Utopia

Since I can remember, I have loved science fiction. I love the idea of a world where all the fights that need to be fought now, have already been won. I love the idea of living in a world that already takes for granted, what we must still fight to achieve, where protests are no longer necessary, because the world has already become the way it should be. An equal rights utopia, where we grow up free of restraints and prejudice, where everyone is just accepted. 

But the truth is that we are not there. People still have acid thrown in their faces for wanting to be educated. People are still being tortured for their sexualtiy. Children, who were born into the wrong body still kill themselves because that is the only way out of that wrong body for them. 

Feminism and the fight for equality in general are still very much necessary. We haven’t finished the fight yet. We’re still in the middle of it. 

But I do hope that, before I reach the end of my life, we will have reached the science fiction place where feminism, and protest and these fights that we fight now, are a thing of the past. Something we learn about in history books, like suffrage or the fight for worker’s rights. 

I hope that one day we will look back on these troubled days and say “My god, how barbaric! Not every person had the same rights and not everyone was treated equally! How could they live like this!?”

I would like to see a world where it is no longer necessary to protest, to hold women’s marches or rallies for equal treatment of minorities - whether that be ethnic minorities or other minority groups - because it has become an accepted fact that equality should exist. Because it has become second nature to us, to accept this sentiment, that these ideas and ideals we hold so dear have manifested themselves into society as a whole and not just into the minds of the “the left” and “liberals” and whatever you want to call this movement. 

The opposition of course is that things are changing and change is scary. People are scared of losing their place in the world, their identity, their perspective, their worth. What will happen to THEIR world when the new world comes?

The answer is quite simple, of course. Nothing. 

Equality also means and demands that people who belong to the majority are treated equally. 

I would like to see a world where equality is not an afterthought or something that has to be forced. Something that has to have rules written about it. I wish we didn’t need to have policies that state the obvious - we don’t discriminate against race, gender, and sexual orientation. This mindset - that we don’t discriminate - should be innate. It should be taken for granted. It should be like the air we breathe. 

We should be past the phase where we need to chisel these things out, and discuss this over and over again. It should have already seeped into the very fabric of our society. 

Having to write out policies that we don’t disrespect and discriminate our fellow human beings for the colour of their skin feels like having to write on the wall: This office does not discriminate against people who drink water. 

Of course we don’t! It should be THIS clear to us. 

It should just be the most natural and normal thing in the world. 

And that sentiment shouldn’t even take up space. There should be no need for me to spell this out. Because it should be so normal, so natural, it shouldn’t have to be discussed over and over and over again. We should not need to be talking about whether it’s morally right to be gay, or whether transgender people are just loonies who want attention (this argument has actually been made to me once by a bigot. It was horrendous). We shouldn’t have to have these discussions over and over and over in this day and age. 

I have to reign myself in, this is turning into a rant. 

But my point is: I don’t think we should NEED this fight for equal rights anymore. We are in the middle of the third decade of the 21st century. These fights should be behind us. We should be living in our sci-fi utopia by now. 

The sad thing is, though, we do still need them. We still need these things, they are still SO necessary to further this society, to further the idea that every human being is equal and that neither status, nor wealth, nor gender, nor race, nor sexual orientation (or lack thereof), nor the culture you were born into, nor disability, determines who you are. 

Society does not have the right to tell you that you are any less able, capable, intelligent, needed, and valued than your neighbour who happens to be different. You are of no less value because you are different. Elevating others does not diminish your standing. 

I should not be defined by anything other than being me, and the merit I earned through my contribution in society. 

So I wish the fight for equal rights was a thing of the past. I wish the fight for human rights was a thing of the past. The FIGHT for this - not human rights in and of itself, of course. 

Equal human rights for everyone ought to be something we can take for granted, something we can rely on. Something that we own. Something that is an innate right, that cannot be taken away, diminished or in any way made smaller or weakened, by anyone. By anyone. 

So, yes. I wish this fight was over. I wish we lived in a utopia where all of this is a thing of the past. 

But that wish has not come true yet. We still need feminism, we still need Pride parades, we still need women’s marches, and scientists’ marches and solidarity marches for immigrants and refugees. We all still need that, because we have not reached our sci-fi future yet. 

And when we do reach that future, can we still keep the Pride parades, please? They are too awesome to let go even when the dream has been achieved. 

The Spreadsheet

My brain’s a little messy. I don’t have a condition (other than C-PTSD), and I definitely don’t have anything as severe as ADHD, nor am I on any kind of spectrum. But my brain’s a little foggy. 

