At the beginning of this year, I began declaring myself officially a writer, specifically a screenwriter. Well, I do so in my head. Sometimes I tell others, but ohhhhh Lordy, are there ever a bunch of, "buts," and, "you know, I'm trying to be one, when the kids' schedules allow." Do I have a finished spec script, manager/agent, and offers for paid work? No. Do I still consider myself a writer? Yes. Sometimes. I guess? Oofah.
It's a tricky little bit of business, giving yourself a title. People in the workforce have titles handed to them due to succeeding at job interviews or earning promotions. Men and women in charge of caring for children, be them blood related, adopted, or fostered, are parents/guardians. Cooks in restaurants are chefs, those who educate are teachers; you see where I'm going with this.
Lauren Jefferson wrote an excellent post a few months ago on this topic, "What Do You Do?"; the reading of which made me cry and subsequently delete my previous draft of this very post. Had I published anything at that time it would've been a link to her blog with the title, "What She Said," and a photo of me unceremoniously shoving three soft taco supremes in my gaping pie hole.
So, I get it. I'm actively writing. When I'm not writing, I'm researching, studying, reading, watching movies, acting out scenes and having imaginary conversations during dish washing and in blessed, solitary car rides to hear possible dialogue choices out loud. I do all these things because I am a frabbajabbin' screenwriter.
Why do I still cringe with not just the so-called self given title, but the right to be one? For many of the reasons so well put in Jefferson's post, and permission.
Permission Part 1: Guilt
Taking care of my children and our home has been my focus since our first baby was born, almost ten years ago. Though I wouldn't trade my experience raising our three children, I know I'm not alone when I say it's easy to lose yourself when fortunate enough to be placed in this position. A full-time parent's job is demanding to say the least, and to desire switching gears to put myself as my number one priority has felt absolutely selfish. Yet, we're teaching our children to follow their dreams. What kind of example would I be if I didn't chase my own? Brian Koppleman's Six Second Screenwriting Vine, No. 311 hits the nail right on the head, "Anytime you worry you're selfish for pursuing your dream, picture the mood you'd be in everyday if you weren't. Which of those people you think your loved ones would rather be around?" I'm well aware of my tendencies toward assholism when my breaks from the house consist solely of grocery shopping; everyone in the family benefits from mommy taking time to recharge. Embarking on a career should be no different.
Permission Part 2: Not Up To Snuff
I have never pledged for a sorority or have been a member of any other exclusive type of club, but I've always imagined being properly accepted into the screenwriter community as a similar situation, where certain criteria, mere writing not being enough, has to be met before being allowed to pull up a chair and swap stories with the cool folk over a finger of Glenfiddich. Criteria such as: completing a minimum of ten award winning scripts; knowing the difference between bourbon and scotch; having seen each of AFI's Top 100 films ten fold plus knowing the names of each film's cast and crew from director to craft services; being able to recite non-Monty Python related films; knowing whether or not Orson Wells was lactose intolerant or if Humphrey Bogart had an unnatural fear of clementines; *clearing throat* my apologies, I'm getting carried away.
It's been drilled in my head time and time again that my first screenplay is probably going to suck assballs. To expect Oscar winning gold to come effortlessly from my fingertips is just silly, but you can bet your sweet bippy I'm aiming higher than a pile of cow dung. Knowing I may have to wait a while before I deem my work worthy of another person's eyes can be disheartening; I don't want to suck at this, I want to be great, and not later, but now.
The list of classic films I have yet to see is staggering in both length and content. If put on the spot, I'm unsure if I could name the director and screenwriter of some of my favorite films. Although I'm working on correcting my faux pas, the fear is admitting to such crimes would result in having my best pens confiscated, the deletion of my Final Draft app, and the prompt shunning from my like-minded Twitter companions.
Questioning my right to write from a mom standpoint or feelings of inadequacy in the brain department, be it ability as a writer or knowledge of facts in my chosen of field, does little to fuel the creative flow. Writing has stopped on many occasions due to these debilitating intrusions. What's a gal to do? Two choices: A) tell
the pity party to piss off by: permitting myself to go after what I want; finding a balance between family time and me time; spending my energy perfecting my craft instead of worrying what others think of me because I haven't seen Godfather 2; and most importantly, know the the process will be difficult and require hard work, but enjoy the journey anyway; or B) let doubt win and drown in regret. Do or do not, there is no try.
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