They say that in order to be able to write well, you should write what you know.
So, honestly, with people like this guy still kicking about, what the hell am I doing with my time?
Writing
Time Wasters
Posted by lorin, June 3rd, 2008 in
Writing
Posted by lorin, March 4th, 2008 in
They say when you write on a laptop you should look away from the screen at particular intervals.
I never do.
So guess what. Someone invented a computer program that tells you when to take breaks! It's great! You install the program, you write for a bit, and then the computer reminds you every now and then to take a short (fifteen second) break, looking away from the screen. It does this by stopping everything you're doing and displaying a picture of a zen-like yoga dude doing a meditation pose. Then what happens is that you get back into your writing and just as you've entered a deeper level of creative consciousness, up comes the image of the zen dude. So you stop what you were doing and look out the window. You think about something else. You get distracted. You remember what you were doing and you go back to your work. Enter new creative zone... zen guy... window gazing... distraction... back to work.
Then it does it for TEN MINUTES WHEN YOU HAVE A DEADLINE AND IT IS ONE IN THE MORNING AND I TELL YOU WHAT, my friends, there is nothing - NOTHING! - more smug than a zen like yoga dude meditating in the middle of an EXTREMELY focussed moment of concentration.
Then - as if mocking me further - zen dude maintains his inner calm as I swear and get annoyed and grow further from my zen ideal towards a mental, frenzied, uncontrollable writer with no discipline.
But anyway. It was a nice thought.
They say when you write on a laptop you should look away from the screen at particular intervals.
I never do.
So guess what. Someone invented a computer program that tells you when to take breaks! It's great! You install the program, you write for a bit, and then the computer reminds you every now and then to take a short (fifteen second) break, looking away from the screen. It does this by stopping everything you're doing and displaying a picture of a zen-like yoga dude doing a meditation pose. Then what happens is that you get back into your writing and just as you've entered a deeper level of creative consciousness, up comes the image of the zen dude. So you stop what you were doing and look out the window. You think about something else. You get distracted. You remember what you were doing and you go back to your work. Enter new creative zone... zen guy... window gazing... distraction... back to work.
Then it does it for TEN MINUTES WHEN YOU HAVE A DEADLINE AND IT IS ONE IN THE MORNING AND I TELL YOU WHAT, my friends, there is nothing - NOTHING! - more smug than a zen like yoga dude meditating in the middle of an EXTREMELY focussed moment of concentration.
Then - as if mocking me further - zen dude maintains his inner calm as I swear and get annoyed and grow further from my zen ideal towards a mental, frenzied, uncontrollable writer with no discipline.
But anyway. It was a nice thought.
Casting
Posted by lorin, February 12th, 2008 in
The audition process is now over.
Over a hundred people auditioned for only three roles.
Casting is so hard. It’s just so hard. I’m exhausted.
Also, I’d love to go to Federation Square tomorrow morning to see the government apologise to the indigenous people, but I’ve got writing to do. I’m writing about historically important days in history. Ironic, no?
The audition process is now over.
Over a hundred people auditioned for only three roles.
Casting is so hard. It’s just so hard. I’m exhausted.
Also, I’d love to go to Federation Square tomorrow morning to see the government apologise to the indigenous people, but I’ve got writing to do. I’m writing about historically important days in history. Ironic, no?
What's sad
Posted by lorin, February 10th, 2008 in
You know what’s sad?
It’s really sad that when I’m at home writing, I like it when the washing machine is buzzing away in the back room. It makes me feel less lonely.
The washing machine is my friend.
That’s right up there, I reckon.
That, and the fact that I think a variation in tea flavours is an exciting highlight of the day. I’m switching from Earl to Lady Grey next. It’s going to be awesome.
You know what’s sad?
It’s really sad that when I’m at home writing, I like it when the washing machine is buzzing away in the back room. It makes me feel less lonely.
The washing machine is my friend.
That’s right up there, I reckon.
That, and the fact that I think a variation in tea flavours is an exciting highlight of the day. I’m switching from Earl to Lady Grey next. It’s going to be awesome.
The small joys
Posted by lorin, February 7th, 2008 in
Dear lady in the coffee shop near my house, You know not what you do.
When I arrive betracksuitpanted, hair assunder, ahead of a morning of solitary script writing and an afternoon of frenzied bursts of people auditionining… you know not what you do.
When you dive across your shop towards the coffee machine and reach for the extra large cup as soon as you see me enter the shop… you know not what you do.
When you slip an extra croissant in my brown paper bag “just in case”… you know not what you do.
It’s the small joys, it’s the simple ones, it’s that kickstart to a day I thought was going to be business only.
I think if I went in there wearing a suit and looking less like the frayed end of a tether, you might charge me full price and take your time.
You are nice lady and I hope the people close to you are as nice as you are to me.
Also, your croissants are very nice.
Dear lady in the coffee shop near my house, You know not what you do.
When I arrive betracksuitpanted, hair assunder, ahead of a morning of solitary script writing and an afternoon of frenzied bursts of people auditionining… you know not what you do.
When you dive across your shop towards the coffee machine and reach for the extra large cup as soon as you see me enter the shop… you know not what you do.
When you slip an extra croissant in my brown paper bag “just in case”… you know not what you do.
It’s the small joys, it’s the simple ones, it’s that kickstart to a day I thought was going to be business only.