So sometimes, I struggle to organise my thoughts. 

Currently, I have about 15 active projects, ranging from films, to festivals, to clients, to prose, to teaching assignments. My days are nice and full. 

I’ve never really struggled with time management, but I do get overwhelmed sometimes. It’s meh… I’m human, it’s fine. I just need to take a breath, have a shower or go for a walk, and sit down and re-organise my brain, clear out the cobwebs and get to work. 

Simple, right? 

For me, yeah. 

But for someone whose brain does not function like this? Nope. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Nein. Non. 

One of my best friends is not neurotypical. His brain functions in a much different way. He’s a writer, too, and since we live together, I witness everything he does in a day. I witness what he writes, how he writes, how he juggles his job, and family, and responsibilities. And I witness how he struggles. He is a fascinatingly creative mind, has endless ideas and can produce pure magic when he writes. But it is a real, proper struggle for him to organise his brain. He could be doing so much - and yet somehow, the pathway gets muddled, the follow-through gets thrown off, and his brain gets stuck on details that don’t serve him. 

So when I tell him to “just organise your thoughts” and “just re-think how you approach the task” that’s met with a very justified comment of “Me and what bottle of adderall?!”

Fair enough. He was right. For him, just organising your thoughts is not how it works. That’s the whole point. For me, a quick walk around the city resets my brainwaves enough for me to be able to tackle any creative problem. For him, it’s a painstaking process. 

So I asked him what the most difficult thing is he faces. His reply was that he felt like he had a million different things all going on at once - all of them equally demanding, and there was just no way for him to create a hierarchy. Dishes were as important as a million dollar project. A stain on the window demanded his immediate attention as much as a meeting that was starting in 30 seconds. 

He has a day job, too. A hugely demanding one. 

He works in IT. He builds databases (please for the love of god don’t ask me what he does exactly, it’s all magic and gobbledegook for me). So he works day in and day out with excel sheets and all that sort of malarky. 

Now, I am not a technophile. I used to work for Microsoft, and I can find my way around most things, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had to give a damn about a spreadsheet. 

But I knew that this is how his brain functions, this is how he is used to organising things. So we sat down together and devised a strategy that might just work for him to just organise his thoughts. We took a look at where his priorities lay and how he could put a time-keeping mechanism into it all. 

And I like to think that it helped. Maybe. A little.

At least, it gave both of us the feeling like we had accomplished something that day, which is a win in my book. 

I am hugely privileged, I know this. The fact that I can just function most days is a huge advantage. That’s not to say that my own issues (depression, severe trauma, complex PTSD etc) don’t often hinder me - they sure do - but I am doing just fine. 

I often give the speech that “it’s not hard, it’s just hard work”. But maybe I need to re-think that a bit. Because for some, it is really really hard. And I’ve been overlooking that. I’ve not been aware of my privilege. I hope to do better.

Today I cannot write

I have had the entire day to be creative today. I've had time, all the housework was done, all the tasks and the admin and the little bits were taken care of - in short, I've had the entire day to just sit here and create and work and write and be who I really want to be.

And nothing.

Nothing.

Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

Nothing came out. I have a few projects that need attending, and well, I tried doing something for each and every one of them, and I just could not. It is now 20 past 5 in the afternoon, and I have done nothing.

Which is gutwrenchingly and eye-pull-out-inlgy frustrating. I've got so much I could be doing! I've got a novel, I've got several film projects, I've got a festival, I've got friends who could do with a friendly word or a call or attention. I've got business relationships that could do with an update. I could be querying, I could be WRITING!

But I can't.

In one of my books, I write about writer's block, and what it can do to us - how frustrating it is, how mindnumbing it is, how much it hurts. And what can help us get through it. Normally what I turn to when I feel like this is discipline. I force myself to write (ahem... look... I is writing something right now!), even if the thing I'm writing is not the thing I should be writing.

I don't write as a hobby anymore. I used to. This used to be my hobby. This used to be the thing that I do when I have nothing else to do. I don't view it like that anymore. Every single word I put down has a purpose now - so sometimes when I feel like this, I have to go back to pointless writing (not that any art is ever pointless). But the kind of writing I would have done as a child. A silly little fairytale. A fanfic. A scene that is so spicy and smutty that it would make a pornstar blush.

So when I cannot bring myself to do the work, maybe what I need to do is find the play. Not think of this as my job. I have a day off today, clearly, since I can't do my job. So why shouldn't I indulge in some play.

So I'ma post on tumblr (to which I am new, by the way, and I know I'm late but oh well here I am), I'ma write a spicy fanfic, I'ma read some fairytale about goblins and princesses.

