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shkspr · 3 years

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hi. on your post where you may or may not have ended on 'moffat is either your angel or your devil' did you have maybe an elaboration on that somewhere that i could possibly hear about. i'm very much a capaldi era stan and i've never tried to defend the matt smith era even though it had delightful moments sometimes so i wonder where that puts me. i'd love to hear your perspective on moffat as a person with your political perspective. -nicole

hi ok sorry i took so long to respond to this but i dont think you know how LOADED this question is for me but i am so happy to elaborate on that for you. first a few grains of salt to flavor your understanding of the whole situation: a. im unfairly biased against moffat bc im a davies stan and a tennant stan; b. i still very much enjoy and appreciate moffat era who for many reasons; and c. i hate moffat on a personal level far more than i could ever hate his work.

the thing is that its all always gonna be a bit mixed up bc i have to say a bunch of seemingly contradictory things in a row. for instance, a few moffat episodes are some of my absolute favorites of the rtd era, AND the show went way downhill when moffat took over, AND the really good episodes he wrote during the rtd era contained the seeds of his destruction.

like i made that post about the empty child/the doctor dances and it holds true for blink and thats about it bc the girl in the fireplace and silence in the library/forest of the dead are good but not nearly on the same level, and despite the fact that i like them at least nominally, they are also great examples of everything i hate about moffat and how he approached dw as a whole.

basically. doctor who is about people. there are many things about moffats tenure as showrunner that i think are a step up from rtd era who! actual gay people, for one! but i think that can likely be attributed mostly to an evolving Society as opposed to something inherent to him and his work, seeing as rtd is literally gay, and the existence of queer characters in moffats work doesnt mean the existence of good queer characters (ill give him bill but thats it!)

i have a few Primary Grievances with moffat and how he ran dw. all of them are things that got better with capaldi, but didnt go away. they are as follows:

moffat projects his own god complex onto the doctor

rtd era who had a doctor with a god complex. you cant ever be the doctor and not have a god complex. the problem with moffats era specifically is that the god complex was constant and unrepentant and was seen as a fundamental personality trait of the doctor rather than a demon he has to fight. he has the Momence where you feel bad for him, the Momence where he shows his humility or whatever and youre reminded that he doesnt want to be the lonely god, but those are just. moments. in a story where the doctor thinks hes the main character. rtd era doctor was aware that he wasnt the main character. he had to be an authority sometimes and he had to be the loner and he had to be sad about it, but he ultimately understood that he was expendable in a narrative sense.

this is how you get lines like “were the thin fat gay married anglican marines, why would we need names as well?” from the same show that gave you the gut punch moment at the end of midnight when they realize that nobody asked the hostess for her name. and on the one hand, thats a small sticking point, but on the other hand, its just one small example of the simple disregard that moffat has for humanity.

incidentally, this is a huge part of why sherlock sucked so bad: moffats main characters are special bc theyre so much bigger and better than all the normal people, and thats his downfall as a showrunner. he thinks that his audience wants fucking sheldon cooper when what they want is people.

like, ok. think of how many fantastic rtd era eps are based in the scenario “what if the doctor wasnt there? what if he was just out of commission for a bit?” and how those eps are the heart of the show!! bc theyre about people being people!! the thing is that all of the rtd era companions would have died for the doctor but he understood and the story understood that it wasnt about him.

this is like. nine sending rose home to save her life and sacrifice his own vs clara literally metaphysically entwining her existence w the doctor. ten also sending rose with her family to save her life vs river being raised from infancy to be obsessed w the doctor and then falling in love w him. martha leaving bc she values herself enough to make that decision vs amy being treated like a piece of meat.

and this is simultaneously a great callback to when i said that moffats episodes during the rtd era sometimes had the same problems as his show running (bc girl in the fireplace reeks of this), and a great segue into the next grievance.

moffat hates women

he hates women so fucking much. g-d, does steven moffat ever hate women. holy shit, he hates women. especially normal human women who prioritize their normal human lives on an equal or higher level than the doctor. moffat hated rose bc she wasnt special by his standards. the empty child/the doctor dances is the nicest he ever treated her, and she really didnt do much in those eps beyond a fuck ton of flirting.

girl in the fireplace is another shining example of this. youve got rose (who once again has another man to keep her busy, bc moffat doesnt think shes good enough for the doctor) sidelined for no reason only to be saved by the doctor at the last second or whatever. and then youve got reinette, who is pretty and powerful and special!

