NaNoWriMo: Day 22

I find myself in an impossible situation. The word count deficit is so high I’m afraid it will tip over and swallow me in an avalanche of imaginary adjectives and commas. Everyone knows imaginary words hurt more than those written and I have little tolerance for pain. And I can’t numb myself with alcohol because I’ve given up hangovers for Thanksgiving.

Most importantly, I’m pretty certain that the 50,000 word novel I’m supposed to  I will have finished on December 1 at midnight will not make any sense to human beings. Zombies on the other hand are going to identify with the completely vacant plot and dead characters.

At least I found my niche.

To celebrate, I’ve created a fantastic playlist to torture myself to as NaNoWriMo winds down. It’s likely to be the most interesting project I produced all month.

  1. “Mundo Bizarro,” by Electro Dub Tango
  2. “Dance Me to the End of Love,” by Madeleine Peyroux
  3. “Always Like This,” by Bombay Bicycle Club
  4. “Sloop John B,” by The Beach Boys
  5. “Time of the Season,” by The Zombies
  6. “Hide and Seek,” By Imogen Heap
  7. “Lost In My Mind,” The Head and the Heart
  8. “Walk on the Wild Side,” Lou Reed
  9. “BomBom,” by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis
  10. “American Nomad,” by The Apache Relay
  11. “Asleep,” by The Smiths
  12. “Time of No Reply,” by Nick Drake
  13. “The Fall,” by Rhye
  14. “Bones,” by MS MR
  15. “Vapour Trail,” by Ride
  16. “Slow and Steady,” by Of Monsters and Men
  17. “Blackbird,” by Paul McCartney
  18. “Biting Down,” by Lorde
  19. “Sparkly,” by Young Magic
  20. “Nothing Matters,” by Tricky

You can find the playlist on Spotify under the name “Twilighting.” Not because I have an affinity for Mormon vampires, but as a result of the time of night/morning it gets played to keep me company as I write.

Hair color blind

I’ve started a new project.

Only because I need a break from my other project that I can’t seem to finish, which technically was started  when I couldn’t finish the first project that started this whole screen writing business.

Apologies if that last sentence confused you.

All you need to know is that as of now, I’m writing a romantic comedy.

Romantic comedy films are not my preferred genre. They are not my preferred anything. But, that’s probably because there hasn’t been a movie that truly spoke to me in the way that “Pretty Woman” spoke to up-and-coming prostitutes looking for love.

So, I’ve set out to write a script about a love story between two women (SPOILER ALERT) with a happy ending.

In my initial research, I read a couple of scripts and watched a bunch of lesbian movies – a terribly tough job that I wouldn’t wish on even the most devout Westboro Baptish Church member (although I get the feeling they’ve probably seen more lesbian movies than me). Well, as I slaved away, making notes of what I liked and didn’t like, I noticed something. No, not that one of the lesbians always dies a tragic death, although that was very much the case. I noticed that the couple consisted of, for the most part, a blonde and a brunette.

The L Word.
The L Word.
High Art.
But, I’m a Cheerleader.

But wait, it gets even weirder.

The blonde generally played the part of the “straight girl” seduced by the brunette, alpha female.

Orange is the New Black.
Orange is the New Black.
Show Me Love.
Show Me Love.
South of Nowhere.
South of Nowhere.
The Four-Faced Liar.
The Four-Faced Liar.

What does this all mean? Are blondes just waiting to be swept off their feet by an aggressive brunette lesbian? Or worse. Are all blondes straight until they meet the right brunette lesbian? And, more importantly, I’m a brunette with ombre blonde streaks. What kind of a mixed message am I sending out?

I’m sure there are countless of scholarly papers out there explaining the psychology behind hair color, or why Wonder Woman was a brunette, or why both gentlemen and lesbians prefer blondes, but I’m not going to read them. This little exercise provided enough evidence for me to make a decision that will revolutionize the romantic comedy genre and most likely win an Oscar in the hair and make-up category.

I’ve decided to make both characters wear chef hats. This way there will finally be a movie that explores the human condition to love and be loved regardless of a woman’s hair color.

I Love Lucy.
The truth is that I prefer red heads.

Hyperbole times two

It’s generally difficult for me to speak about feelings – particularly, you  know, with words. Coherently. In sentences. I’m getting ahead of myself. In one sentence.

It’s difficult to put together a sentence to describe what I feel. Inside. Not physically inside. Emotionally inside.

Apparently, I have the same problem when I write.

“Sad.” That’s the only word that comes to mind.

For the past month, I’ve been perpetually sad. And it’s so getting old.

I have nothing against sadness. It’s a perfectly fine emotion, felt by people with problems, like missing limbs and teeth. It’s just that there’s really nothing wrong with me. Well. I guess I should say there’s nothing really wrong with me. I have a roof that I don’t own and, therefore, don’t have to worry about. I have a lovely partner that is almost as funny as our dog. We share a ambiguously gender queer turtle, named Turtle and, although we don’t talk about it, we both fantasize about setting her/him free. It’s a very happy household, except for Turtle, who is undoubtedly miserable.

Yet, here I am. Crying myself to sleep. Getting bad haircuts. Eating my feelings. Unable to write or speak in full sentences.

My bartender, my mother, and my new astrologer (more on this in an upcoming blog), all suggested I see my therapist. And, I suggested we should see the good doctor all together, but they didn’t accept.

I suppose I’ll go, but I doubt it will help. I just end up sitting there quietly. Quietly staring at the doctor. Until she asks me how I feel. Then I’ll turn into Keira Knightley in “A Dangerous Method.”