Because today I am not a writer. Today I am just me.

Mal Du Pays

Nestled deep into the countryside in central France, hidden amongst green treetops, steep hills, surrounded by little streams and rivers, there stands the ruin of an old castle. Seven turrets race towards the sky, intricately built towers, still standing incredibly tall, perched on a cliff. Once upon a time, a flag would have flown from those towers: a foot-and-beakless blackbird on yellow. An emblem, a symbol, of a family. The name of that family? Merle. 

I have a long history, and quite the life. I’ve written about it often, and spoken about it even more. And while I have no connection to the rest of the Merl family anymore (save my brother, whom I speak to very sporadically), there has always been something in the name. 

So when I recently re-evaluated my life and the choices that led me to where I was (in a manor house just outside Dublin, strolling through a beautifully kept garden, chatting to the gardener), there was a call. Not of the “real” kind, more a call of the soul, really. And the call was to come home. 

I’ve been travelling. I’ve moved 11 times since 2022, and continue to not stay in a place for more than a few weeks. I love this lifestyle. It keeps me on my toes, it keeps me creative, and I do not fall into a routine. But I’ve always known that this is not a lifestyle I can - or want! - to continue for ever. 

However, Dublin is Dublin, and the housing crisis here is so severe that there is no real possibility for me to settle down here without significantly sacrificing my quality of life, the choices I make, or my freedom. I do not subscribe to the hustle culture, and affording a place in one of the most expensive cities in the world is not really something I want to prioritise. 

So that was the thought that was ruminating in me as I wandered through this lavish garden, and returned to the old east wing of the house to bring some potatoes to the kitchen for the dinner. 

And the thought of going home came up again. I didn’t know where that “home” was. I’ve lived in a lot of places, and nothing has ever felt like home, really. So where was I going to go? 

Fernweh and Wanderlust have always been much, much more prominent than any Mal Du Pays. Chiefly because I don’t really have a home country. I’m not Indian, but I was born there. I am Austrian, but I don’t live there. I live in Ireland, but I’m not Irish. 

Where does one go when one wants to go home, and there is no such thing as that? If you emigrate, you then have 2 home countries. I could feasibly say that I have several home countries. I don’t really know if I can or want to live in any of them. 

But there is a hidden valley in central France. Seven Towers overlook a small village, and in the tourist information centre there are brochures that show an old crest… a blackbird on yellow. And the name? Mine. 

I shall go there. Because maybe, after all these years… I have finally found my way home.

Practise what you preach

I gave a lesson yesterday. It’s one I’ve given multiple times, I have the info, the stats, the data down to a t, I don’t need to prepare for it anymore. 

It is a very general overview of what the first steps are when you’ve written a screenplay and would like to get started in the industry. It’s very straightforward. It’s about an hour and a half, with time at the end for questions or discussion. 

I use examples from my own career, and examples from different aspects of the industry. And in all honesty: I make it seem quite easy. It is easy. All it takes is hard work, determination, a willingness and ability to put yourself out there, and an urge to get to the next step in your career. 

I spoke about how the writing is first, it must always come first. First we write, and we write so, so, so very much. We must be confident in our craft, we must have a back catalogue of valuable materials, we must know what we’re doing - only then will we be hired reliably and often enough. 

But then I walked home, enjoying an early summer’s evening in Dublin. I contemplated. I wondered. 

I like my career. I like the way it’s going. It has ups and downs, and sometimes it throws me violently to the ground, grinds me to a pulp and spits me out - but then it lifts up again. I am not starving, but I’m no millionaire either. I get hired regularly, though the value of the gigs is not always enough to make a living. It’s an artist’s life, very much so. 

Why? 

I have been in the industry for about 4 years now, and quit my corporate job almost 3 years ago. It’s been a rollercoaster since, with projects being cancelled, other projects never quite making it over the finish line, collaborations disintegrating… in short: the film business. 

But I’m not quite there yet, I feel. I’m not quite in the place I’d like to be, in the place where I saw myself being at 32 years old, the place I imagined I would be. 

A lot of that has to do with my personal life, of course. After the pandemic, my life shifted dramatically and a devastating loss in my private life threw me off my game for a while - but still. I thought I’d be further along. I thought I would have made it by now. More so than I already have. 

I have to often remind myself of my successes: I’ve worked with an Oscar winner, I’ve dined with Hollywood Executives, I’ve been hired internationally on a continuous basis, I’ve had books published and I run a film festival. It’s not that I’m not successful. I am. By any and all standards. 