its just. moffat thinks that the doctor is as shallow and selfish as he is. thats why he thinks the doctor would stay in one place with reinette and not with rose. bc moffat is shallow and sees himself in the doctor and doesnt think he should have to settle for someone boring and normal.

not to mention rose met the doctor as an adult and chose to stay with him whereas reinette is. hm. introduced to the doctor as a child and grows up obsessed with him.

does that sound familiar? it should! bc it is also true of amy and river. and all of them are treated as viable romantic pairings. bc the only women who deserve the doctor are the ones whose entire existence revolves around him. which includes clara as well.

genuinely i think that at least on some level, not even necessarily consciously, that bill was a lesbian in part bc capaldi was too old to appeal to mainstream shippers. like twelve/clara is still a thing but not as universally appealing as eleven/clara but i am just spitballing. but i think they weighed the pros and cons of appealing to the woke crowd over the het shippers and found that gay companion was more profitable. anyway the point is to segue into the next point, which is that moffat hates permanent consequences.

moffat hates permanent consequences

steven moffat does not know how to kill a character. honestly it feels like hes doing it on purpose after a certain point, like he knows he has this habit and hes trying to riff on it to meme his own shit, but it doesnt work. it isnt funny and it isnt harmless, its bad writing.

the end of the doctor dances is so poignant and so meaningful and so fucking good bc its just this once! everybody lives, just this once! and then he does p much the same thing in forest of the dead - this one i could forgive, bc i do think that preserving those peoples consciousnesses did something for the doctor as a character, it wasnt completely meaningless. but everything after that kinda was.

rory died so many times its like. get a hobby lol. amy died at least once iirc but it was all a dream or something. clara died and was erased from the doctors memory. river was in prison and also died. bill? died. all of them sugarcoated or undone or ignored by the narrative to the point of having effectively no impact on the story. the point of a major character death is that its supposed to have a point. and you could argue that a piece of art could be making a point with a pointless death, ie. to put perspective on it and remind you that bad shit just happens, but with moffat the underlying message is always “i can do whatever i want, nothing is permanent or has lasting impact ever.”

basically, with moffat, tragedy exists to be undone. and this was a really brilliant, really wonderful thing in the doctor dances specifically bc it was the doctor clearly having seen his fair share of tragedy that couldnt be helped, now looking on his One Win with pride and delight bc he doesnt get wins like this! and then moffat proceeded to give him the same win over and over and over and over. nobody is ever dead. nobody is ever unable to be saved. and if they are, really truly dead and/or gone, then thats okay bc moffat has decided that [insert mitigating factor here]*

*the mitigating factor is usually some sort of computerized database of souls.

i can hear the moffat stans falling over themselves to remind me that amy and rory definitely died, and they did - after a long and happy life together, they died of old age. i dont consider that a character death any more than any other character choosing to permanently leave the tardis.

and its not just character deaths either, its like, everything. the destruction of gallifrey? never mind lol! character development? scrapped! the same episode four times? lets give it a fifth try and hope nobody notices. bc he doesnt know how to not make the doctor either an omnipotent savior or a self-pitying failure.

it is in nature of doctor who, i believe, for the doctor to win most of the time. like, it wouldnt be a very good show if he didnt win most of the time. but it also wouldnt be a very good show if he won all of the time. my point is that moffats doctor wins too often, and when he doesnt win, it feels empty and hollow rather than genuinely humbling, and you know hes not gonna grow from it pretty much at all.

so like. again, i like all of doctor who i enjoy all of it very much. i just think that steven moffat is a bad show runner and a decent writer at times. and it is frustrating. and im not here to convince or convert anyone im just living my truth. thank you for listening.

#sorry if this is repetitive or makes no sense or if i got some details of the show wrong #i simply couldnt be bothered to put too much effort into this post #lest it become a research paper and take me several weeks to answer #anyway thats all my opinions #dw #ok to rb

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raystart · 7 years

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Knocking Down your Creative Blocks

This is a story about the day I quit writing.

It was 1989. I was 32. For the previous nine months, I’d been researching and reporting the biggest story of my early career. That the assignment had been handed to me on a platter by my editor at Rolling Stone was only the beginning of the pressure.

The central figure was a man named John Holmes. Perhaps the most iconic star of the early days of porn, Holmes had recently died, the first known AIDS casualty in X-rated films.

During the 1970s and 1980s, Holmes performed in nearly three thousand adult films. Besides his astounding natural endowment, he is best remembered for headlining the first series of adult movies that attempted a plot line and character development. Playing a hard-boiled detective named Johnny Wadd, Holmes was a polyester-wearing smoothie with a sparse mustache, a flying collar and lots of buttons undone. He wasn’t threatening. He chewed gum and overacted. He took a lounge singer’s approach to sex: deliberately gentle, ostentatiously artful. You didn’t know whether to laugh or stare.

