Sam Seaborn

I love movies about writers. I especially love moves about writers that are fictional. Movies such as Finding Forrester, Field Of Dreams, The Front, Californication, The West Wing (yeah, I know those are TV shows) and (most recently) Midnight In Paris. The thing I love about these movies the most is that we almost never hear the artist’s final work (Finding Forrester non-withstanding).

Whomever is writing the movie knows the type of character they need create and what the expectations of that character are. They also know if they build up a character’s talent (like Hank Moody in Californication), we hear their work and it sucks it completely destroy everything we’ve seen previous to that. We have heard very little of Hank Moody’s work on the show. We hear stray sentences and the occasion line from his screenplay, but never a work in it’s entirety. He has been built up as the monster talent and I think the writer knows that whatever we hear of his writing won’t measure up to what we expect from him.

As it turns out, Hank Moody’s book “God Hates Us All” has been released. Obviously it isn’t written by Hank himself, being that he dons’t exist, but it was released with his name slapped on the cover. I wouldn’t go anywhere near this thing. I’m not saying that it may not be good (I’m sure it’s a perfectly fine book) but I don’t want my vision of this character ruined.

The same goes for Field Of Dream’s Terrance Mann. Throughout the movie we hear about how there has been such controversy over his book, how he coined the phrase “make love not war”, how his writing influenced Ray to not play catch with his dad… and we never hear any of his work. Not even a snippet. I understand he was originally supposed to be J.D. Salinger, but that isn’t an excuse. Simply put, the writer of that movie wasn’t confident enough to come up with something convincing, so he worked around it.

That’s the kind of writer I wish I could be sometimes. If just everyone could come together and agree that I had a talent, and no one actually had to read my work, that’d be really swell. I could get behind that. It doesn’t work like that, which bring me to my next point:

The West Wing. Simultaneously my favorite and least favorite television show of all time. I love it because I can sit down and watch 6 episodes in a row and not notice where the time went. The character’s are perfect. It’s funny, it’s sad. It’s smart, serious and quick when it needs to be and silly, lighthearted and lackadaisical when it should be. Every single line on that show does its job, nothing is wasted.

I hate that show though, because it represents everything I’m not, both on real-life level in that I will never be able to go toe-to-toe with Aaron Sorkin (the writer of the first 4 seasons) and in the meta level because I will never be able to go toe-to-toe with Sam Seaborn or Toby Ziegler (the president’s speech writers). These are two fictional writers who’s work is not only throughout the entire show, but and the very forefront. They discuss writing, how it’s done, how great words can change the course of nations. “Oratory should raise your heart rate. Oratory should blow the doors off the place. We should be talking about not being satisfied with past solutions; we should be talking about a permanent revolution!” says Sam when in the middle of a writing slump, considering himself void of all his talent. We hear these characters say things like that throughout the show and then prove their worth by delivering some of the mot amazing presidential rhetoric ever written.

The kind of writer I want to be is Terrance Mann, celebrated but never read. The kind of writer I NEED to be is Sam Seaborn.

Perhaps better put: the kind of writer I need to want to be is Sam Seaborn.

Rain

It's been raining quite a bit here in my fair city and I, frankly, love it. Rain has always been a bit of a mood-enhancer for me. No matter what I'm feeling at the time, the rain really draws it out and makes it apparent, which is a big deal for an emotionally stunted person such as myself.

The only problem, really with is raining so much is this: though it brings out all my raw emotion, emotion that can be used to put ink to paper and write some very deep things... it also makes me very drowsy. The pitter patter of drops on my window drown everything else out until... I wake eight hours later. But, I did manage to peck out the beginning of a scene.

This is something I think I'll say a lot on this blog: please understand this is a first draft of this and that I have ever intention of cleaning it up- but I thought I'd share and see if anyone had some initial thoughts.

To set the scene up a bit: Beau (yes, named after myself) has just lost his mother and is at the funeral, being held at his house. He notices his step-dad, John (a 12-years sober alcoholic), is missing and goes out the garage to see where John may have gone off to:

The rain outside pours down in waves, as though the clouds themselves mourned his mother’s passing. Anguish after anguish beats against the windows as Beau enters the garage.

His looks around for a moment. The door to the office is closed and the shaft of light coming from under the door is the only thing illuminating the scene. He sees the tools, normally in perfect order, thrown around clumsily like spoons in a college dorm’s drawer. There are no cars in the garage at the moment, but pieces of them litter the floor, as though someone had spread out the pieces of a puzzle and given up before beginning. Beau walks to the door to the office and knocks softly.

