Brainstorming...

Wow, last post in april. That's pathetic. Anyway, this blog won't be used very much except to wrote down little idea here and there.

So I was talking to my self in chat - Mer, Marty, JS and the gang were all in bed - as I should be too, but I digress, I was talking to myself about this thing I'm writing. It's sad how I, a writer with Final Draft at her finger tips can only open up MS Word and jot down a few ideas, but then, that's what brainstorming's all about, ideas.

So what I have so far is a story about parenting ... I don't think I quite understand my story, I'll have to get it put in perspective by my grandmom or mom and see what they think, but what I have so far is this:

Ethan - the protaginist - after a series of adventures, finds' himself on an island with his true father, the one who orchestrated all the events leading up to this one moment. See, Xander - Ethans' stepbrother - was meant as an attractant for Ethan, so that Ethan's true father could finally have both his sons together and join with him, spiritually and physically. But Ethan despised the fact that his father was a man who would do anything to get what he wanted - which was basically, his two boys.

Ethan, being biased and close minded to what his father was rejects his father for a number of reasons. Killing his mother in his conception, killing his father's mistress, killing all those people on the jet just so that he could awaken Ethan's stepfather's child which was still in the belly of his dead mistress, killing his father, and now - the last straw- asking him to give up his human life for what Ethan considers to be no true life at all.

I continue here myself with the father's grief over his sons rejection and sics his brother on Ethan. There is a fight - quite Oidepal, I guess, perhaps not Oeidipal, probably more just the Osiris/Seth tryst, the battle between brothers, and Xander is more his father's son than Ethan. Ethan in attempting to kill Xander - or rather defend himself, stabs instead, his father. They collapse together onto the beach as Ethan, suddenly overcome with guilt tries to comfort his father who says with a weak smile, "Son, this is all I ever wanted all along." And Ethan looks at his gands, realizing his father's blood is all over them, so he says, "What does this mean? What does this mean, you bastard??" There he turns instantly vicious as he knows something's horribly wrong then Xander comes up behind him and takes him in a violent bear hug. They both turn into water and flush down into the beach and ...now I'm stuck - is this the end? Does the son become the father? Should there be some turn of luck and Ethan somehow defeats Xander/Father and returns to his normal being? What? I'll think it up later...anyway, It's time for Golden Girls.

Dear Aspiring

John Irving said "The way you define yourself as a writer is that you write every time you have a free minute. If you didn't behave that way you would never do anything."

That's what I intend to be; a writer. Writing is an escape for me - when I'm down or when I'm bored, or simply when I want my hand to do something. But that's not all. It's a spiritual action - especially depending on what one is writing. If I'm writing poetry, chances are, my mood is at it's most spiritual - afterwards I get into my religious book and say my prayers, etc.

I come from a familey of writers. My parents are writers - my father - although I don't know him - seems too to be one. I suppose it's the gene, the literary force behind the act of one reading that seeps into the genes and causes the children to want to do the same. My mother said that when I was a baby, she used to bring home giant books for me to read and I'd flip through the huge pages as If I was actually reading them. It's to my parents - as well as God, that I give thanks for helping me to understand the craft of writing. I can only hope I have "The Gift" for it.

My hope is to, as soon as I get into college, get into film school, see how I like working behind the camera. I'd even try my hand at directing - though I think you have to be kind of outgoing for that and I am a bit shy. Film has recently in this stage of my life captivated me, made me wonder. Ever since the first time I saw Suddenly Last Summer, when I was caught up in the action of Mission Impossible, when I discovered the "Truth" of the X-files. Although I find Hollywood itself to be a very worldly and godless place, I feel that that act of creating the film itself is rewarding spiritually - especially if what you are writing and filming about has a message within it. People go to the movies for one of four reasons: To be uplifted, to be scared, to be entertained and to learn. Upliftion, entertainment and learning I believe to be the most important of these. Horror is nothing; It's mindless fluff; but even horror can have a message - if it's pulled off well. Rosemary's baby is one of these, and few others I can't recall at the moment. As a screenwriter, you create a mood, a time, a place, and characters for the mood, time and place and you send them on a journey. That journey can be hopeless, spiritual, bogus, terrifying or completly pointless. As a filmmaker, you bring that world from paper to life, to the big screen, to the people who then gleen what they gleen from it, (often in humourously condescending articles.) I think that is very - for lack of a more sophisticated sounding word - Cool.

This blog is mostly for me - for me to post a poem I might wrote - a song I hum to myself one day - a prayer - or to write. This is one of my free minutes. I hoep to have many, many more.

This really doesn't have much to do with this thing I've written but it always makes me feel better somehow to read this poem. The Cloud, By Percy Bysshe Shelley is one of my favorites. It's wet and lonsesome, wild and quiet, thoughtful and quick. It also happens to be what my second middle name means. This is the last part of the poem:
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I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.