As home video players became ubiquitous, Holmes became more famous, breaching the mainstream, commanding larger and larger fees. But with the rise came the inevitable fall—a copious addiction to freebase cocaine, which robbed him of his money, his dignity, and his ability to muster a serviceable erection.

Eventually, Holmes fell in with a club owner and drug dealer named Eddie Nash, and also with a gang of small time criminals who were later dubbed the Wonderland Gang—after the location of their puke-green stucco rental house on Wonderland Avenue, in the leafy environs just north of Hollywood’s Sunset Strip, in Laurel Canyon. Desperate for money and drugs, the gang decided to rob Nash.

After the robbery, one of Nash’s henchmen ran into Holmes in a convenience store. He noticed Holmes wearing his boss’ stolen ring. And shortly thereafter, four of the members of the Wonderland gang were found bludgeoned to death with blunt objects. The crime scene was brutal. The press would dub it the “Four on the Floor Murders.”

***

I spent six weeks in Los Angeles working the story. There was no internet at the time. Reporting was still a craft that required shoe leather and a way with people—you had to look them in the eye. I interviewed nearly 100 sources. I went from house to house knocking on doors. I found court files buried in a repository four stories underground. I visited a half-dozen porn shoots and spoke to a dozen or more porn stars and directors (I know, rough job). I consorted with convicted felons. Most were behind bars. They were constantly calling collect.

My biggest “gets” were Holmes’ first wife, a former UCLA nurse, and another woman who became his mistress when she was only fifteen.

My biggest shock had been answering the knock at my hotel room door and discovering that the two women were now best friends.

We sat at the cheap dinette table in my rent-by-the-week motel suite. For nearly twelve hours they poured out their tale. The room was a haze of cigarette smoke. I remember boiling more water, making more tea. And I remember changing the microcassette tapes, one after the other, trying not to make too big a deal of the process lest I break the spell. Their story—funny and intimate and tragic—would later become the basis for the movie Wonderland, starring Val Kilmer, Lisa Kudrow, and Kate Bosworth. The larger piece would become Boogie Nights. (Alas, I didn’t own the rights to any life stories. I played no part in the making the movies.)

***

In time, my office looked like it had been hit by a blizzard of 20-pound bond. There were piles of paper on every flat surface, and on the floor around me, all of them tagged with colorful Post-it Notes, some of the piles reaching several feet in height—a miniature cityscape at my feet: Transcribed interviews, notes, court documents and legal transcripts of testimony and deposition hearings, newspaper clippings, non-fiction books and research papers on the subjects of AIDS and the Reagan Administration’s war on pornography (a period during which porn consumption by the public rose exponentially, I would learn). Not to mention my collection of VHS films—black plastic rectangles, clad in colorful cardboard slip covers, stacked in rickety piles like so many skyscrapers populating my urban jungle of research materials.

Finally, I was done reporting and was ready to write. I sat down I sat in my expensive ergonomic office chair, at my father’s old desk in the bay window on the third floor of a townhouse just off the Washington DC’s notorious 14th Street Strip. One mile from the White House, the trade in prostitutes and crack cocaine was brisk 24/7. The newspaper liked to call it “an outdoor bazaar.”

Inside, on my computer screen, things were not so lively. Even though I knew where I wanted to start the story—with the Wonderland gang planning the heist—I couldn’t start. There was just too much information. Too many moving parts. Too many notes. Too many proper nouns.

I started the first sentence again and again. And again. And again.

Deep in Laurel Canyon… Deep in Laurel Canyon… something.

By the second day, I was becoming more and more agitated. More desperate. And then depressed. And then really depressed. Holy shit, I thought, I’m Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

Deep in Laurel Canyon… Deep in Laurel Canyon… something.

Finally I wrote this: They gave me a story about a guy with a 14-inch penis. How did I fuck this up?

I imagined myself dead in my fancy Aeron chair, my carcass desiccated and covered with cobwebs, rats chewing through the cityscape of pulp and plastic that occupied my hundred-year-old wood plank floor.

Finally, by late afternoon on the third day, I’d had enough. I said it out loud to myself and anyone else within earshot, though there was no one else:

“I quit.”

Writing was too fucking hard. And it wasn’t worth it. I’d worked for nine months on this fucker. I was due to collect $2,250 for this story. I had borrowed money to renovate my house, but was spending it on the mortgage and food and electricity. All for a chance at what…getting my name in Rolling Stone?

