There's a hurricane coming...

...just another day in the life. I really love this city, and I have never been in the fall. It was hot and muggy in June, the year of Katrina, when I was here last.

And some more of the gulf.

I have yet to walk on the beach in the snow. This is the next best thing. No, THE best. Incidently, is it bad to really like the photo editing software that came with my laptop BETTER than photoshop?

Another guilty update

I really have no excuse for not updating, except maybe that I'm seriously burned out and just lazy. When I should be photographing for National Geographic, I'm doing real estate shoots. But yet I'm getting my fill of theatre; my show is over and auditions are slow.

It is now officially the holidays and right now I'm in New Orleans where it's warm, after having spent most of yesterday walking back and forth on the Florida border. I haven't seen the gulf in a long time. It was wonderful. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, more theraputic than walking along the surf.

I'm underlining everything in 'On Writing,' and now Nanowrimo is underway; I haven't met my quota yesterday, and I'll have to get back on track tomorrow. My story, once again, is suspense with undertones of analogy. Why am I not surprised?

In the swamp...

...and in a tomb.

Tonight: Bourbon Street and tomorrow St. Louis I cemetery. I am not extremely happy with my photo results so far. My expectations are just too high and I'm working on that. I can't expect everything to be pulitzer prize worthy photos. I wonder if I can chance bringing my flash tonight? I will post some pics later on when I get back. Which means I won't post again until next month. Don't hold your breath, my lovely followers.

Guilty updating

It's interesting what makes us change.

Reading Stephen King's On Writing and John Irving's The Water-Method Man, I have reached another realisation on why my work was NOT working.

I tell instead of show. I tell, tell, tell.

I mistakingly think something I write is boring, not realising that it's the WAY I wrote it that made it uninteresting.

So I took a huge chunk out of my first novel, every part I wasn't happy with, and a big burden has been lifted. I'm now actually excited to get involved in it again. Maybe I won't finish it for another ten years, but at least I know what I'm doing wrong. It has become unintentionally autobiographical. The only way to take it further is make it even MORE so. I also realised the GOAL of the story (or character) doesn't have to be especially conclusive. It's a big mushy mess with no conclusion, but isn't that how we ALL are?

Dancing and singing again with The Overdue Theatre. Lady in the Dark in early October. New zoom lens. Shooting Enigma this next week. Auditioned today for Play Dead. Some recent discouragments have me dragging. Went for a walk after the audition in Webster Groves barefoot. I did not take my camera. Why?

Potential => Action => Result => Belief => Potential

This is why.

I promise I will update more. I just want to post some supergood photos from some dramatic shoot that will manifest itself in my basement.

My endeavours with three cups of coffee

Okay, I've figured out why my first drafts are just staying first drafts, and with both novels, I have not actually decided on any kind of major goals or climaxes. Yes, it is because I am so indecisive about my own life and I must reflect that on my characters who have strangely become manifestations of myself. But it is also because I must complicate things. So. Very. Much. Given that my favourite authors are Shirley Jackson, John Irving, Victor Hugo and Orwell, THE most complicated writers ever in my humble opinion, I can see how I'm plauging myself in BOTH NOVELS, trying to write complicated genres fraught with analogy, psychology, and rampant analysis of social class, behaviour and cultural and individual breakdowns. I did not have these concepts in mind when I started writing; I promise. They became so, very quickly, I might add.

Why can't I write a story that is simple?

I can see a thousand ways both stories can end. I can take a thousand things out and bring a thousand different things into them. I can end both tonight, or keep working on them until I go out of my mind. I have picked brains and I've read Walter Mosley's book last night in one hour. No one ever talks about what to do when you can't choose an ending or a middle and you just have way too many options.

Thankfully, in two weeks I will attend a Writer's Guild. I will drag my sorry self to the meeting and therefore try to get some answers. God help them all.

Filming next week. Finally got a IMDb page. Trying to change it so my middle name is included. It takes about 7 days to effectively change. I have been sucked into the monsterous, murderous time-wasting demon of Twitter.

I'm the next Little Nell, I just know it.

Just sitting here trying my best at concentrating on just one thing. I have officially and pathetically been sucked into the world of Twitter (not esp. enthusiastically), but I sit here and nod to myself, yes, it's for the best. After all, I am a killer, cut-throat, hard-core networker. I wish I could get paid for it.

Scheduling auditions this week, and filming for the slasher I'm in will be on Wednesday. Anyone in the St. Louis area should go to the Tivoli and see me in Game of the Year. It's about gaming. Oh yeah. Watch me paint little miniatures with the best of them, baby.

I am completely convinced I am destined to be a B-movie, cult-classic scream-queen. I hear 'My Fair Lady' playing in the next room. I used to watch that movie every single day. Sitting at the piano, wanting to watch it but being forced to practice instead. Yes, I am and have always been a music nerd, but now I have redeemed myself by learning to play electric guitar. Take that, piano teacher from high school who used to antagonize me over the length of my nails.

