The staff meteorologist has been walking through the bunker all week, singing under his breath. He’s got a song called, “I’m Smarter than You Look” and he combines it with what he calls his “I Told You So” dance. It’s not that bad; it’s kind of catchy, at first. I just wish he didn’t wear those moose antlers when he does it. Stuff always ends up broken.
Also, we’d like to apologize for the lateness of this newsletter; a last-minute trip into the Central Texas Hellscape necessitated that we bring the modular unit, but there were technical issues that took a while to iron out. We’re all fine, now, thank you. How are you?
On the Fine Art of NOT Not Doing Anything
I don’t believe in Writer’s Block, not the way it’s popularly used. My definition is basically this: if you are in the middle of a project and you can’t figure out where to go next, that’s your mind, throwing up red flags and obstacles, because it knows something is wrong with either what you’ve already got, or what you are putting down next.
What most people think of as “writer’s block,” I call creative exhaustion. It’s not that I don’t know what to write. It’s that every time I think about writing, the bottom drops out from under my soul and I plummet into the abyss at the thought of making words on a page. I’ve got projects galore; some of them are even starting to stack up, but my fuel tank is bone dry.
For me, the only real cure is to not write anything. Instead, I will attempt to refill the ol’ creative hopper. Round up all of the bingo balls and put them back into the wire drum. I can do this by reading, gaming, listening to music, drawing, watching TV, etc. Other creative projects are all right; painting miniatures, crafting, even graphic design. Anything to keep the brain active while I work on something else. It’s all good for refilling my creative energy.
This usually happens at the end of a large project, whether it’s a book or something else sufficiently complex is scale or scope. In my case, my ongoing projects have overlapped, with one ending and the other one beginning right away. No resting on my laurels. Just back to it.
Another one of my tricks for beating creative exhaustion is to do something that is writing adjacent, like editing. I find it is perfect for powering through manuscripts that need to be proofread or critiqued. Working on book design is also a good thing. Those kinds of activities have the advantage of taking things off of my plate, and keeping me focused while my brain resets. Hey, at least I’m getting projects done, right?
I just hate that a lot of people tend to discount how much sustained effort it takes to make art that doesn’t suck. It’s a never-ending, 24/7 kind of residency in your brain that goes without you needing to prompt it. You can tell mine is working just fine by the number of times I end up staring off into space, head cocked to one side like a dog that’s been shown a card trick, because I just had some random idea and I’m chasing it down in my mind’s eye.
That doesn’t seem like work to a lot of people. This is unfortunate, because writing is one of the most ephemeral things you can do. The time spent writing and the time spent reading that writing are considerable; most art can be “gotten” at a glance, or with very little time commitment. 3:30 seconds is the length of a pop song. Movie trailers are two minutes and twenty seconds long. A five-thousand-word short story can’t be read aloud in less than 30 minutes. That short story took me two days to write. But it really took me my whole life.
See, my brain is full of every single story I’ve ever consumed, along with a trillion other things; memories, pieces of conversation, some documentary I saw about sharks back in 2002, song lyrics, plays I acted in, the lyrics to “Hey Bulldog” by the Beatles, and on and on and on. My writing, my “voice,” is a product of everything I’ve read and/or written, stuff I love and a few things I hate, and all of that is dutifully filtered through my creative lenses whenever I make something.
So, It’s a heavy time sink for the artist and the consumer, both. It seems to be not very involved. I’ve got to be by myself, or ignoring all of you, to make my art. I have to sit with my head down, not looking at anyone, in order to concentrate and write my best. When it’s done, you have to stop everything you’re doing and give my words your full attention. Oh, how I wish it’s kept up with my music. I could be bringing jazz trombone back into fashion. Instead, I’m writing game zines for a subsection of the already niche market.
I’ll get everything done. It may bear the marks of having been forced out of me, but it will get done. In fact, I’m about to add more projects on my overcrowded plate. I have a contract coming over as we speak (more on this later). There’s a lot going on, but none of my sweat equity is valued by most people because it doesn’t look like anything is going on. I’m sitting at a computer, with an action figure in my hand, staring up at the ceiling, making “pew pew pew” noises with my mouth.
I swear to God, I’m working.
Weekly Report from the N.T.A.B. Division of Media Review
Note: In the interest of readability, we have cut most of the technical jargon out of this week’s review. It seems someone on staff (who shall remain nameless) decided to flex by dropping a quantity of filmmaking terms and terminology that could only be called “excessive.” We hope that this shorter, punchier review meets with your approval.
Ripley (Netflix)
Tom Ripley is a con artist, working small scams in New York City, when he’s approached by the father of an acquaintance with an intriguing offer: travel to Italy and try to convince the errant son to return home and embrace his familial responsibilities. What starts out as a straightforward errand turns into Tom’s life as he cajoles, charms, and tricks his way into his friend’s expatriate lifestyle, and now that he’s had a taste of the good life, Tom Ripley will stop at nothing to keep it—including murder.
Based on the Talented Mr. Ripley books by Patricia Highsmith, this sumptuous mini-series is tonally and intentionally nothing like the 1999 movie starring Matt Damon and Jude Law. First off, it’s much closer to the book, which is almost always a good thing. Second, and most importantly, this whole mini-series is a cinephile’s wet dream. If you ever mentioned that RKO’s success in the 1940s was largely due to cinematographer Nicholas Musuraca, or if you ever wondered aloud why more people don’t talk about Robert Krasker’s incredible shot composition in The Third Man, then you need to drop what you’re doing and get on Netflix post-haste.
My God, this show is good. I’ve never seen a more serious and studied love note to film noir, ever. Watching Ripley made me want to rewatch The Third Man, Out of the Past, Casablanca, and more. Yes, it’s set in the 1960s but the decision to film in black and white was so smart, so cool, so different, you can’t help but notice the differences, and there are quite a few.
The two things to really take notice off are the interplay between light and dark, a classic technique that added a lot of value to the cheaply made pot boiler mysteries, which indubitably elevated the material, as well. The other thing to notice is the use of sound, and its absence. Ripley is a quiet show; not a lot of dialogue, but thanks to the visual banquet of composed shots, the repetition of shots to denote time of day and also location, and the sound design of ambient noise that made this a compelling series to watch.
The suspense level starts out high and remains so throughout, and you’ll find yourself analyzing every facial expression, every little gesture, hoping Ripley doesn’t slip up but kinda wanting him to get caught, too. Every frame of every establishing shot is a fine art photograph. If you’ve always wondered what the fuss was about when they talk about good cinematography, or best sound design, this Ripley is a masterclass in technique.
I feel like I should speak to the actors, but no matter how good they are—and the cast is great, by the way—it’s the way they are lit and shot that adds to the weight of their performance. Watch the first two episodes and see if you don’t agree with me. Ripley gets the Division of Media Review’s highest possible recommendation.
When someone asks me " how long did it take you to paint that picture?" , I tell them 60 years and 6 months . Truth bomb when you said that what you do is a culmination of everything you've read/ seen/heard. Much love in your endeavors.