So what is holding me back? 

As I walked through Camden Street yesterday, the sun glinting in my eye, the people of Dublin out in full force, drinking and laughing and being Dubliners, I realised that I was comfortable where I was. I love my job. I love doing what I do. And recently, I had lost some of the urgency because I was so happy with where I was. I was beginning to become complacent. 

Not an hour earlier, I had preached loudly and passionately to the students in front of me that we must always keep pushing, that we must never stop writing and never stop promoting, and never stop collaborating - we must work at it every. single. day. 

But was I doing that? No. 

Was I writing as much now as I had done when I started out? No. 

Was I promoting myself as much as I had done in the beginning of my career? No. 

I was relying on the seeds I had already planted, and I was woefully neglectful of planting and seeding the next batch. The harvest was drying up, because I was only watering the plants that were already bearing fruit - not ploughing new fields, cultivating new land. 

It’s not that I am being lazy. My days are quite full. But there is more I could be doing. I should still be doing all the things I told my students to do. 

So here is an attempt at that. An attempt to right this wrong, and re-up my game. I must practise what I preach and take my own advice. And pretend that I have not made it yet, at all.

2021 In Review

What a year it has been!

I started out 2021 as an aspiring screenwriter. I had not been optioned yet, had just won my first big competition (rather than just a placement or selection), had just settled in to my home in the Wicklow mountains after a few tumultuous years on the run and on the go… and I was beginning to think that this screenwriting thing was really, really going to be my career for the rest of my life.

30 was looming, after all.

There had always been this idea, this far-off dream, this notion that I wanted to live off my writing when I was 30 years old. 30 is a good age to retire from a day job, right? 30 is the age at which an artist ought to have established herself, right? Only… I’d been a bit busy in the 30 years leading up to this magical moment. I’d had all the … you know… abuse and human trafficking and domestic violence and stuff… so… yeah.

I didn’t think I could hit that goal. Didn’t think I had it in me to quit that day job, to make that jump. And after all, I thought as 2021 was just beginning… after all - I’m not even optioned yet, let alone produced. None of my scripts have sold, how can I even think about making this my career.

And then that magic email came through. “I’d love to make it”, he said. “Can I option it?”

My reply came swiftly and in all caps.

It went a bit wonky, then. The whirlwind began for real. I optioned BlackBird in February 2021, optioned In Your Name in March. Then, I set off to write The Unfinished Heart in the summer, which took 2 months of intense work (and sore hands from typing 140k words on top of my day job). But when that was done… there it was, all of a sudden. There it was, looming, and threatening, and altogether terrifying. The big one. The big, big 3.0

I went on Alex Byrne’s show Le Chats to announce the title for the memoir. And just like that. I was 30 years old, a twice optioned screenwriter with 2 books on the way. I was working on commissions, edited scripts from as far afield as Australia, was making SO many new friends and acquaintances… and my day job fell away, fell by the wayside and has not been mourned even once.

The Hustle was born then, out of necessity and a discussion with my dear colleague Gavin Ryan. That gave birth to my lecturing at Griffith College. All of a sudden, I was not only a published author, twice optioned screenwriter, but also a guest lecturer at a major college.

And then… Then came Kiki, then came David. Kiki strolled into my mirror like she’d always lived there, stuck her tongue out at me and dared me to tell her story. “Bet you can’t”, she whispered. “Bet you can’t because you’re me. You’re not brave enough to tell this story, are you?”

She was right. I wasn’t. Which, of course, meant that I had to.

I sat down on a Tuesday evening to write It Was You. It was done by Wednesday.

Then came the decision. This was one story I could not leave in the drawer or give away to someone else. This was the most personal story I had ever written (yes, even more personal than my actual autobiography). This was the most intense, most emotionally jarring, the most heartbreaking thing I had ever put to paper. And I knew I had to own it. Keep it.

Make it.

I had no choice. I mulled it over, thought it through, sat on the decision for a few days. Called my friends, asked for advice. But the decision had been made the first time Kiki stuck her face in my face. It Was You was going to be made locally, produced by me, with a cast of my choosing… I was going to own this movie and if it was the last thing I ever did.

Whatever it takes, I kept whispering. I still whisper that to myself.

3 people appeared on the horizon as if the universe had planted them there. Shane Robinson: one of the best actors of his generation. Sam Uhlemann: the director whose vision aligned so perfectly with mine it actually physically hurts my brain sometimes. And the miracle man who has become one of my closest friends in the few weeks I’ve known him: Mijrin Al Hajri.

