It was senior year in high school went we finally, formally met. He was a photographer, sure of that. I had way too many ambitions to know what I was, but I was attracted to his focus, his certainty, his determination.

He was the first boy to kiss my hip. The innocence in which he did so is why I remember it so clearly. It was a baptism to us both. After many afternoons bleeding into early evenings, showing me contact sheets and pointing out why I was right or wrong in choosing the best composition of the shot, what he gave as flirtation was truly giving me my eye, an education. He really did show me the light. And the shadow, as well as the alignment. This is what every cinematographer I work with is secretly beholden to.

You never know when or who will give your your eye or your ear or your voice, but I’m sure you will remember when it was bestowed upon you. It wasn’t when we were holding contact sheets that he assured me I had a view. It was many weeks later, when “work” was no longer between us, when he placed his seventeen-year-old lips on my hips of the same age, that was when I knew he saw my eye, too. It was not just the attraction between us, but the common eye that made it special. He was truly an artist. And his love of me made me feel I was an artist, too.

Let’s remember, we were seventeen. And his favorite film at that time was FX. He appreciated the foreshadowing.

Less than two years later, he would be dead. That only made the gifts he gave me in that short time all the more profound. I feel I owe a debt to him, a need to show the world what he taught me in that precious space. I remember the last smile he gave to me, shortly before he was gone. It was in a video store, where he was renting a movie. I was behind the counter. Before I could say hello, he was gone.

Films were his second passion, after photography.

It was this time of year that I last saw him. It is this time of year I’m reminded of all he taught me. It was this time of year I came into my own as a filmmaker at CalArts. It is this time of year I am most inspired.

You never know, until you look back, who will be among your greatest inspirations.

D will always be one of mine.

Google+ kind of gets that. There’s a wonderful separation of Church and State there, allowing you to group people into circles (Friends, Acquaintances, Colleagues, etc.), and select which broadcasts go to what groups. That’s the first drop of awesome sauce. The second? Hardly anyone is there. It’s just a bunch of tech nerds, savvy social media users and friends of theirs, like me, who were lucky enough to get an early invite. And, with the majority of my friends being slow on the social media uptake, I only have a handful of people in my circles.

And that’s where the avalanche of awesome comes in.

Oliver Reichenstein explains it best in his post Why and How Google+’s Interface is Kicking Ass. But if all you want from your social networks is to connect with old school chums, Facebook is the place for you. Stay there. Please. If you are bummed when you get to Google+ thinking, “Hey. Where’s everybody at? I have no friends,” you’re missing the point. And that’s fine.

Google+ is where social media turns a corner, and where users can redefine its use.

Which is what I intend to do. I’ve been waiting and waiting…and waiting for Diaspora to launch. I’ve long been over Facebook and their endless privacy gaffs. I’d really like another place to connect with like-minded people without the games and Farmville and noise from those who fancy themselves life experts. (Also, if I also follow you on Twitter, I would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t repeat every broadcast on every social media outlet. I mean, really, what’s the point?) So, for me, a quiet little neighborhood like Google+ is just perfect. That’s sure to change. Especially if that damned Ashton Kutcher moves in. But, for now, Google+ is my happy place. It’s okay if you don’t like it, if you don’t see the point of it, or don’t want to be bothered with yet another social networking portal. You’re right. You’re absolutely right.

I’m a little strange in that I actually like getting notes. I like the long meetings of nit-picking scenes and structure, character quirks and dialogue. I like rearranging pieces of the puzzle and debating the logic of the universe created in that story. I like watching people vehemently argue over an imaginary world I created, defending their favorite bits with passion. It is, in a word, awesome.

However, there is an art to giving good notes. And I don’t mean that in a feather-soothing, ego-fluffing kind of way. If one is going to be a writer of any sort, a thick skin is a requirement…or you should invest in a season pass to the booby hatch. The criticism isn’t personal, even if it sounds like it is. And, after enough drafts, notes and discussions, you should be pretty much over it. Which is kind of a good place to be, because you will no longer be putting forth energy to save a scene or quirk you’ve fallen in love with. You’ll just want to move the story, and progress of the project, forward.

The problem with not-so-great notes-giving is that one note will complete contradict another. The How and Who and Where and When and Why in one scene affects every scene before and after it. Screenwriting is like knitting in that way. If you want to fix something in the middle, you typically have to unravel the beginning or end to do it. But some see it as quilting: Take out one swatch of cloth and replace it with another. A good story doesn’t work that way, though. And that’s not always easy to explain. No, I take that back. It is easy to explain, it’s just that sometimes other people don’t see it that way. Which is okay. Some people still think this whole internet thing will eventually pass. What can you do? Notes — good, bad or indifferent — are at the heart of screenwriting and, eventually, filmmaking. Which is why I have such affection for them.

