…a movie, instead of writing. In my defence, this weekend has already exhausted me to the point of just falling asleep on my keyboard, so who knows what I would have produced?
Surreal porn, probably, the like of which would make a pastor blush.
It’s still difficult to get back to the idea of writing, as if I don’t do it as naturally as I did before. I’m not sure why that is, apart from the exhaustion. But I’m back to thinking about stories again, and at least I can take comfort in knowing that my narrative circuits are still functioning.
On that note, good grief. Hollywood wouldn’t know a story if it jumped up and bit them on the neck (woo, free Twilight reference!) I’m at least reasonably sure that movies are written by the marketing committee at this point, and if you’re not guaranteed to make a tie-in game for a kids’ flick or a tie-in novel or spin-off for an adult film, it just doesn’t get made.
And sequels are king, even when they’re a colossally bad idea.
Am I disillusioned? Hell yes. I don’t think I could be persuaded to sell the movie rights for anything I wrote for any money at all. There’s just too much about the movie industry that repulses me, and the vast majority of their writing is top of that particular list.