Beau

Hey, you in there?

There is no reply. Beau tries again.

Beau

Hey (pauses for a moment, thinking of using the word ‘dad’ but decides against it) Hey, John. It’s Beau. Can I come in?

This no reply, but the sound of classic rock starts to come from the office. It is “Desperado” by The Eagles.

Beau

Look, I’m coming in.

Beau turns the knob and presses against the door. Lightning illuminates the scene as he presses it harshly trying to force it open. Finally it gives with a loud creak and Beau tumbles in. He finds John sitting in a chair adjusting the volume on his stereo, an unopened beer can on the cribbage table in front of him.

John

You want a drink?

Beau sits down and contemplates the scene.

Beau

I’m ok... Have you had one yet?

John

This is the only one in the house. Musta been left over from your grampa.

Beau

Well, in that case I will have a drink.

John nudges the beer closer to Beau and gestures towards it. Beau cracks it open and sips a little of it.

Beau

You know John, you should be happy you didn’t fall off the wagon. I’ll never understand Gradpa’s fondness for Old Milwaukee.

John

If you don’t want it, I can take it back.

Beau (thinking better of his comment)

No, I’ll get through it.

John, without a word, begins dealing out cards. He turns the cribbage board so tat both he and Beau can reach the pegs.

John

One game?

Beau

Sure, I’ll beat your ass once before I go back.

John finishes dealing the cards, picks up his and begins moving them around his hand, looking like a professional. Like cards is the only thing he knows, and he knows it well.

Beau picks through his cards quickly, sets two in John’s crib, and leans back in his seat. John still mulls over his cards as a huge crash is heard and rain starts flying into the office. The window has been blown open and water is gushing forth. John quickly scrambles to close the window again, but ti won’t stay shut. Frustrated, he picks up the nearest thing he figures he can wedge it shut with; it’s a picture of Amie. Successfully wedging it into place, both he and Beau sit in their chairs and stare the the picture for a bit. The window still knocks against the back of it from time to time, but the picture remains in place and the rain stays out.

John

You know, that’s what your ma always did for me.

Beau

What’s that?

John

She kept the rain out.

Beau stays silent for just a moment and, trying to get the subject changed, lays down his hand.

Beau

Ok, I’ve got fifteen two, fifteen four, a pair is six…

John isn’t paying any attention, he’s only staring out the window.

John (interrupting Beau’s counting)

Have you ever stood on the edge of the rain Joshua?

Beau stops suddenly at the sounds of his given name. For the first time ever he sees John having a real emotional moment, not trying to please anybody, just having strong feelings.

Beau

I… you mean while standing under a roof, or a tree?

John

No, I mean… when I was in the army-

Beau (interrupting)

I didn’t know you served.

John

I never saw any fighting or anything, but I was stationed in Korea for two years. I was a mechanic. I remember one week in particular that I was very busy. Army jeeps are always breaking down, but that week we were pushing through a particularly rough mountain pass and it was raining constantly. Rain like you wouldn’t believe, rain that soaked everything. Because of all the mud, jeeps were coming in everyday to have their engines cleaned out or because someone had hit a particularly slippery patch and had busted something in a crash. It was jeep after jeep and, of course, I was the only gear jockey available. Apparently some big-whig general was coming soon and we had to make sure all the jeeps were ready for inspection, in perfect, you know, tip-top shape. I had been working through the night, into the next day and through the night again to make sure everything was ready. The second morning of straight work finally brought the sun back, with of course really hot weather, but it was better than rain. I was hoping for just a little sleep, but we had to be out at 0600 and I was scheduled to drive the jeep bringing up the rear on the convoy. Being the rear is the shittiest job they an give you because you have no control over how fast everyone moves and it can be easy to get lost, especially being as tired as I was and given the road we were taking was a long, winding mountain pass.