Maybe I need to find a new line of work, I suggested to myself. Maybe I’ll go back to law school—I wasn’t too old for a change: Plenty of people switched jobs in their early thirties, did they not?

I shut the door behind me on my way out of that room.

***

I took off walking.

Dusk was gathering and the earlybird hookers were just hitting the streets for the evening rush of homebound commuters. There was the usual tang of want, need and expectation swirling in the air, along with the smells of car exhaust and fireplace woodsmoke.

It was the media who’d labeled this area the 14th Street Strip; the pimps and hoes called it the “Track.” The flashier women were posted up beneath the street lamps along 14th Street NW, which was lined with storefronts, laundromats, auto shops, Chinese carryouts, and a number of liquor stores. One block over, 13th Street served as the back stretch. Darker and more residential, lined with overhanging trees, it was the provenance of welfare mothers, drug dealers and thieves. The johns from Virginia approached from the south, from the north came the men from Maryland. They circled round and round.

As I walked thought this usual evening tableau, I felt my mind begin to clear, and I kept moving at a swift pace. Soon, I left the strip altogether and reached the National Mall, hung a right, and walked on the grass toward the Lincoln Memorial. Climbing the steps, I paid my usual respects to Honest Abe, then turned around and grabbed a seat.

Spread before me was the familiar landscape—the Reflecting pool, the Washington Monument, the great dome of the Capitol, as thrilling as ever in the gathering loam, the lights beginning to twinkle.

And suddenly it hit me.

Deep in Laurel Canyon, the Wonderland Gang was planning its last heist.

***

I learned that day that writer’s block had nothing to do with writing.

No matter how many sources I consult, how much information I collect, how many e-stacks of paper I build, or search windows I open, my story is not going to be found in my notes.

And neither is it lurking somewhere in the shadows of my blank screen. (If only we could rub with a quarter and have our work revealed?)

Don’t expect your best stuff to suddenly appear by magic. You can noodle the germ of an idea into something concrete—you can fiddle and try things and edit and throw stuff up against the wall until somehow the fairy dust of your creative gift is released by the gods and floats down over all.

But before any of that can happen, you need to figure out what you’re trying to say.

For me that usually happens outside my office. Walking up a hill or chopping vegetables or taking a shower. Driving places. Staring out the window.

And yes, the people who are close me take notice of the times I’m not really there, the many times I’m not really there, the days or evenings when I’m walking around distracted or I forget that I had plans. But hell, I’m an artist. I’m making something beautiful in my head. I’m not supposed to be a norm. Maybe that’s why there aren’t a lot of people in my life day to day? No matter. It suits me to be lost in my thoughts. Because that means the next time I’m at my keyboard, I’m going to take a crack at making something sing.

No matter what your genre, it’s probably the same. When you sit down to create something out of nothing, it’s best to have an idea of where you’re going: What, exactly, are you trying to create? Can you see it in your mind’s eye? Can you hear it playing like a song? Flickering like a movie? Can you smell and taste and feel?

Only then can you make it real.

#startups #text #startup #advice #busieness #howto #news #tech #love

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arthur36domingo · 7 years

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A Complete Guide to Reevaluating Your 2017 Goals

You came into 2017 with high hopes.

Maybe you decided Stephen King isn’t the only writer who can mash out a few thousand words every day. If Chuck Palahniuk can hammer out an entire novel in under two months, you reasoned, then surely you’d be able to finish your opus by springtime. Journalists churn out many hundreds of words each day and presumably still see the sun once in awhile.

Admittedly, King’s advice to newcomers is to start by aiming for a thousand words a day, six days per week—while many other longtime pros get by doing less: working from an outline, novelist Colson Whitehead shoots for a thoroughly manageable eight pages a week. Zadie Smith has said just getting to 800 words “feels like a champion day.”

Alas, writing is hard.

Distractions abound, as do other, non-writerly responsibilities. Maybe you need to clear out your inbox before your head’s clear enough to tackle your intro. Or maybe it feels essential to transcribe every word of a research interview you taped before you’re ready to map out a structure. “My apartment in college was never cleaner than during exam week,” veteran reporter Michelle Willard jokes, “and it’s still true: I’ll clean my desk when I want to put off writing a story.”

Whatever resolutions or goals you’ve set for your writing this year, if they’re not working for you, that’s okay. Beating yourself up about it isn’t going to help, so the first step is forgiving yourself. There’s no guilt in being realistic, so long as you’re still writing. With that in mind, here are some tips to help you recalibrate your writing goals for 2017.

