Last fall I took a writing workshop with Daniel Wallace, a man who knows a thing or two about bringing books to the big screen. The film rights to Wallace’s novel, “Big Fish”, was purchased by Columbia Pictures. Steven Spielberg sat on the project for a while but it was Tim Burton who eventually directed Ewan McGregor in the starring role.
When Wallace started applauding the talents of the screenwriter who adapted the novel, John August (Corpse Bride, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory), I felt a little smug and did a knowing nod. I’ve followed August and his blog for a few years now and lately I find myself hanging onto his every word.
Last week August blogged “in defense of fake tears”. It’s about writing as acting and about feeling your way through it all. “One basic goal of creative writing,” said August, “is to evoke a desired response.”
He said this too:
“Screenwriters are basically actors who do their work on the page rather than the stage. Both professions earn their keep by pretending things are much different than they are. Actors ignore the lights and cameras and missing walls. Writers ignore the missing everything, summoning locations and characters to enact scenes which they can later transcribe….Actors and writers are trying to create moments that feel true, despite being completely invented….Experiencing the moment is what writers do, too.” – John August
Last month I put on a pair of roller skates for the first time in twenty years. It’s this whole Yes Man thing I’m trying. I loved it. I mean, I still think skating backward is nothing short of sorcery. But I’m really geared up for my next trip to the rink. And I desperately want to drag my sister along with me. Because that would just be the best date ever.
For some reason, every time I look at photos of Flynn and me from our EPIC ADVENTURE WEEKEND, I break out in BABOOSHKA and arabesque around the living room. “Babooshka…Babooshku…Babooshku…” See. Told you.
Happy Birthday Bunny.
I love you.
B.
xx
p.s.
A squirrel took this photo.
I am dead serious.
Before he became “The Darcy to End All Darcys” the ridiculously talented and RADA-trained Matthew Macfadyen contributed to the DVD ‘Essential Poems (To Fall In Love By)’.
A naughty little someone has posted his readings to YouTube.
I am very glad of it.
W.B. Yeats.
When You Are Old.
Read by Matthew Macfadyen.
William Carlos Williams.
This is Just to Say.
Read by Matthew Macfadyen.
William Shakespeare.
Sonnet 29.
Read by Matthew Macfadyen.
When I think of everything there is to know and learn, I get so excited my stomach hurts.
This evening Steph and I went for sushi but had profiteroles and petite fours instead. Then we watched The Hours and talked about Virginia Woolf and listened to the radio broadcast she did for the BBC in 1937. After that we looked through the photo album of Virginia’s father, Leslie Stephen, and wondered at paintings by her sister Vanessa.
We decided to read Mrs Dalloway together and then to buy “Afterwords: Letters on the Death of Virginia Woolf”, but only once. We reminisced about our time in Bloomsbury when we walked past the Tavistock Hotel every morning and every night and sat in Gordon Square just because our feet hurt and we could.
There are too many things I want to read and so much more I want to say but my stomach really does hurt from the profiteroles and I’m just flat out tired. The lady in the photo is Julia Jackson Duckworth Stephen, Virginia’s mother. Something about her reminds me of my own mother when she was young. I think it’s the eyes.
There’s really no way to take a photo with Flynn and not look like a squat little frog with Hitler-Hair (I’m not doing it on purpose, I swear.)
So here’s the thing: When feeling frog-like I’ve found it best to channel the Monty Python troupe and just act FaR TOo SilLY.
With that in mind, observe, fair readers, My Walk in Progress, through which I apply for funding from the Ministry itself. Please note: I can log eleven miles on my left leg alone.
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.
The Euro and I fell into an Asian Food Coma this evening and slept for three hours. One of those really satisfying and comforting sleeps where everything is just right. Then we got up and ate Swiss chocolate and watched House and I gotta say…it was a good day.
On Saturday we spent the day with Steph et al and I came home with dozens of photos of Dumplin…and these two. My Euro and My Chica. Steph and I both have the Nikon love going on and are all the time mugging for the camera. This is one of the few recent images I have of The Euro and me where he’s not pulling one of his creative character faces. Unfortunately, I look a bit like Droopy Dog. But there we are.
I’m exhausted. And my brain’s just not working right for me today. It wont sit still. I also keep tasting salt. I worry it’s some kind of aura, because that’s what it usually is. Every neurological episode I’ve ever had (my brain’s way faulty) has been proceeded by the inexplicable and lingering taste of salt or the smell of street-coffee. Weird but totally true. At the moment the only diagnostic tool at my disposal is to wash my mouth out with sugar and see if the savory still lingers. To this end I plan on eating tons of chocolate. Medicinal. See?
I also plan on watching whatever’s on television tonight. The Euro’s away interviewing a serial killer (don’t ask) and I don’t have the head for Chekhov or the eyeball dexterity for Dostoyevsky – I’m really into my Russians right now.
Last night I went to hear Elizabeth Strout speak. Of course, she won the Pulitzer this year, and I’ll go on about that later. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the incredible calming presence she seems to carry around with her. I’m not sure how to describe it, but the tone of her person is very much like the tone of her writing. If you’ve read her work that may make sense. Just a very lovely and unaffected woman. The only time I’ve felt still this week. It was a delight to hear her speak.
