Once upon a time…
(I know, a terrible way to begin any story. Just like concluding it with, “…and they lived happily ever after.”)
…there was a middle-aged man who thought he could write… a little. He wrote a screenplay that he let no one read, and, for a time, he was a somewhat successful, albeit unpaid, contributor to an online Citizen Journal that now, no longer exists. He thought he was happy in his pursuit of writing,, and considered the years he was investing in his craft as the equivalent of a fancy journalism or film school like he so often saw advertised on TV between 2 am and sunrise.
Time passed. Years, even. The screenplay never got sold, and the Citizen Journal fell into the hands of a disreputable new ownership group. The middle-aged man’s words grew fewer and fewer with the years and the circumstances of life, until all he had left were poems. Not the broad sweep of five-pointed prose, or the sharp stick of tightly wound slam. Just the shit that popped, spontaneous and whole, into his brain at all inconvenient hours. In dreams. While at work. And the bathroom. Yep, especially the bathroom. The words weren’t good, they were just real. For the first time since before the invisible screenplay, the words… his words… were real.
So he began to write them down.
(One note of explanation. The phrase, “…bloody awful poet”, for those now reading who are unfamiliar with the work of writer/director Joss Whedon, was properly, um… *borrowed*… from a character he created. A character who, in flashbacks, was known as William, the Bloody Awful Poet“. Click the brightly colored letters to see just what I’m talking about.)
Including today, there ten more open spaces in the November Nightmare known as NaBloPoMo. That means plenty more opportunity to share some Bloody Awful Poetry with readers and friends. Poetry that still comes to me, spontaneous and whole, at all inconvenient hours. I’ll keep writing them down. I’ll keep sharing them.
But nobody’s going to see that screenplay… ever.