Truth be told, I still like the feel of pen to paper, ink on pulp. My first screenplay was written longhand on legal pads during breaks on a low-budget film. It was part of my graduation project at CalArts. At night and Sundays (the one day off from the movie), I would type out the scenes, action and dialogue. I will admit, I sort of liked that process. I realized it wasn’t exactly efficient, but  it was somewhat romantic. And I sort of miss that.

To keep some of that romance alive, when I come upon an idea for a screenplay that I have to write, I take a steno pad (made from recycled paper, of course) down from the shelf.  On the cover of the pad, in black Sharpie, I write the title of the screenplay and the day’s date. I use this notebook to jot down ideas about the characters and plot points, sometimes scenes and action and dialogue when I’m out and about — and, later, notes from meetings.  Needless to say, I have assembled quite a collection. I like having one place to keep all of my random thoughts that may or may not work for the script, the suggestions of others involved in the project, and the ability to go through it and see the history and evolution of the work. These notebooks help me to sustain more than one project in my mind, each getting the attention they need without taking away the time from the one that must get done.

I’m about to pull one down from the shelf and reach for a Sharpie. This one will be for my first television series. I’m kind of excited about it. But, there are still people to kill in the thriller that we are nearly done with. With a desired start date fast approaching, that script will be the priority. And my series’ notebook will be close at hand for when the Muse speaks for it.

In that moment, when the story becomes clear and compliant, a weight lifts. The sullen cloud that had been hovering dissipates revealing a bright light at the end of the tunnel.  The dread of staring at the computer screen turns to anticipation. Now I can’t wait to write. But I must. Day job.

There’s a rush that comes with it. And it’s not just the near overdose of caffeine. Then a swell of optimism: Maybe I can even finish that little bugger tonight so I can actually enjoy the sunny Saturday the weather folks have promised.  We’ll see. The timing is both perfect and pooey. This happens to be deadline weekend, so I can’t screw off and play until this is done. Fade out. The end. Because I sort of screwed off last weekend. Who didn’t?  It was the (my) high holy holiday awards weekend. One must drink whilst watching the Spirit Awards and one must be reverent during the Oscars ceremony. Not a whole lot of writing gets done that last weekend in February. [Side note: I'm just thrilled that Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross won Best Original Score because 1) It was, and 2) How unbelievably cool it is that the man who wrote the greatest love song in the world, "Closer", and told the recording industry to go screw won an Academy Award?!? That is the Oscar moment I live for every year. However, I do agree with a friend who said that it would have been utterly epic if Reznor went to the mic and said, "I want to thank you like an animal." Maybe next time.]

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I don’t believe in writer’s block. I don’t think that really exists. For me, anyway. Usually, if the flow is not going, it’s because there’s something wrong or missing in a previous scene. Or I just don’t love the story anymore. That happens, sometimes. Usually around the third rewrite. Or I love it too much, squeezing it so tightly it suffocates. But more often than not, I’m avoiding going into that deep abyss that the story can lead to. One that’s so overwhelming I can’t break free of it. Nor do I want to. In this case, however, it’s the constriction of budget and timeline the film will be under that has been limiting, murdering every grand idea and bludgeoning it down to the basics. This isn’t a bad thing. It’s a good lesson. It’s just less fun.

But, now that the missing link has been found, and the joy of the process has returned. The pieces have come together and are falling into place. I can finish this tale and move on to the next. That is my other favorite writer moment: Coming to The End before the next beginning.

First, it’s kind of creepy to get into that mindspace. Second, I’m on record with coroner’s departments in two counties, which can’t be a good thing. Pardon me, Mr./Ms. Pathologist. Can you please tell me if this poisoning is accurate? I expect, and really need, everyone around me to remain healthy and not die, especially in any sort of questionable or peculiar manner. Third, there’s a romantic comedy I’m supposed to be working on (I know, like the world needs another one of those…but how about a good one?). But no. None of that kind of creative writing is going on. I’ve got to kill people. This time, on a microbudget. And that takes a lot of the fun out of it.

Blood costs money, you know.

I’ve popped the clogs of my fair share of make-believe people. And I guess I’m kind of good at it. Which I don’t really see as complimentary. It’s sort of a job requirement. It’s also weird. Especially when someone asks what I did today. Oh, you know, the usual: murder, murder, lunch, murder. This can’t be good for my karma.

