Screenwriting, well any writing really, is a loner sport. It’s for thinkers, for watchers, for journalists of the human condition. It’s just the way it is. Even most writers who sit in a writers’ room and are forced to work together, still pretty much don’t like people as much as they like writing about people. And where you write is almost as important as what you’re writing.
I recently set up my home office. I moved late last year and I just never got around to creating a proper workspace. So, when I finally was forced into really unpacking and setting up my desk, I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I wanted it to be very me, but it also needed to be functional and inspiring. I filled my desk area with eclectic thrift store findings, candles, a mug of my face that my mother made filled with a bouquet of craft scissors, loads of colorful clutter, each item with a meaning, each item providing inspiration.
But eventually my recluse ways are invariably encroached upon. Sometimes I have social or work engagements, but mostly I venture out when I’m blocked. There’s nothing like participating in the world to find the solution to your story. I’ve often said that 90% of writing is napping. Well, after you’ve done the napping and you’ve got your story, and the words just aren’t flowing, that’s when I say take your act on the road. Try writing on location.
In L.A., it’s the vogue thing, to go to Starbucks to pound out your Magnum Opus, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s a trite behavior. To really write is to think, to hear your inner voice, to channel a character’s pain and translate that into palpable text. How can you do all of that important work, while listening to a grinder gnash beans incessantly, loud teenaged girls snapping their gum and ordering embarrassingly complicated coffee drinks, and people yapping on their Bluetooth cyborg earbuds? You simply can’t. Real writers don’t write in Starbucks, people who want to be seen writing, write in Starbucks.
For my money, I like to write in bars. If I feel like I’ve been cooped up too long, and my facial tick has gone completely out of control, I pack up my laptop and head for my bar. “The Bucket of Blood” is perfect for writing. There are only a handful of ever-drunk and very quiet, afternoon regulars there during the day, which makes for a peaceful working environment. Their TV’s are on mute, and the service is excellent, mostly because the cute blonde bartender has the preternatural ability to know exactly when I want something and when I want to be left alone. It’s a great place to have a drink, look at your story and really take stock of what you have in a new environment. Usually somewhere between drinks two and three, an hour into rugby, and half an order of bangers and mash later, I get the perspective or inspiration I was missing.
I had been working in my bar the day of the last Screenwriter Karaoke, when I got stuck. I was stuck on a plot point, which is what drove me to the bar in the first place. Three martinis, two diet cokes, some potato skins and four hours later, and I was no closer to solving my problem. I figured, as I was already toasty, why not go drink away my troubles with my compatriots, with other screenwriters?