Still very saddened by the death of Michael Jackson. I can't remember a time when I didn't know who he was. We practiced the dances at slumber parties, my friend sang with him on 'Dangerous,' and we listened the snot out of that.

Friends of mine are touring with their band; they're in San Fransisco now. I have almost decided to just bite the bullet and head out to Fist City this summer.

To keep this an art blog, here's a silly little card I made my mom for her birthday.

A breakthrough...now what?

I was browsing Nathan Bransford's blog tonight and read his post about writer's block. I was reading through the comments, nodding, and then I read something that really made me think (a dangerous pasttime? I know!).

When you have writer's block, that usually means something is wrong.

This made me rethink my own block. I always thought a block was a normal thing, after all, writers get it all the time. I'm in the middle of two stories, one I've been working on for a year and a half, and the other I started the other day. I love these two stories and I hate them. I love to write out scenes, dialogue, desciption...it's the advancement I keep getting stuck on. I kept thinking it was normal, but now I know the reason I'm having trouble.

I don't have clear-cut 'goals' for my main characters. I know I must advance to some kind of conclusion, a climax. I thought I had goals for my characters, but I really don't. And I realized I am just as non-commital with choosing a goal for my characters as MYSELF.

I just read that Stephen King writes out his novels as quickly as possible in order to avoid any blocks and snags. So I opened up the novel I've been working on for over a year in Word and started writing whatever came to mind. And it progressed to be an argument with my main character.

This is what I typed, nothing has been changed, except ME, my 'writer's voice' has been italicized to avoid confusion with the first person main character. Feel free to be confused and shake your head with pity, but this excercise really helped, and I wholeheartedly endorse it:


***
When did this happen? What should I WRITE about now?
“Where is this story going?” I asked. “What do you want me to do now?”
I don’t know. I’m having writers block. In fact, I don’t think it’s ever going to go anywhere.
“Well, what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” I asked.
I have no idea.
“Great,” I muttered. “Just perfect.” I sat down. “I guess I have to just wait here until you think of something, Autumn.”
I guess so.
“Can you at least write me in a boyfriend so I can start making out with him?” I asked hopefully.
It’s not that kind of story. I refrained from writing about love.
“I didn’t say I had to LOVE him,” I said. “I just want to make out with someone. I'm bored. All I do in this story is whine, complain, and make art. What a boring life.”
Okay, fine.
A stranger entered. Tall, dark, amazingly handsome.
“Wow,” I said, eying him up and down. “Now we’re talking.” God, the guy was gorgeous. Was he intelligent, too?
“Hey,” the man said, smiling. “Do you like football?”
“Oh damn,” I groaned, sighing. “No.”
He looked disappointed. “Don’t you have cable? The game’s on now.”
I shook my head. “No.”
The man sighed, also. “Well, now what?”
I shrugged. “I’m just waiting for this chick to get on with the story. So far, it sucks. Nothing happens. She killed off one of the main characters. All I do is whine, complain and do art.”
“Art?” he asked. “Like dogs playing poker?”
I sighed again. “No.”
He looked disappointed. “Oh.”
The room was as silent as a tomb. We just looked all around ourselves, examining the wallpaper and the floor, not knowing what to do, waiting for the scene to progress.
“This is boring,” the man commented.
“Yeah,” I said. “Get used to it.” I looked up. “What do I want? What are my goals?” I was so pissed off; you are supposed to write out my LIFE, I thought. Why wasn’t anything going on? There was no main theme. Everyone knows there has to be a goal. The character has to have a main goal. Do I have one? Nooooo.
I’m sorry.
Whatever, I thought. My goal was to bitch, I thought. To just get bored and frustrated, and that’s not how you win an audience. I think we’re blowing it.
We’re not.
Oh really, I thought. Gimme something, then. Something big. A new goal. A drive from the beginning to the very end. Fuck the twists. Twists aren’t anything compared to main theme and character goal.
I don’t have one yet. I don’t know what to do. What do you think your goal is?
I don’t know, I thought angrily. I’m not in charge here. But…maybe I want something I didn’t know existed. Maybe it's more than NOT wanting to be mediocre. That’s one of the themes, right? But maybe I want something else.
What?
I don’t know! You're the writer! What would YOU want if you’re torn in between the fear of actually throwing away your dreams and succumbing to your fears of the unknown? It sounds like a theme to me.
Yes, but is it an obvious theme? A theme people can identify with?
I don’t know, I thought. Maybe. Just maybe.
“Hey,” the hot guy said. “Where do I come into this?”
“You don’t,” I told him. “You are just eye candy.”
“Oh,” he said. He picked up the sports section that was lying on the table.
I can’t finish anything, I thought. I can’t commit to ONE final conclusion. ONE ending. This is bad.
I know. What are we going to do?
WE? I thought. You’re writing ME. You’re in charge, here, not me. I just do what you write me to do. And so far, I’m not impressed.
Sorry. I’m stuck. I don’t know where I’m going.
“Make a list,” I suggested out loud. “I don’t know how you can read my thoughts anyway…oh, yeah.”
Whatever. I don’t make lists.
“Maybe you SHOULD,” I said pointedly. “That might fix everything.”
I’m too commitment phobic to commit to a goal, an ending, a conclusion…a list.
“I know,” I said. “It’s hard. But just choose. Just commit. Don’t be afraid. Fear just cuts off your legs so you’re paralyzed. It cuts out your eyes so you don’t have to see the truth. Why are people so afraid of the truth?”
I don’t know.
“Maybe that could be a theme,” I suggested. “A theme about the fear of realizing the truth.”
What should the truth about this story be about?
“Well,” I began, “let’s see. So far, I’m a struggling artist who is torn between genres of art. That’s not very a strong theme. I think you should make me a writer early on.”
I agree.
“Just mention that I did photography. It’s too muddled to have both on the table. What should my goal be, then?”
I don’t know.
“Come on! What do I want? It’s right in front of your face!”
I don’t know, I told you!
“Just think!” I yelled. “What are my hopes, my dreams, my fears? What do I want most than anything else in the world? What?”
I…lemme think…
“STOP thinking,” I said. “Just write. Write it now. What do I want? More than anything? You know ME. You’ve written me for over a year now. You know my every thought. You are my creator. You made me up and gave me situations, not many of them, but you destroyed me by taking away the person I idolized. And you made me unsatisfied with myself. Undisciplined. Misunderstood. Discontent. With what? Why am I unhappy? What exactly is keeping me from realizing my goal? What IS my goal? What do I want?”
What you want…
“More than anything,” I added. “You should know this by now. You know me better than anyone. Is it because you don’t know what you want yourself? You’re discontent because you think you’re superior, and you think you’ll be happy when people consider you to be a genius?”
Maybe.
“Well, stop it,” I said. “It’s NOT going to make you happy. Whether you go to Europe or if you have a monument erected in your name. None of that makes anyone happy. You should know this. You are so conceited.” I rolled my eyes.
Then what should I do?
“I think,” I said slowly, “that you should go to the Improv thing at The Loft tonight, and think about it. And sleep on it. Think long and hard about what I might want in life. Because you might just want the same thing."