This killing time does give me a grand excuse to watch an inordinate amount of Hitchcock. I’ve always considered him something like a godfather, or kindly-but-unusual uncle. I used to watch his TV show religiously…alone…starting when I was only three years old. I suppose that explains things a little, doesn’t it? I quickly became an addict of suspense, viewing the screen through the slits of my fingers. Does anyone feel comfortable in a strange shower…especially one with a curtain? Not after seeing Psycho you don’t.

Hitch is indeed the master of suspense (do note the present tense), which is so much more seductive than the shock of gore and brutality that splashes across today’s screens. Even when he went for the gore and brutality in Psycho, there was something innocent about it. Perhaps because Marion Crane was at her most vulnerable. She was going to make right her wrong. She was naked, born again, in the midst of coming clean, a baptism, and then [insert Bernard Herrmann orchestration of piercing strings].  And, really, that could happen to any one of us — if we stayed at some crazy man’s motel. And, honestly, haven’t we all at one time or another? No one is safe in Hitchcock’s world. But, golly, are they well-dressed.

No one can match Hitchcock’s genius. Reading Hitchcock by François Truffaut, I am repeatedly reminded to keep it simple. Only put on the page what is necessary, cinematic. Nothing utilitarian. We don’t seem to have the luxury of the lengthy set up, like in Rear Window. Today, we need to hit it, Boom, boom, BOOM. But, in those opening, expository scenes, there’s not a word, glance or prop wasted. Not a bit of information that doesn’t relate to the plot. And, therein lies the brilliance. It’s a high bar to reach, but one must try.

And so, this evening, after a quick dinner out, I will return to the slaughter. Vertigo will play in the background as I decide who’s next. It’s rather isolating to play God. You’d think it would be much more fun. It’s not. And the guilt. Don’t get me started on the guilt. That’s what kills me the most.

I think it’s change I crave most. Newness. Something different from the same old routine. Freedom. There’s something about longer, warmer days that is ripe with opportunities that don’t seem to thrive in the off-season. Happy hours seem less so after the sun sets.

Or perhaps the New Year holds such promise at the start but, as it nears the six-week mark, the shine of it dulls and the ache for change starts in again. Whatever it is, I’d quite like to shake this malaise. Instead, I have to prep for the Ides of April, and all that entails. {sigh}

Now that I think of it, maybe I simply want to fast-forward to April 16th.

Or I just want to be on a film set. (Three guesses as to which one.)

The hibernating I was willing to do through the holidays is no longer appealing. I need the thaw to come and the mercury to rise. I need something to happen. Something good, though. Just to clarify. Because I have moments when I am just ready to crawl out of my skin. And maybe that’s how the caterpillar feels after its nap, right before it spreads its wings. Maybe. Either that or I’ll need some vacation time in a booby hatch. Palm Springs, anyone?

The ulcer turned out to be three, because I’m an overachiever and don’t do anything half-assed. While annoying, they were pretty much easy to manage.  Only one trip to the ER. After that, they would rumble every once in a while, then I would just not have that second or third soy latte and eat some brown rice. Et voilà! All gone. A couple of years ago, though, my stomach went nuts. My entire abdomen was on fire when it wasn’t in a proverbial corset of glass shards or in the throws of being sucker-punched by searing hot sledgehammers. Believe it or not, none of that is an exaggeration.

Word to the wise: Don’t ever Google-diagnose yourself. It’s just depressing. All of them lead to some sort of cancer. Just suck up your Beelzebubbly insurance deductible and see a specialist.  I swallowed the camera and got the whole story.

Turns out that my trio of ulcers had healed up completely. Just the scars of where they once were.  Will miracles never cease? Please. What I had gotten in their place was severe (and let me emphasize the severe part, as my gastroenterologist did) gastritis. What an ugly little word for such an annoyingly painful affliction.  Because it sounds very flatulent. It’s not. It’s much more belchy, if anything. But it is so bloody agonizing (and this is the tough broad part of me talking), and — not only that — it is unpredictable and arbitrary. It comes on with little or no warning and with little or no cause. It’s the definition of a futhermucker. (I’m doing my best to keep this PG-13, and I love a good spoonerism.)

