was still winking, but only because she had something in her eye. Maybe a bug or something. Maybe a Newberry Medal.
Johnny carefully positioned his small fingers on the home row: ASDF JKL; He shut his eyes and started to type. Scary things like words and self-doubt went away when he couldn’t see them. The click-clacking of keys picked up in speed, tap dancing big black letters onto the white of his outdated word processing software. His fingers moved like those of a secretary with an illegitimate child. Desperate yet proud. Independent. Not reliant on no man to pay da billz. Now the ideas were flowing. Maurice Sendak would be jealous. Oh yes he would. Johnny smiled. He didn’t smile often. Well, not in public at least. Children would ask him where his hairnet and ice cream scoop were when he did. Oftentimes he’d find toothbrushes and Carefree gum on his desk in the morning. He suspected the other teachers but he couldn’t be sure. He tried not to let it bother him. After all, he was a writer. A Children’s Storybook Writer. Writers didn’t have to look good. Or brush their teeth.
Johnny’s girlish fingers stopped sashaying all over the keyboard. It was time to see his genius… Yjr bsy g;re pbrt yjr vsbr… and so on. Johnny Craven had found his way off the home row.
Had this ever happened to Maurice Sendak?
Johnny Craven had writer’s block. He’d spent the past hour staring at his autographed copy of Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak. Did Maurice Sendak ever get writer’s block? Probably not. After all, he was Maurice Sendak, author of Where the Wild Things Are… and a bunch of other brilliant children’s books that Johnny Craven didn’t write. But how did Maurice Sendak get so good? He didn’t have his PhD in Children’s Storybook Writing, not like Johnny Craven. Maurice Sendak didn’t spend his weekends attending Children’s Storybook Writing improvement workshops or drawing idea webs on college-rule notebook paper – a highly effective method of brainstorming. No, Maurice Sendak didn’t do any of those things. He won Newberry Medals.
For the first time in an hour, Johnny Craven looked up at his blank Wordperfect document. Microsoft Word was much too costly for second-grade teachers. The cursor blinked. On good nights Johnny imagined it was a pretty lady winking at him over and over again. On bad nights she was still winking, but only because she had something in her eye. Maybe a bug or something. Maybe a Newberry Medal.
Johnny carefully positioned his small fingers on the home row: ASDF JKL; He shut his eyes and started to type. Scary things like words and self-doubt went away when he couldn’t see them. The click-clacking of keys picked up in speed, tap dancing big black letters onto the white of his outdated word processing software. His fingers moved like those of a secretary with an illegitimate child. Desperate yet proud. Independent. Not reliant on no man to pay da billz. Now the ideas were flowing. Maurice Sendak would be jealous. Oh yes he would. Johnny smiled. He didn’t smile often. Well, not in public at least. Children would ask him where his hairnet and ice cream scoop were when he did. Oftentimes he’d find toothbrushes and Carefree gum on his desk in the morning. He suspected the other teachers but he couldn’t be sure. He tried not to let it bother him. After all, he was a writer. A Children’s Storybook Writer. Writers didn’t have to look good. Or brush their teeth.
Johnny’s girlish fingers stopped sashaying all over the keyboard. It was time to see his genius… Yjr bsy g;re pbrt yjr vsbr… and so on. Johnny Craven had found his way off the home row.
Had this ever happened to Maurice Sendak?
posted by Jeff at 1:24 AM
2 Comments:
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
20-30 pages of fiction. Ho-lee shit.
Best of luck on that. I’ve made this comment short for the above reason. There are times when we all spend much more time reading than writing, temporarily unable to balance the two activities.
I don’t know the first thing about screenwriting, only that it’s a format used for telling stories and that some closet hum servicer decreed it the official format for the screen story. William Goldman, as I sure you know, always says that no one knows anything. He’s right, IMHFO.
That said, it looks pretty good to me. Rush jobs usually look shittier.
Post a Comment
<< Home