And boom. There it was. It Was You had a POC/trailer. And then, it was Christmas. And now it’s New Year.

And now? Now I’m working on Aicearra, there’s a feature in the works that we’re going into production with at the end of February, It Was You is on the horizon for the summer, The Pier is an anthology that is unlike anything that’s been attempted in recent years (with a team of 5 directors, 10 cast, all set in one location), I am in talks about creating a project in Romania for the autumn… So yes. 2021 was a good year, I think.

2022 will be even better.

The Ideal Mother

I did an interview yesterday, at the University of Maynooth. It centered around motherhood, around being an artist, around combining the two. 

The sentence “The ideal artist is still perceived to be a man, while the ideal parent is still seen to be a mother” left my beautiful lips. 

And that stopped me in my tracks for a second. Because, yes. Exactly. 

Close your eyes for a second, and think of a “writer”. Was it Hemingway? 

Close your eyes and think “parent”. Was it mommy?

I am as guilty as hell here, too. I do still have this ingrained perception of what it means to be an artist. And the fact that my motherhood never really crosses the line into my art is disheartening. Because my art is inherently inspired by my being a mother. I would not be the person I am today if I weren’t a mother. I would not be the artist I am, could not create the way I do, would not write the same types of stories if I weren’t. Motherhood is an integral part to my human experience. BUT. But. I am not just a mother. I am an artist, a writer, a million other things. Motherhood is not all that defines me, but I think often we let ourselves be defined like this too easily. 

Yes, one influences the other, but we ought to be capable of holding more than one identity within ourselves. 

As women, I think we are too often still put into categories. You’re either a mom, or an employee, or an artist, or a boss, or a wife, or a girlfriend, or a daughter. Never all of it at once. Never just a woman.

Men, I think, don’t face that as much. A man’s a man, whether he’s a father or not, whether he’s an artist or a lawyer or a builder. 

One of the major discoveries that I made during the conversation yesterday was that I do not think of myself as a “mother first”. Not even for a second. No. I’m a “mother, too”. My motherhood is on the exact same level of importance as my art, as my own personality, as my own achievements and goals. I’d never for a second put my career ahead of the wellbeing of my children, but neither would I (could I) completely disown to end my career for the sake of my children. I can (and have, and will again), put projects to the side, put them on hold, cancel them if my boys need me. But I’ll pick them up again once the work-life-balance has resumed. 

Why, then, do I feel a ping of guilt as I type this? 

Why, then, does my brain tell me that I ought not put it out into public that *gasp* I put my career ahead of my kids sometimes. Or *shock horror!* think of my art as equally important as my parenting. 

Being a rounded, wholesome, healthy person is integral to being a good mother. It is vital. You cannot parent well if you are not secure and whole. And being an artist, creating, writing… is what makes me rounded and wholesome. 

So, no. I am not just a mom. I am all of those things in equal measure.

The Curse of Plotting

I’m extremely jealous of other writers and their ability to be creative. I do not get to be creative. Ever. Allow me to elaborate.

I read what they say about creating a story. How they “find” the story as they go along. How they set out with their characters and go along with them for the ride. Heck, some of these talented people even *gasp* have control over what their characters do. Like… what?!

I have tried to write like that. It has never gone well. I wish I had even the slightest degree, a slight semblance of freedom when I write. I really, really don’t. I have no freedom. I have no choice. When I have an idea for a story, it is just that: It is the entirety of the story, start to finish. The characters, their names, their backgrounds, their motivations, their downfall. I have no creative input into the process, and zero say.

Yes, I know. The fact that I am the one creating them must mean that there is, somewhere in there a creative spark that brings them into existence, but for once I’d like to see, feel, hear, or otherwise sense that spark. It’s like I’m assigned a task, not given a creative moment of enlightenment.

When I have tried writing “on a whim”, or to subvert the plot I’ve been — for lack of a better word — “given”, it does not go well. If I try to subvert the plot, take back the reins, I am punished with a discombobulated, disjointed, dis-something plotline and characters that look at me like I’m crazy.

No. For me, it’s much more constricted. I start each new project with this:

I get two pages, maybe three of “creative” input. This is where I write down the logline, the plot points (that are already fully formed, remember), and a few major lines of dialog that happen at pivotal moments. Maybe, maybe, if I’m lucky, I get to choose the name. As you can see in the picture, this script originated as something to do with Guatemala. It ended up being named The Finca.

But once that is written down, it’s a task that has nothing to do with draft and everything to do with craft. It’s a professional approach, a deadlined, tightly knit, have-to-get-this-onto-paper kind of approach that feels almost the same as writing this. It’s a non-fiction feeling for fiction material. The story is there, it already happened inside my head, now all I do is to report it.

