If I could synthesize my essence into a single phrase, I think it would be “well, this is awkward.”
Irony and authenticity are always tugging my brain in different directions. I’m an excitable, loud-mouthed nerd, who is compelled to temper everything they say with cynicism and just a teaspoon of morbidity.
Just think of me as the dullest Miyazaki film you’ve ever seen.
I’m 26, never lived anywhere but New York City, and have an innate revulsion toward doing things. I’m not very interesting, in other words. …
I had the most fascinating subway experience today. Terrifying, but fascinating.
I walk on the A train at 59th, and I have to stand against the connecting doors by this Hispanic man who’s slumped back in someone’s arms, his knees taking up the entire aisle I’m attempting to occupy, clearly drunk. But whatever, he’s quiet.
And then the doors close, and I realize too late that there’s a man by the door who’s yelling. He’s Black, probably around 30, the same age as the Hispanic guy, I’d guess.
The experience of watching Inside a second time was rougher than the first. I saw it for the first time with my cool younger brother, the person who introduced me to Burnham’s work in the first place. So I had to be at least somewhat chill about my reaction to it.
By the second time, I had begun a spiral of gender dysphoria, a job that causes me existential dread, and some of the worst depression and anxiety of my life. And its effect on me has been mildly ruinous.
It’s one of those pieces of art that destroys you…
I have a lot of complicated feelings about season four of this show, and this episode has only made that apprehension worse. When I turned on season four episode eight of The Handmaid’s Tale, entitled “Testimony,” I did so with anticipation for exactly one thing. I was hoping that this one thing would be addressed within the first ten minutes of the episode.
It went on to not be referenced at all.
The last scene of the previous episode, entitled “Home,” was of June raping her husband Luke.
Lest you disagree with my use of the term ‘rape’ here, let’s…
I’m a writer, so naturally I hate writing.
This is a common joke I make when I tell people what I do. And I usually get at least a smirk of understanding from whomever I am speaking to.
For many, the strongest association people draw with writers is our chronic “writer’s block.” If we aren’t making six-figures directly out of college, we are often seen as miserable, isolated, depressive wannabe auteurs.
There is some truth to this belief. Many writers struggle with the fear, pain and anxiety that comes with the job of being expressive in the most direct and…
Months and months ago, I wrote an article about Elliot Page coming out as trans called “Losing Lesbians”. I got a decent reception to this article, with one person even reaching out to me through my website to ask if they could translate and publish the article in Turkish.
The article was about the many lesbians (and plenty of people who aren’t lesbians) online who made gross comments about Page being confused about his identity. They thought Page was just a lesbiphobic lesbian with no ability to judge his internal sense of gender identity and sexuality. …
As some of you have kindly noticed, I recently published my first eBook, Reframing The Screenwriting Process on Kindle!
It’s exciting to feel like I have accomplished such a concrete thing — even if its a short, simple read.
There I go, ready to diminish the accomplishment. My, how quick writers are to do this. No matter what we accomplish, some standard of worth always butts in to tell us how small we are in comparison to some nebulous idea of our potential.
Well, I don’t want any more potential, dammit! …
Yup, it really gets me me down when people pose a threat to my safety. The political correctness of me being able to be who I am without fear of violence or discrimination is not something you can reasonably expect someone to be cool-headed about. You can't logic yourself out of bigotry, you can only fight it.
I was going through some drafts of stories I had begun writing earlier in the year. Some are several ‘minutes’ long, others are merely a title and subtitle.
One of these stories was four words long:
Needless to say, I was not “back” from that writing hiatus for long. Certainly not long enough to write the story itself.
I have no idea what the intention of the story was when I wrote those words. And I probably never will, because I never wrote it. …