I think if I went in there wearing a suit and looking less like the frayed end of a tether, you might charge me full price and take your time.
You are nice lady and I hope the people close to you are as nice as you are to me.
Also, your croissants are very nice.
Being Boring
Posted by lorin, January 29th, 2008 in
When I first started working for a production company (I was a glorified secretary at the time) I was taught about the central tension in all production companies between development and production. You’re either developing a project (writing it, in my case) or producing it (filming it, directing it for stage etc). I was told production is always better. The aim is to constantly be in production. Why? Because developing projects means you’re poor and you’re boring.
WHO WANTS TO BE POOR AND BORING?
Sure, being ONE of those things might be okay, but BOTH? But it’s true. If you spend your whole time developing stuff (for little or no money) then everyone gets sick of hearing what you’re going to do, and how little money you have to do it. Or, to bring it back to me (always) if you spend your whole time writing, people think you’re biding time in between your “real” projects (ie the stuff they see on stage/screen) and they think it’s very boring of you to go home and write your imaginary thing that doesn’t exist yet.
The mistake some people make is to tip the balance too far the other way and go into production with a not very good idea they haven’t thought about at all which means that they’re exciting, well-paid, and memorably shithouse. This of course says a lot about how arts funding works, but old Pandora should be left out of this for the moment.
THE POINT IS (yes please) that when I’m working on development, rather than production, I am THE most boring woman on earth. I don’t see anyone, I don’t go anywhere, I just sit in a room and write and then once a week I have a production meeting with Rits and Stew WHO ARE MY ONLY FRIENDS. I have a coffee from the same place each day and sometimes, AS A TREAT, I buy flavoured mineral water. FLAVOURED MINERAL WATER. TREAT. If I ever go anywhere, I’m late because I was in the middle of something. I am always “nearly finished”. I am always “coming in a tic”. Stew, whose job title at Standing There Productions (production coordinator) has never fully encompassed what he does, has gone ahead and suggested a title for himself: Head Waiter.
It is the devastating accuracy of the title that wounds me so.
I’m sorry, friends and family. I will totally make up for it when we’re in production. You watch me go.
*gets mystery illness*
When I first started working for a production company (I was a glorified secretary at the time) I was taught about the central tension in all production companies between development and production. You’re either developing a project (writing it, in my case) or producing it (filming it, directing it for stage etc). I was told production is always better. The aim is to constantly be in production. Why? Because developing projects means you’re poor and you’re boring.
WHO WANTS TO BE POOR AND BORING?
Sure, being ONE of those things might be okay, but BOTH? But it’s true. If you spend your whole time developing stuff (for little or no money) then everyone gets sick of hearing what you’re going to do, and how little money you have to do it. Or, to bring it back to me (always) if you spend your whole time writing, people think you’re biding time in between your “real” projects (ie the stuff they see on stage/screen) and they think it’s very boring of you to go home and write your imaginary thing that doesn’t exist yet.
The mistake some people make is to tip the balance too far the other way and go into production with a not very good idea they haven’t thought about at all which means that they’re exciting, well-paid, and memorably shithouse. This of course says a lot about how arts funding works, but old Pandora should be left out of this for the moment.
THE POINT IS (yes please) that when I’m working on development, rather than production, I am THE most boring woman on earth. I don’t see anyone, I don’t go anywhere, I just sit in a room and write and then once a week I have a production meeting with Rits and Stew WHO ARE MY ONLY FRIENDS. I have a coffee from the same place each day and sometimes, AS A TREAT, I buy flavoured mineral water. FLAVOURED MINERAL WATER. TREAT. If I ever go anywhere, I’m late because I was in the middle of something. I am always “nearly finished”. I am always “coming in a tic”. Stew, whose job title at Standing There Productions (production coordinator) has never fully encompassed what he does, has gone ahead and suggested a title for himself: Head Waiter.
It is the devastating accuracy of the title that wounds me so.
I’m sorry, friends and family. I will totally make up for it when we’re in production. You watch me go.
*gets mystery illness*
If you live next to a writer…
Posted by lorin, January 27th, 2008 in
A few good reasons why the Bundanon artist residency is going to be grouse:
If you live next door to a writer…
1. Please don’t own a drum kit.
2. If in breach of rule #1, please don’t bring your contraband drum kit out into the backyard at three in the morning to just bang it about a bit for the sake of it when persons are trying to get a specific number of hours’ sleep under their belt so they can write early in the morning.
3. Please don’t steal other people’s rubbish bins. Writers have rubbish too.
4. If you absolutely must have loud conversations right outside where writers do their work, please make the conversations intriguing and refer whenever possible to love triangles, criminal pasts, missing persons and/or secret identities.
5. If you are a mute mime-artist, please move into my street.
That is all.
A few good reasons why the Bundanon artist residency is going to be grouse:
If you live next door to a writer…
1. Please don’t own a drum kit.
2. If in breach of rule #1, please don’t bring your contraband drum kit out into the backyard at three in the morning to just bang it about a bit for the sake of it when persons are trying to get a specific number of hours’ sleep under their belt so they can write early in the morning.
3. Please don’t steal other people’s rubbish bins. Writers have rubbish too.
4. If you absolutely must have loud conversations right outside where writers do their work, please make the conversations intriguing and refer whenever possible to love triangles, criminal pasts, missing persons and/or secret identities.
5. If you are a mute mime-artist, please move into my street.
That is all.