On the one hand, I get a lot of things done. My output is high, and my ok-to-shit ratio for scripts is also acceptable (about 6 out of 10 feature scripts I write are good). So for productivity, this approach is very good.

But on the other hand, I never feel like I own any of these stories. I never feel like I worked particularly hard at them. I never feel like I created anything.

It’s not an adventure, writing about an adventure. It’s just… my something I’m really good at doing.

And I love my job, I love doing this, I would not trade it for the world!

I heard it once said that all his life, Picasso tried to go back to painting like a child. Just for once, I’d like to go back writing like a child. Writing with no agenda. Writing for the sake of writing, not for the sake of finishing a wonderfully plotted out storyline that has everything it could ever possibly need before even “Fade In” is typed.

But we must each play with the gifts we are given.

Don’t Quit the Dayjob

That’s what we tend to get told. Immediately. It’s the first thing we hear at every interaction. 

As soon as the words “I’m an artist/writer/actor/musician/painter/performer” leave our fabulous lips, we get told “Ah, sure, that’s grand, love, but don’t quit the day job”. 

And it’s true. 

Yeah, no, you were expecting me to say “NO! Go forth, be brave, and QUIT the day job, or better yet, never even start one, live your life you beautiful butterfly!!!!!”

No. I’m not going to say that. 

Yes, you need a day job. Yes, you need to anchor yourself, earn money, understand the business side of every job, understand what it feels like to show up to work every morning, work 40 hours a week to earn a living. Because chances are, as soon as you hit that moment when your art becomes your job, you’re gonna have to spend twice that amount of time working. 

That’s where many artists (and I use the word “artist” here to describe any and all creative profession, inclusively of any format or medium) stumble. That’s what differentiates the professional from the hobbyist. 

Speaking as a writer, I know that many see writing as a hobby, and that is TOTES cool. So cool, I love it: you want to write every once in a while, when you feel inspired and when the moment takes you and that’s awesome. Anything creative is worth doing, no matter the skill level, and I will for ever applaud you. 

But let me speak to those on the cusp, for just a moment. 

Those people who are on the cusp of becoming professionals, those who are considering a life in the arts. There is a profound misconception that I encounter daily. The misconception that art is not work. That it’s something innate, some un-graspable talent, some mysterious, ethereal spirit, that just kind of happens, that just kind of appears. 

That is wrong. 

This misconception is shared by creatives and non-creatives alike. And I am NOT here for it. Art is not just talent, or the kiss of a muse, or magic. Art is hard, hard work. Art is craft and professionalism, and hustle, and work. 

So, yes. To an artist who wants to one day turn pro and leave the day job behind, I say: do a day job. Do a gruelling 40 hour work week with one 30 minute break for a year or two. Do it. 

It will give you two things: it will train you to just sit down and grind through the workday. And it will give such an appreciation for the moment when your workday becomes your art. 

And then. When that magical moment arrives, when you’ve hustled the hustle, and worked the work, and maybe even saved up a little something from your day job… go. Do it. Quit the day job. Make it work. Do the work. 

Good Luck.

Oh Lord, won’t you buy me

There was a time when I had nothing. I lived on the edge, because I chose to. I chose to live there, because I had tried the world, had tried its riches, its treats, its wild call to adventure - it wasn’t for me. 

No, I preferred instead to live on the edge. I drove a scooter at the time, a tiny, rickety old thing. It didn’t go fast, but it meant freedom. I traded everything for freedom. Nothing else mattered, no family, no friendships, no companionship, no love, no laughter. All that mattered was the wind in my skirt and the song in my lungs and the endless night sky above me as the summer of 2007 stretched into infinity before me. 

And there it was, my best day ever, my favorite moment in time. 

I’d run away from home (I was a wild-child, can you guess?), and I was on a train, going towards the Hungarian border, the heat from the flat steppe that dominates the inner workings of this vast continent I’d been brought to bringing wind, and the smell of cattle that grazes the grasslands. 

I was going to a festival, the biggest festival of the year, the biggest festival in the country. As we got closer to the border, more and more like-minded people joined our caravan, joined us with their tents, and their six-packs of luke-warm beer. On the last leg of the journey, we all switched into a smaller train that brought us closer still to the music we were all drawn to. 

A boy was there, he had drum sticks (the music kind, not the chicken kind), and tapped away in a quiet rhythm. Tapp-tapp, beat, tapp-tapp. Beat beat. Tapp-tapp. Beat. I started nodding my head. My foot found the rhythm, found it, and joined it. 

