Austin Screenwriters Conference: Man-up Edition

While attending the Austin Screenwriters Conference one of the people I spoke with was a fellow aspiring screenwriter and blogger. He told me that he stopped blogging because he thought that industry people might see it and notice that he's been at it for over five years. In his mind, that span of time showed how long he's been at it without "making it". That somehow it indicated that his shelf life as a screenwriter had already passed, that he'd be viewed as stale in some way. Having yet to have "made it" I can't really offer any insight to the validity of this thinking. All I know is who I am and what I do. And what I do, for better or worse, is let it hang out. We all have our secrets and I'm no exception, but I can safely say that my secret drawer is smaller than most, a sock drawer at best. That's the long, circuitous way of prefacing . . .

I've never felt like more of a failure and poser as I did before arriving in Austin this year. My latest script, the one I was so high on, the one that would cause Glenn Beck and Obama to embrace as knowing brothers crashed and burned in both of the major screenwriting contests. Even though I know that all contests are subjective crap shoots. Even though I know that depending on these contests for validation is a recipe for disaster. Even though I know that relying on them to get you some sort of traction is just shy of winning the lottery I still looked to them as some sort of yard stick. I felt my talent had grown since writing my football drama (which might have its flaws but after talking with some football-minded strangers I came away more confident than ever that if I could get the right person in a room they'd believe in the idea, but I digress) and I deserved some recognition damn it. Instead I was left to wallow in a pool of my own uncertainty which, as it turns out, is fed by a bottomless spring of self-loathing and doubt.

At Austin I was greeted by what now are old friends, friends that I see but once a year but are friends nonetheless. It's always a joy to hoist a bottle of Shiner with them and revel in the moment. This year was a lean year, and there were fewer there than I'd have liked (I drank with them in spirit). But the real story is the others. The other people that I see year after year and never talk to. I don't know how talented they are. I don't know their stories.

Here's where I turn into a judgmental asshole. The only thing I am certain as sin about is that they will never be professional screenwriters. They haunt the Driskill for four days but never really make any lasting connections. They are rarely, if ever, seen talking to any industry professionals. They just hover and pretend to be actively engaged in starting a writing career, when the sad fact is that they are secretly hoping that some producer will pick them out of the crowd and ask to see their work.

I'm scared shitless that I'm turning into one.

Maybe everyone there has the same loathing feeling. Forever stuck on the outside looking in. Having people look at them and think, "Damn, I wish that guy knew how pathetic he is. Just go home and write fan-fiction already." While I do my best to stamp them out, the thoughts linger, waiting for a chance to punch me in the face. I hope someone has the pity to tap me on the shoulder and tell me to get moving before I turn into one of the Driskill's walking dead.

This year I arrived with the desire to meet some new people and get to talking with some industry professionals, more than I have in previous years. I succeeded. On a scale of 0 to 10 I moved from a 0.5 to around 3. Progress to be sure, but not nearly enough. I try to be more personable. I wish I could be loose and free with my words and be the affable guy that I am around my close friends, but I find that near impossible. I wonder if it's possible at all. Maybe it's just not me. My friend Brett sits down and writes notes every night he's there to remind him that he's on a business trip. I wonder if I need to find a way to remind myself that I need to loosen up and have fun (and the good stuff will follow naturally).

One thing is for sure. If I step foot in the Driskill lounge again, it will be with a clear purpose. I'm not afraid to ask for help. I've spent the last five years honing my craft (and I'll continue to do that for sure), but I've got to stop hiding behind the idea that I'm developing my skills and be brave enough to show the world that this is the writer I am, and it's good enough.

Time to man-up.

Peeing on Stones

This year, for the first time, I arrived at the Austin Screenwriter's Conference alone. Without my good friend Ryan there I had no one to joke with, to commune with, to be nostalgic with. Instead I was free to think about all the possibilities that would unfurl before me, enriching my life in untold ways.

That lasted a full ten minutes.