***
Basically, I wrote this without stopping. Today, my entire "real writing time" has produced about three pages, written intermittently between a million phone calls, three cups of coffee, a million email checks, and a few blog logins. Later on I wrote this crap above, the argument with my main character (which is about three pages) in about a minute and a half.

I am only happy writing when it flows as well as I can argue with myself. I found it immensely amusing to write. I spent the entire trip to the Loft trying to pinpoint my main character's ACTUAL goal. What would make her happy? What does she WANT? What will she do if she doesn't get it? Why should we CARE? Maybe the reason she doesn't have an ultimate goal is because *I* don't have an ultimate goal. I can't commit to one, single, final main theme and character goal because I myself have a fear of commitment. I have put myself much too far into this character without realizing it. I have also realized that writing is a burden when I'm not letting it flow. I get immediately caught up in making it concise, perfect. I don't let myself just have fun and write it out like I was experiencing it.

What the heat can do to you

Before my shoot yesterday I wandered a bit in the heat. Ugh...


I love the Subterranean Bookstore.








And now for something we hope you'll really like. This is a stained-glass my mom made when she was younger. I "inherited" it recently. I keep telling her to make more, but she says the materials she used are no longer legal, meaning "toxic."


I got my dad the coolest book for father's day. 'World War II: 365 Days.' Photographs taken from the library of congress, drawings by children in Germany, Austria, etc., controversial illustrations, propaganda posters, military photographs, polititians, you name it.

This is a photograph taken by Toni Frissell.

Benito Mussolini and his mistress.

I wish I could scan pictures directly from the book, and I have tried to find the best ones on the internet. Unfortunately, the best ones do not exist in cyberspace, and the photographers/artists are unidentified. The photos are beautiful, horrible, horrifying and amazing.

Incidently, I cleaned off my desk where my sewing machine had been; I only sew when I HAVE to, which made the machine's demotion rather inevitable. I now have a place to actually WRITE. I have set aside my one novel and started on another, which is now bearing much similarity to my OTHER author-idol, Shirley Jackson. I MUST stop trying to write like my idol-authors.

I have pinpointed my writing problems as such: I am easily distracted, I get ahead of myself, and I am very impatient. I kind of know where to go with a story, but the stuff that makes up the inside of the story, the day-to-day happenings in the character's life that may not have anything to do the main point or the outcome is where I get stuck. Also, when does one know if a twist is taken too far?