So, I fell behind pretty quickly, and this wasn’t the kind of road anyone could come back for me on. It was narrow, had no kind of railing and the only way to turn around was to get to the top of the mountain, make a 180 and come back. But, because it was a one-way road, it wasn’t too difficult to know where to go, just had to keep moving forward. I would’ve made it too, but I came up on a corner that I probably took a bit too fast, felt the jeep slip and turned the wheel harshly to compensate- which probably would have worked, except one of the tires came loose and literally fell off. Apparently, as I would find out later, I had been driving with only one nut on my front passenger tire and it just needed something to knock it free. Turns out it was me. So the jeep, now out of control, slips off the edge and slides down the side of the mountain. It all happened too fast for me to jump out and I just expected it to be the end, but instead I slammed into a huge mound of mud that had apparently been built up from earlier mudslides. I felt the jeep creak as it settled, and then go silent. So, I’m wedged against this pile of mud and I realized two things: I needed to get out, and I needed it to not start raining again, or there was going to be more mudslides and that would be the end of the jeep and me. I did the first obvious thing I could think of, which was climbing up the side of the mountain. I had banged up my arm pretty good when I crashed, but I figured I could make it. I was wrong. I made it about a quarter of the way up and slid back down, which of course hurt my arm even more. So, I lit a cigarette, leaned against a smaller pile of mud, and hoped that the convoy would come for me when they realized I was missing. As long as it didn’t rain, I was going to be okay. And, like I said, it had been sunny all morning and I hoped that had caked the mud up pretty good. I also oped it meant it would be dry all day. I was wrong. I heard the thunder when I was about half way into my cig and looked off in the distance for the storm. It was coming right at me, towards the mountain, and there was nothing I could do about it. I figured I only had a few minutes, because it was moving fast. I dropped my cig and tried to scramble up the mountain, but I moved too fast and ended up sliding down farther than I intended to. I was at the very edge of the mountain, looking down and watching the rain as it reached the very edge of the mountain- and stopped. I blinked. I knew if the rain came any closer, it would make everything give and I’d either fall to my death or be covered by a mudslide. But there it was, passing right in front of me, having apparently changed direction at the last moment. And when I saw it was close, I don’t mean I could see the stream of rain from my high vantage point, I mean that I could reach out and touch the torrential downpour that was falling before my eyes. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen in my entire life, until I met your mother.

And thats who your mother was. Your mother kept me out of the rain. What am I without her? I can’t cook, and can’t balance a checkbook. I don’t have anyone calling me into the house when I’ve been in the garage too long and I don’t have anyone to share morning coffee with anymore. I’m back on that mountain, just waiting for the rain to move one inch closer and sweep me away.

The Judge

I figure, as long as I'm unemployed, I should 'publish' some of my original work here. I've always been afraid to display my work in public... but here I go. This is my first real attempt at "stream of consciousness" poem:

The Judge

He slams down his gavel and the people cheer

they don’t see what he keeps below his chair

lurking in the dank underbelly of seat springs and foam

lies the most hideous form of lower being

its fangs are sharp, its hiss low and booming

its face drips with the fates of those he condemns

its tongue wet with their blood and its eyes gleeful at their fear

never does it appear to the people

and rarely does it appear to him

but, there it lurks

waiting

Talent?

It seems that the hardest thing to admit is that you don't know what to do. My entire life I've dreamed of being the 'go-to' guy. I want to know everything, and I want everyone to know I know everything so they can ask me for help. I've wanted to do just about everything throughout my life: astronaut, firefighter, librarian, pastor, writer, restaurant owner/chef, social worker... the list drags on. What I really want to do, it seems I can't say. I know what I enjoy doing: I love sitting in a coffee shop, banging away at my computer. I love the way that writing affords me the right to be left alone when I want to be. I have control of who comes in and out of my life and when (for the most part). On days that I want to be just left alone, I need only tell people that I'm 'getting work done' or that 'I'm having a very creative day' and shouldn't be disturbed.

I think most people that know me don't see this part of me very often. The part of me that wants to crawl into a little hole and not talk to anyone, the part of me that wishes it was affordable to live alone and the part of me that wishes people could solve problems on their own.

Unfortunately, the other part of me wants nothing but to help people with those problems and, in so doing, make them like me more. The only way people will ever want to be around them is if I'm helping them in some way. I'm a servant, a tool, something that people need around because talking to a wall isn't super effective. I'm a fantastic listener, I'm very good at giving people want they want: advice, a hug, or just a sounding board. Because of these traits, people tell me I'd be great at a service job, anything from sales to social work. I see their point, but those are not something one can do alone; on those days I just need to wallow I would be unable to hide.

Does that mean I'm destined to write? It seems the perfect gig for someone like myself, but one burning question keeps gnawing at me:

Why would I be given these traits and these strong impulses to write and be creative, but a mediocre talent? It is some genetic joke, or perhaps God is playing a trick on me?

A desire just explodes out of me every time someone asks me to help them with a project or join a writers group, but I'm always stopped by my own voice telling me I can't do it.