I’m working with a Director on a new project—a quiet, darkly comic proof-of-concept short on friendship and loneliness. At least it’s hovering within that cloud of potential at the moment. I’ve tossed myself into some analysis work of our key inspirations: Her, Carol, and Yorgos Lanthimos’ Alps (The Lobster pending).
Covetous observation by a hesitant protagonist.
Subtle, minimal world building where viewers spy on those awkward stumbles towards attraction.
The missed signals that foreshadow heartache.
And the quiet moments when a phrase can mean so much… but perhaps only to one-half of an unrequited relationship.
After a solid five months of reworking my own concepts for contest season, it’s refreshing to step into someone else’s idea and swim around in their world. An extreme draft has come and gone—all rules, world building, technology, and a cacophony of characters we may use for the full feature. But for now, we agreed to pull back and return to a personal, introverted core.
So, I began my character’s diary work in earnest so that I could find, and mine, those quiet moments. But this protagonist is killing me. She’s great. She’s talented. She’s loved… but it’s too close to home. Yes, rural Iowa, characters named for beloved grandmothers, scenery of my youth—like you all, I write what I know. But this particular character idolizes the past to help her search for something in the present.
Sounds a bit familiar.
As a young woman I loved to dabble. Perhaps it was boredom, perhaps curiosity, but, I loved jumping in and among interests—academics, sports, theater, history… Lazy summers with no interest in softball, lifeguarding—just binge reading. This brought me into contact with an incredibly intricate web of friends—but only some circles overlapped. As a teen, a college student, and later as a professional, this polyglot social network building continued…
But, I fear, at a cost of a deeper connection. Quantity over quality.
There were those summers when my closest friend from junior high was at my hip—my bike everywhere, cackle with laughter girlfriend… who did not become that every-free-moment best friend in high school… who was not a volleyball teammate… who was never in on the late-night, in-joke rambles of my drama club friends… The former college roommates who became my email and therapy lifelines in adulthood—but who were never the Shakespeare- and film-worshipping bohemians of the Theater Department… The curators and production artists… The circle of screenwriters. All cherished. All loved. But never a solid, daily presence. They were colors I chose to play with given the context of the moment.
I am proud of how these individuals shaped me into the mosaic I am today, but there is that small voice of doubt in my head. Should I have dabbled less, focused more, and invested more fully? Been more present? Been a solid best friend and not an outside observer-hunter-gatherer of experiences and people?
I once worked with a brilliant archaeologist who explained how sumptuous trade goods could travel across a continent from their various source locations to the single stash of an ancient ruler. Rather than a single adventurous collector traversing thousands of circuitous miles with a priceless rucksack, (not that those didn’t exist), my colleague explained the more likely scenario by sketching-out a network of overlapping, much smaller trade and social networks.
Beautiful little circles. Like a multi-cogged machine.
An individual person represents one single, protruding tooth on a gear that rotates—and briefly interlocks and connects with another tooth on another gear. And that other person-tooth makes contact with another gear…. And another.
A physical connection, a rubbing off of life experiences, a moment to absorb and take in what they can… and then they move on. An exchange of ideas. An exchange of goods. A transformative relationship bringing one into contact with a wider web of possibilities.
Within my biography, I am often struck by the fleeting nature of those individual moments—the beauty and resonance within their brevity. Their immense impact.
I stand back and worship these moments. It’s nostalgia. A massive theme in my work. That waiting to see if the emotional power of a past beloved time can somehow resurrect a sensation, an attraction, the joy of a long-dead adventure for one more go-round.
And this quiet, this waiting, is when loneliness and doubt can take hold. The romantic in me imparted so much power to those interactions, yet I fear that the others involved may have never mentally logged those moments in time with the same care as I. Because while I look back at them fondly, I was not looking at them when we were present together.
So, I realize, it was never so much a dynamic machine transforming me as an individual…those gears, that web. These were not cherished cogs.
They were distant stars.
Celestial bodies—massive planets, shimmering moons, galaxies heavy with the weight of attraction and pull, whole universes to explore: Childhood. Formative teenage years. Plays and musicals. Teams. College dorms. Romantic adventures. Jobs. Mentors. Creative endeavors and deadlines… Children. Screenplays. Onward and onward.
So, while I am spending time with this character, I’m hating the self-analysis work she’s triggering. Like her, I create, I build. I can facilitate, observe, and digest for others who are incapable of seeing larger pictures for themselves.
But why can’t I—or my poor sad sap of a protagonist, Nicole—do that self-analysis work to build ourselves a more aware, strong bond with others in our present lives? The retroactive data-gathering of our nostalgia builds on the knowledge of past regrets and attractions… while not truly listening to the moment of the now.
So, while the quiet moments of her day are coming along in my revisions, I want to beat her about the head.
And apologize to so many.
The stars of my universe who are ever beautiful and majestic, but painfully distant.
I look up and gaze at my heavens often in awe of what surrounds me in the memories and experiences of my life.
A dear college roommate who is always too far away, who I may only speak to once a year—and only physically see every two to three. She is a bright anchor of steadfast inspiration. I look up, think of her, and know that she is present and there.
An adored writer, who cheers me on, but is only accessible via the internet. She is there too, like a navigational guide through my sextant. But lightyears away from my home, my preschool carpools, my domestic doldrums.
A childhood friend states away. The Facebook photos. The updates. But not the daily presence. The bicycles, the horrible mix tape memories, and the ceaseless microwave lunches during school with her are tossed up into the heavens as cringe-yet-smile-inducing constellation of short-lived imagery…
They are my heavenly bodies. My landmarks when I am lost. Legends have been crafted in their honor. They are the cast of characters in my origins myth. They are my company in the darkest nights. They are the reminders of the larger universe of which I am proud to be a part.
But because of them I now must move forward, squinting and focusing harder on the elements of my daily existence that are swirling, pressing downward. As while their stress is immense, that means a new star is being born. And I must wake up to the moment of its arrival. For I can no longer afford to spend future decades admiring it from afar.
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