I’m not very good at this year-end wrap-up things, mostly because my months meld together into one giant, “Was that this year? It feels like it was SO long ago,” kind of nostalgia. My archives show that the year went: Anne Heche, Anne Heche, won a Script Contest, Anne Heche, Scott Thompson, Oakland, Oakland, Al and Chris, Oakland, Michael Moore, My First Book, Book, Writing Frustrations, Book Tour, Book, Wedding, Wedding, Drunk and Stupid While Singing, Sink Pasta, Famous People (last night’s spotting: Keifer Sutherland, while walking to see Cold Mountain co-starring… Donald Sutherland!), Mars (award-winning Mars, thank you), Ringo Starr, Writing Frustrations, My Book Photo, Jim Carrey’s Massive Cock, AIDS Walk, Wedding, My First Screenplay Sale, Dirty Sanchez, Michael Jackson, Poop Boobs, I’m In the Trades, and Johnny Depp.
I’ll try next year to have more of a variety in my writing.
If that song from Cold Mountain wins Best Song this year, I’m going to stab myself. I can’t believe Sting wrote such a terrible, terrible song. It is the WORST. Ugh, it drove me crazy, and it plays through about seven times during the longest movie of all time. And it was more obvious than a musical interlude on The Real World. “I’m walking… to Cold Mountain… my name’s Jude Law… I love Nicole Kidman.” Every time I bring it up, someone asks, “Is Nicole Kidman singing that song?” Take that, alt country.
I had told myself I wasn’t going to go on and on about the movie after it was over, like we did for Crap Actually, because I could tell stee wasn’t hating the film. But then I did it anyway. I started with, “I just don’t like Civil War movies,” which may be true. I also had read so little about this film that I thought it was about a Romanian war. I mean, looking at the cast list, the name of the film, and where it was shot would lead me nowhere near the Civil War. Also, I already read and saw Gone With the Wind, so I’m not sure what was the damn point in making this version of it. And then, you know, there’s the whole, “Does ‘cold’ refer to people’s emotional investment with each other in this film?” And then, finally: Did Jack White and Renee Zellweger get into that car accident so there was a rumor they were involved so that we’d be more emotionally invested in the last hour of the film?
I was also thinking during Cold Mountain (because you have time to let your mind wander for long stretches of film) about how many hours I’ve saved by not buying into most of the films we were offered this year. Excusing Angels in America because I’m drama geeky enough to get truly excited over it, how many hours were we supposed to sit still and watch a screen this year? From those Hobbit/Narnia/Orc/Hobgoblin films, to Tom Cruise in some kind of warrior movie, the pirate/ship movie without Johnny Depp, the horse movie, the hulk movie, the Keanu movies, and all of the DVD collections of entire television seasons. When am I supposed to do something with my life?
And… I’ve just turned into a cranky old lady. Sorry.
I’m very proud of everything that happened this year, and I am very happy with my life right now. It makes it difficult to come up with some kind of year-end conclusion. Maybe next year I’d be able to put this one in more of a perspective.
Oh, really, Pam? Ya think? See, this is why I don’t do these things. I come off like a moron. And I try not to write here when I have nothing to say, but I couldn’t just leave the last possible updating day blank (as there’s no way I’m updating tomorrow).
Blah. Nothing. I’ve got nothing. I’m just babbling. Filling space for those of you who never read the blog, because I feel that I neglected you this December.
I’ve been staring at this screen now for fifteen minutes, trying to think of something, anything. But the truth is I’ve been doing so much writing outside of this site (working on the screenplay, writing a spec pilot, working on a new show), that by the time I get here I’m like, “I do not want to write another essay about being a writer.”
I’m boring myself. Therefore I must be boring you.
So. 2004. I’ll still be updating. I don’t have a book coming out, so there will be less pimping. And I don’t plan on taking over the tabloids again, or starting up another library drive, so maybe this place will have a bit more variety. I know. Y’all just want me to write about the cats again.
This is the worst entry I’ve ever written. Glad to end 2003 with some kind of milestone.
- In America, by Susan Sontag.
- Carrie Pilby, by Caren Lissner. Worst cover ever. I’m reading it in manuscript form, and it must be good, as this copy is so over photocopied that most of the punctuation is gone, and I’m still swept up in the story. I picked it up as our books are often compared on that “Five Chick Lit Books To Read” list.
- The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky. I really enjoyed this book and immediately passed it on to stee, as it reminded me of his writing.
- “Tense Present: Democracy, English, and the Wars Over Usage,” by David Foster Wallace. Harper’s Magazine. April, 2001. p. 39-58. — You can’t stand my geek style: it’s an article discussing Garner’s American Modern Usage. Jealous?
- Motherhood and Hollywood: How To Get a Job Like Mine, by Patricia Heaton. We picked this paperback up before our last roadtrip, assuming it’d be hy-sterical to read aloud as we drove up the 5. Neither of us had an opinion on Patty Heaton before we bought this book. We now hate her. Hate her. Somehow EW gave this thing an A. It makes no sense at all. This book reads, “Me, me, me, me, I have two Emmys for Everybody Loves Raymond, everybody really loves me. As do I. And me. And myself!” We got into a fight towards the end of the book, over a gas station or something, so I knew the book was adding tension. I resisted the impulse to throw the book out the window. When I finally finished reading, stee asked, “Can I throw the book out the window?” We settled on shredding the pages in huge chunks at a time to prevent ourselves from inflicting the damage on others.
- On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, by Stephen King. To swing the complete opposite direction in memoirs. My dad loved this book, and I could see why, as King basically says “A writer writes, and then rewrites, and then writes some more.” When he says after he finishes a manuscript he puts it away for six weeks, stee and I both shrieked in horror, “Six weeks?!?” We have a hard time stepping away from something for six hours.