I felt my throat close, then open. 

Another girl, sitting behind me clapped on the last tapp. 

A bearded hipster sort of man put his beer down with a clunk on the second beat. 

And then…. Nothing. We waited. And for a glorious, glorious second, there was silence. 

I felt myself float out of my body, all shyness forgotten. 

“Oh Lord, won’t you buy me, a Mercedes Benz…”I sang.

Calls of  “Wooohoo” and “Oh hell yeah” joined the chorus, and the tapp-tapp and the clapp, and the clunk all joined in. And in the back of the train, there was a boy with a guitar, and his chords muddled their way through the crowd to our waiting ears. 

“Oh Lord, won’t you buy me, a Mercedes Benz, my friends all drive Porsches…”

I stood, and I pulled the clapping girl up, and we all joined, we all joined together in singing. There was youth in the air, and freedom in our hearts, and we sang… we sang this song of great political import, we sang and we sang, in a tradition that was millennia old, here, together, we sang. As perfect strangers, as like-minded people, as sisters and brothers and all united, we sang. 

And the Lord never bought us anything… when the music died, we sat in silence as the steppe drifted closer beyond the window. We arrived and went our separate ways, got wasted, listened to other people make music. 

But for a moment, it was ours. The spirit of freedom had touched us. We’d owned it. 

Collaborating with Actors to make better Writing

I took a screenwriting course once. It was a 6 week course held by a very talented actor turned screenwriter whose debut spec script landed him the whole package, the dream, the what-we’re-all-waiting for: representation, a buyer, Spielberg playing with his Irish accent… the lot.

So when my 6 weeks in class were over, naturally, I thought here we go, let’s make this happen. That was ever such a long time ago, though. Of course, lots happened. The second script I ever wrote became a finalist at Nicholl, and a second rounder at Austin. I’m in preproduction for my first indie feature, and talking to producers and directors, pitching, winning contests, the lot.

The dream hasn’t quite come true yet, but it’s a matter of when, not if at this point.

The most valuable lesson I ever learned from Barry McEvoy, the genuinely wonderful man who set me on this path, though, was: let actors read the stuff you write down.

For him, it was natural. He was an actor after all. To him, reading the words out loud, and getting together with other actors to play through the scenes was completely normal: it’s what they did for fun anyway. So it may as well be done with Barry’s words instead of someone else’s.

And this is where I have learned the most, this is the cause for any success I’ve had, and will ever have.

We’re screenwriters. We write words that are meant to be spoken out loud. But I find so many of my most esteemed colleagues are afraid to let actors try out their scripts. And that’s a mistake!

The first thing I did after I finished my very first script was to book a big conference room in a hotel, gather a bunch of actors I had never met before, handed them printouts of the script, and did a table read. I found the actors through friends, through facebook, through whatever connection I could come up with. And I spent the entire time ripping my printed script into absolute pieces. I could hear the cringe. I could hear how badly written it was. It was un-say-able, this stuff. The flowery wonderful language I had concocted was absolute garbage. The characters’ voices were indistinguishable. It was, in short, a shit show.

The next table read, I came armed with a much tighter script. And one I had read to myself out loud about a million times. It was a lot better.

The next lesson I learned after that was how wonderful it is to have a different person give a voice to your character. Because chances are, they will completely turn it on its head.

I participated in a wonderful challenge created by the brilliant Luke Corcoran during one of the more severe lockdowns of 2020, in which writers provided one page long monologues to actors, who would then take a shot at them, without any direction or context whatsoever.

The results I got from actors for some monologues I had plucked from random features or shorts were overwhelming. Inspiring. Wonderful.

The actors opened up ideas I never thought I could ever have, gave my characters voices I would have never imagined in a million years.

In a continuation of that spirit, I am now again working with actors to flesh out a few of my monologues and shorts to see where they take it with little to no direction.

I am continuing to go through a table read for each first draft of each script I write, because it has proved the best way to hear the mistakes, to hear the language. And the feedback I get from actors is fantastic. They can tell me if my words taste good. And if they taste good, they will feel good.

If there is one lesson I wish to pass on to others, it’s to collaborate as early in your career as you can. Your script is never just yours. Not when it gets made, anyway. Filmmaking is a team effort and putting yourself out there is what you need to do.

The Stories that Matter

I watched the season 2 finale of The Mandalorian with my two young sons today. I had tried to prepare them, emotionally, for what was to come. I watched them carefully, as the Dark Troopers returned, held their hands when the banging on the door started. When they saw the X-Wing approach, they cheered. They’ve not seen A New Hope. They have no idea who Luke Skywalker is.

