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Writing
From the Real World I’ve been thinking a lot about my friend Mike. Mike’s one of the best people I know: a talented writer with several unpublished Science Fiction novels and little ego about the whole thing; a guy who’s worked hard all his life to do good in the world, who’s supported several ecological and cultural diversity causes, who speaks several languages, including hard ones like Japanese and some Native American languages, and is one of my favorite persons to just sit around and B.S. with. He’s one of the few people I’ve met who should be in this world, and he’s dying. I’m angry right now. The rage is sitting there at the base of my neck, waiting for me to let it loose. I’m angry because, in all likelihood, I’m about to lose a friend to cancer, and the enormity of that looming loss is frightening. I’ve lost people before: my father was a victim of random street crime; one friend was murdered in her sleep, another committed suicide to escape abuse. One friend died on a motorcycle, another of old age. The list goes on. All of them are a piece of the framework of my consciousness. Sometimes, I feel like all of them are hovering outside my window. When Mike e-mailed to tell me what was up, I couldn’t feel a thing. I read the e-mail over and over. Then I closed it, and walked away from the computer. I couldn’t even register the enormity of it. The next morning, I read it again. And again. And again. I thought of a Grant Morrison story, where he mentions a man who turned his cancer cells into familiars. I e-mailed Mike back, and proceeded to cry for what felt like hours. And even as I pray to God for whatever chemotherapeutic or holistic remedies can avail themselves, I can feel the loss of him simmering, and it is almost too much to bear. And all I can do is write. Snap ideas into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, construct a world where at least part of him will live forever. So tell me, why do you write? I won’t speak for anyone else, but I write because I’m angry. There’s a deep-seated, burning rage in my gut, a rage like a Colorado wildfire. The kind of rage I can’t extinguish, that I can only contain at all through the act of writing. No, I’m not entirely sure how that works, either. All I know is that, even on the best of days, I’m often only one sentence away from it. Like, if the noise of typing dissipates, I’ll ignite like dry wood. Some days, I feel like as long as I can keep typing, I can keep the people I’ve lost alive just a little bit longer. Like they’re not really gone if I can formulate one more sentence. Some days. But even that’s probably not the entire truth. I don’t even know what the entire truth is, but there’s something compelling about taking this rage and harnessing it to forge something out of insubstantial words that’s truly beautiful. Because within all that anger and heartache and loss is a reminder of what it means to be alive. (Victor D. Infante is a regular contributor to OC Weekly and The Worcester InCity Times, and is seeking representation for his screenplay, “Nihilist Chic.” Visit him on the web at http://www.quantumredhead.com/victor.) (c) Victor D. Infante 2002 hollywood ; film producers ; film scripts ; writing contests ; production finance ; film distribution ; sitcoms ; film production ; writing for television ; soaps ; distribution de films ; scenarios pour television ; script consulting ; film festivals ; hollywood jobs ; find an agent ; drehbuch schreiben ; filmschulen ; filmproduktion ; fernsehen ; finance pour films ; film schools ; drehbuchautoren ; festivals de film ; scenarios ; scenaristes ; nouvelle de film ; filmnachrichten ; film news ; film reviews ; publishing ; book reviews ; theatre reviews ; broadway ; filmproduzenten ; entertainment industry jobs ; learn screenwriting; write screenplays ; film school ; hollywood gossip ; hollywood award ceremonies ; |