I’ve been banging my head against the wall for the past week working on this short script  ‘Love in the age of time travel’ for a friend of mine who is looking for a short film to produce.

It is a sci-fi romance about a time travelling dating agency ‘Everlasting’ who can help you out (for wholesale plus 30%)  if your true love happens to be from another time.

Sounds like an easy enough premise to execute but I’m having trouble nailing the romance part of the sci-fi/ romance.

Chocolates! Wine! Poetry! All the traditional tricks used in the art of wooing seem so contrived. I  tuned out Emily Dickenson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Lord Byron for the works of Chillean poet Pablo Neruda.

Here is one that made me laugh out loud.

http://poemhunter.com/poem/fleas-interest-me-so-much/

Despite my lack of aptitude for penning romances, I did manage to finish a rough draft at 2am yesterday morning – thanks to Pablo and my favourite poet Glenn Richards (sigh – swoon). I have a bit of a weakness for song lyrics. I think it goes back to my musician hang up – guys just always look so much more attractive when they’re strumming a guitar and singing (on tune). I’m yet to read a poem that surpasses  Glenn Richards’  ‘One Crowded Hour’ from Augie March.

http://www.augiemarch.com/lyrics/home.do?catalogueNo=82876785592&affiliateId=0510&side=1&seq=1&lyricId=20282

I can’t shrug of the contradictory feeling that I’ve been writing forever and yet not at all. If I was to be introspective, I think I’ve spent a great deal of my working life planning to write and then being too scared to actually seize the opportunity.

For the present, it is enough that I have made the decision to write every day, and that I have arranged my life so I can fit this in. Anything else that happens from here on is a bonus.

Now although I don’t usually go for life affirming quotes and philosophies, I am grasping at anything that will help sustain my current writing zeal.
Here’s a nice one I’ve been repeating to myself, courtesy of Agent Bree’s blog ‘This Literary Life’.

“Stop worrying about getting published and concentrate on getting better. In other words, focus on the work itself and not on what may or may not eventually happen to it. If the work is good enough, it’ll take care of itself.” -Tom Robbins

I fully intend to follow this advice but I’m the sort of person that can’t concentrate purely on twigs and leaves. I need to see the forest.
So here’s a great opportunity I found from Pan MacMillan. Let’s hope it’s still running by the time I’m ready….
http://www.panmacmillan.com.au/manuscript_monday.asp

I finally got around to submitting a poem for one of my favourite online magazines Underneath The Juniper Tree. Check out ‘Where the broken things go’ on page 109. I also did the illustration but having seen the quality of work by the other illustrators, I’ll probably won’t be attempting the illustrations again!

It’s appropriate that I start my blog with this little story I wrote the other week. It sums up how I’ve been feeling about creative people lately -only without the swearing.

At a party, I found myself sitting next to a musician, a painter and a poet. They acknowledged my existence with perfunctory nods, but returned to their conversation about the specimen of female perfection standing at the opposite side of the bar.

My gaze fell on the subject matter – a willowy girl resembling the vixen from the box of Redhead matches. Only her youth and inexperience prevented her from lighting up the room.

The three artists were arguing over who amongst them would be the most likely to charm this Pre-Raphaelite beauty.

The painter was not the sort who breathed Beauty and drank Absinthe. He had found some commercial success and knew the power of networking.

He said to the musician, ‘Surely with your musical talents, you can control anyone in this room. By the correct arrangement of seven notes at the right time and timbre, you can make the old remember their youth, men cry and women love.’

The musician was not as commercially successful as the painter but he sang the sweetest songs and knew the power of flattery.

‘But when you paint the correct light and tone across your canvas, you weave stories about people and places. Surely you can manipulate anyone in this room.’

Still the painter demurred in favour of the poet – a gauche man who spoke in tongues.

‘Has not history proven that poetry is the food of love?’

At this point, I slipped across the room and bought the lady a drink. She turned out to be a very well-informed young lady studying law. While we discussed the flaws of our legal system, the three artists continued to debate the merits of their art forms well into the night.