It didn’t matter to them.

They screamed, then cried. With joy, and with bliss, and with unfathomable sadness that Grogu was leaving his Dad behind.

And it made me realize, that this… this is it. This is the reason I am working so hard to be a storyteller. Because that is what stories do to us.

That is what these characters, who are so clearly not real people, do to our psyche. They change us, imprint themselves onto our brain, make us all the more human.

My boys didn’t care who the man was, that came to save the day, that Mark Hamill’s de-aging was done with ground-breaking technology. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the feeling.

They will never forget that feeling. They will never not remember the day when they saw Mando and his crew saved from the bad droids. They will never un-cry those tears, un-cheer those cheers.

Stories have sustained us since the earliest dawn of humanity. Stories have shaped cultures, tribes, communities, nations, humanity as a whole. It’s what we’ve always done.

And now, this new generation grows up with stories of hope and of perseverance as much as my generation, and all the generations before did.

The importance of storytelling can never be underestimated. Even in the smallest ways, we always communicate. And especially now, as the world falls into a new order, a new way of life, we must remember where we can best find a common ground: In the history that brought us here — and not just the factual history. The history of culture that permeates the very fabric of humanity. The history of that intricate fabric of storytelling that first took us from being apes on the savannah towards a future of enlightenment.

It was a big step we took, by the fireside, millennia ago. It is a big step we’re taking now.

Stories can help guide the way. In fact, stories are the only thing that will guide us on this uncharted path towards a brighter future.

How to Deal with the Big Quiet

I’m a fairly successful screenwriter. 

That’s a lie. 

I’ve optioned two scripts to independent directors, both of which are currently in preproduction. 

Both of them are women’s stories, varied, and cool, and badass, and awesome. Of course. 

So far this year, I’ve held 5 table reads, written 2 scripts, been invited on 4 podcasts on 2 continents and published 2 blogs with a combined audience of tens of thousands of people. 

Sounds like a lot, right?

No. 

It’s not nearly enough. If I could, I would have all of those in a month, not stretched out over 4, 5 months. I am working tirelessly, pitching, querying, writing, blogging, hoping, praying… the lot. 

But sometimes, it seems like absolutely nothing is happening. Nothing. For weeks on end, I don’t get a reply to a query, I don’t get a “send over the script” email, I don’t get likes on posts, I don’t get applause, I don’t even get fresh new script ideas that I want to write. 

And it feels like all I am doing is screaming into the void, and the void swallows it all and then there is nothing left. 

And that can kill even the most motivated hustler among us. 

All of us who voluntarily go into the movie-making business know that it’s a cut-throat world. That the hustle never ends, that you can never give up the fight and there is still no guarantee for success. There is no guarantee that you will ever get to share your art. We know this. But when times get rough, boy oh boy, the temptation to just quit is very loud. 

So what can we do when it’s been months since the last “big thing” happened in your career? When we trundle through life, the day job is sucking our energy, the creative juices aren’t flowing, and there is nothing but a bleak, grey landscape ahead?

Simple. 

We remember. 

When I have moments (like I am having right now as I write this), where nothing seems to be moving, nothing seems to be happening… I like to take a moment and look back on why I started writing in the first place. 

No matter what motivates us to keep going, it all started with a spark in there somewhere. It’s not what most people want to do with their lives. Most people have other ideas of what a “good job” is. It’s certainly not the crazy hours we spend on set. It’s certainly not the gig-economy we’re stuck in. It’s certainly not the insecurity, and the dependence on benefactors. 

Where did that spark come from? What made you so crazy, that you chose this life voluntarily? 

For me, it was the Lord of the Rings. It was the behind the scenes footage from the DVD box set of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. It was the moment when they showed the setpiece of Minas Tirith. 

It was that moment, when the small version of the citadel was transformed into the most epic shot I had ever seen. It was then that I realized that I would for ever long to be a part of this world. The world that could make this magic. 

And so, I wrote. 

The story is quite mundane: I started writing in beautiful little note books, imagining worlds and how they would look, progressed to prose and novels, and then made the jump to screenwriting a few years ago. Because the north star is there, as it always has been. One day, I would stand on a set that I had dreamed up, hearing actors say words that I had put there. And that day moves ever closer. 

We move across mountains and valleys. And down below, it’s hard to see the next peak sometimes. But it’s there. It does exist. And there is a north star guiding us, always. Because we are all just crazy enough to believe that there is.