OK. It wasn't that bad, but I can't deny that I approached this conference with a mixture of elation and dread. Elation because I knew I would surely have a good time. Dread because I established metrics for success that were outside my comfort zone. It's also a familiar dread that comes from the first lunch period on the first day of school where you fret about whether or not you will eat lunch in solitude for the next year. Will my friends be there, or will I be forced to roam the halls of the Driskill alone cursing myself yet again for not being able to engage my targets?

When I arrived in Austin I was already behind the eight ball after leaving my business cards at home. Then I registered and found out that I couldn't use the pitch I spit-polished on the flight over because the pitch competition was sold out. Then I find out that the conference had meaningful programming right into Sunday evening when I was slated to come home early Sunday morning. Before the conference could even start I already felt like I was starting with a deficit that seemed impossible to overcome.

I wandered through the Driskill Lounge two or three times search for familiar faces, feeling like some desperate schmuck. Finally I sat at the bar, ordered a Shiner, and turned to watch the Phillies contend for spot in the World Series. I knew things would get better, but that provided me with little solace.

In the fifth inning my girlfriend called and I wandered from the bar so I could talk to her. On the way out of the lounge I saw Brett, Julie, and Shawna chatting on a rawhide sofa. Suddenly I felt better, like I had just fallen into a groove. I finished talking to my girlfriend, but before I joined my comrades I went to the bathroom.

As I entered the restroom I saw them. Stones. Then I peed on them. And it was good.

I had forgotten about them. The fancy Driskill peeing stones. Why the rich and privileged at the Driskill pee on stones I will never know, but they do. Perhaps putting stones in a urinal somehow signifies the domestication of the outdoors. For me it was the mechanism that brought me into the moment, made me realize that I've been here before and will be again and that I'm better for the experience.

I went back to my friends and joked and communed and remembered years past. These are good people that I somehow stumbled into four years ago, almost cosmically, just the kind of good people you need if you are to strive against the waves that batter and smash so many aspiring writers. It's the kind of solidarity you need to gain a handhold in this business.

Once again the Austin Screenwriter's Conference (in whatever form) provided me with the strength needed to push on, to give me the optimism that one day I will write something special enough to be beaten back to ordinary by the studio system. A girl can dream.

The Ride Home

The best thing about the Austin Screenwriters Conference and Film festival is the trip home. Before y'all storm my castle (and I do have a castle), the conference was great. I met some new people and met up with old friends and had a smashing time. The conference never disappoints and always succeeds in refueling my zest for writing.

So what's all this about the trip home? Well, after four intense days of this screenwriting stuff my mind becomes jammed with information. It's not until the ride home when I'm forced to sit and stare at the back of the plane seat in front of me that my mind kind of loosens and relaxes. Ideas start flooding my mind, and new ideas emerge. Last year, two new script ideas seeped out of my cranium. This year, I think one of the missing pieces that was keeping Win from rising to the next level popped into my mind like it had always been there.

Now, I'd hope that i don't need to spend a grand every time that I need a breakthrough, so I thought about why this happens and part of the answer came to me*. The last time I remember this happening was on the way home from a screenwriting class. The class was over an hour from home and left me with a lot of idle time to think. I think there is something about coming together with a group and sharing ideas and getting your brain thinking about screenwriting. You wind it up and then just think about other things or nothing.

In all of these scenarios my friend Ryan was on the trip along with me. It could be that the act of talking screenwriting on the way home freed pathways of the mind. I wonder if I spent time reading about screenwriting and then went for a walk or a leisurely bike ride that ideas would suddenly solidify. I think it would have to be something short. A nugget of suggestion that you could read in a few minutes. Something that could get my mind on the right screenwriting track so that my mind wasn't consumed by the minutia of every day life. I'll have to do some experimenting, because I'd like to turn these fits of creativity into something I can do by merely turning on my PC and thinking about stories.

I'll write more after I've done some experimenting...


* Yes, on the way home as well.