I’ve gone fifteen months without a doozy of a flare, but this one has made up for lost time. There’s the lack of sleep from finding a comfortable position only to be awakened by a stabbing and/or searing pain once you do doze off. The inability to eat, so something as simple as brushing one’s teeth requires a few moments of rest before the task is complete. Pain itself is rather exhausting, debilitating and demoralizing. It hurts to stand, to sit, to lie down, to talk, cough, sneeze or walk. And my favorite part of all this is when someone well-meaning says, “Isn’t there something you can take for it?” Because it hurts too much to reply, I simply shake my head. What I say in my head, though, is, “Well, of course there’s something I could take to make it all better. We live in a modern age where everything is possible. But, as I’m a psychotic masochist, there’s no way I would actually ingest that magical remedy. No way. Not me.”  But there really is nothing to take but sleep and time, and a whole lot of bland.

At a certain point, I brave up for some chamomile tea. Then, a few saltines. Finally, some chicken broth and applesauce. And this is what I get to enjoy for a week. I miss my morning coffee ritual. And, sorry for any digestive purists out there but, if I can’t have one cup of organic coffee with organic, unsweetened almond milk each day — just one — there’s just no point in existing. I mean, I’m here to live, dammit. I’ve long given up the second, third and fourth cups (but for my two-cup Saturday mornings, which should be allowed, right?). Besides, I’ve learned long ago not to baby this kind of BS. Otherwise, it’s going to be a lifetime of applesauce and soups. You want that? Exactly.

And so, as I ache through Day 4, currently out of saltines and gagging at the thought of another cup of chamomile, I’m going to follow my instincts and attempt scrambled eggs for dinner. A tear is rolling down my cheek because I really want real food. Something with flavor and substance. Another thing gastritis is: boring.

I know they say that time flies and the older you get, the quicker it goes.  But, really?  2010 was just a blur.

I’m still dealing with 2009, so I think it’s pretty nervy of 2010 to move so quickly.  But, perhaps it’s my fault for not keeping up.  Perhaps it was me always in a rush.  Hurryhurryhurry, don’t be late.  Perhaps the rate of time actually speeds up when one holds one’s breath.  And that’s pretty much what I spent most of this year doing.  Holding my breath.  Again.

I wonder what it will be like when I am finally able to do that big exhale?  When all my ducks line up and I’m where I think I should be.  For once.  Because it’s been a long time since I’ve had that feeling of, “Yes.  Yes, this is where I’m meant to be.”  The last time I felt that, my friends, was at film school, oh, so long ago, in that perfectly odd womb we knew as CalArts.  I walked around there with the most daffy smile, beside myself in surprise that I was indeed there.  Learning so much, growing so much, it was almost too much at times to take in.  And, me, still so shy.  Still too timid to push myself as far as I could artistically.  Happy to know the creativity was there, even if the courage wasn’t always.  That was such a magically insane time, which, too, went by in a blur.

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Almost.  Nearly.  Soon.  Those are the words that peppered this year.  And last.  And the one before that.  But who’s counting?  Besides me (the A-type personality Aries).  My patience is improving, though.  It’s has no choice but to.  Yet, deep within, the want needles me.  The desire to see all this work, all this belief, even a smidgeon of courage, finally come to fruition.  Not only for me, but for all those who have stood by me, supported me, those who have worked so hard on it with me and believe wholeheartedly, too, that this will happen.  God, I love those people.  You know who you are.  Chances are, you are one.  Thank you.

I mark my time in other films.  Rachel Getting Married (6).  Black Swan (10).  Blue Valentine (12).  I’m not always sure if that makes me feel like we are ahead or just starting the journey.  The number inside the parentheses note the years it took to get those films made.  Black Coffee is currently at 3.

Yes, patience has been forced upon me.  I’m an unwilling victim of it.  I do my best to embrace it (me, the A-type personality Aries).

But, the year wasn’t only waiting and hoping and holding one’s breath.  It was enriched with good friends, hearty laughs, achievements, setbacks, fortitude and cocktails.  Happy hours, indeed.  Some friendships thinned, which happens at times.  Others have had their bonds deeper forged.  At this point in life, if you don’t know who your friends are, you haven’t been paying attention.  I have.

My passport remains expired (and I really must do something about that).  My to-do list grows and grows.  It’s amazing how much one can do and leave so much undone.  I really need a maid.  But as this blurry year starts its exits, it’s slowing down enough to let me take a moment, to look around, to see all that it did hold.  And it does bring a smile.  I’ve come to believe that 2010 passed by so quickly because 2011 has so much good stuff in it, 2010 simply didn’t want to be in the way.  I find that incredibly courteous.  It deserves one hell of a going away party if only for that.

So, here’s to the future with a kiss to the past and a bow around the present.  Wishing you a shining New Year.

Of course the new blog/website comes just as we are saying goodbye to 2010.  And what a blur it was.  But, new year, new beginnings and all that jazz.  Wishing you a merry happy, etc.