It’s okay to start small

Goals are helpful tools for getting writing done. But when they feel depressingly out of reach, they can become crippling and counterproductive. When possible, sometimes it’s wise to ease into your project rather than stress over the eventual scope of the end product.

For instance, a radio journalist covering the news of the day might be obliged to write two versions of the same story: one short, the other longer. By first knocking out a few quick sentences for an announcer to read, the reporter crosses the short version off her to-do list and now has a workable outline from which to build the longer spot.

The same lesson holds true whether you’re drafting a grant application or a novella: your word count will be low before it is high, and sometimes it’s practical to work that to your advantage. Be deliberate about it—make it part of your process—and you’ll surmount one of the greatest obstacles writers face: getting started.

Carve out time to work

Writerly concentration is often fragile. It can crumble with the buzz of a single text message and take several precious minutes to reassemble. If you’re juggling other responsibilities—whether you also have to run meetings this afternoon, or just run laundry—it’s easy to pretend you’ll cram in some writing during brief windows of downtime in between, but that rarely works out.

This is why many writers carve out specific hours to be alone with their work. Some put their phones in airplane mode; a few insist on going offline altogether, instead doing their writing with old-school pen and paper. King has advised against working in a room with a phone, TV, or even so much as an interesting window to look out of; for him, the point of working set hours is “to make sure the muse knows where you’re going to be every day.”

But your routine doesn’t have to be brutal, argues Tim Kreider—a committed writer of the four-to-five-hours-a-day school. Your sessions do, however, have to afford enough empty space for your creativity to breathe:

Idleness is not just a vacation, an indulgence or a vice; it is as indispensable to the brain as vitamin D is to the body, and deprived of it we suffer a mental affliction as disfiguring as rickets. The space and quiet that idleness provides is a necessary condition for standing back from life and seeing it whole, for making unexpected connections and waiting for the wild summer lightning strikes of inspiration — it is, paradoxically, necessary to getting any work done.

If your writing objectives feel difficult to achieve, perhaps part of your revised goal should simply be scheduling a realistic window to work in, and sticking to that.

Keep giving yourself deadlines

Parkinson’s law states that “work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion.” But in the end, you’re still aiming to get something finished. That’s where deadlines—even the self-imposed kind—come in handy.

For some writers, it’s the glorious inspiration of last-minute panic that helps shepherd their project across the finish line. For others, the ideal motivation might come from a kind of external pressure—the public declaration, perhaps via social media, that you’ll reach a given milestone by a certain time, for instance. Or the fear of letting someone down. Leveraging that anxiety so it spurs you onward might be all the more reason to let that person know exactly what you’re trying to accomplish, and when.

Phyllis Korkki, a New York Times editor whose book is subtitled “How to Complete Your Creative Project Even If You’re a Lazy, Self-Doubting Procrastinator Like Me,” has remarked that for some folks, making a friendly bet on your ability to hit a deadline, or even hiring a stranger to keep hectoring you through it, might factor into the fix.

Lastly, a deadline can help to enforce your requisite alone-time, lest this ritual feel overly selfish. Consider this entry from the glossary of Jonathan Kern’s Sound Reporting, a seminal guide for anyone writing for the ear:

Crash: To work on a deadline—often an imminent deadline. If you’re crashing, you don’t have time for socializing; phone calls to reporters or editors often begin with the question “Are you crashing?”—and if the answer is yes, the caller apologizes and hangs up.

Key takeaway: the person writing on deadline isn’t sorry; the person bothering them is.

Save editing for later

One other consideration worth keeping in mind as you march toward your new goal: writing is one task; editing is another. It’s often easier and more efficient to cull what’s worth keeping from an overlong draft than it is to try to prune out everything but the most scintillating bits as you go along.

The Nobel Laureate Bob Dylan’s initial draft of his iconic work “Like A Rolling Stone” ran to some 10 pages, for instance, before he was able to whittle it down to four verses. Barbara Kingsolver, the Pulitzer nominee and frequenter of bestseller lists, frames this point perhaps even more starkly:

I write a lot of material that I know I’ll throw away. It’s just part of the process. I have to write hundreds of pages before I get to page one.

Whatever your goal, big or small, go easy on yourself—and get started.

The post A Complete Guide to Reevaluating Your 2017 Goals appeared first on Grammarly Blog.

from Grammarly Blog https://www.grammarly.com/blog/guide-to-reevaluating-your-goals/

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ber39james · 7 years