It takes a village. Everyone needs their tribe… and on many days when the socio-political universe seems bound-and-determined to smite you and yours, warm hugs. As a new screenwriter, the largest tool in my arsenal has been the unwavering support of my peers, mentors, and dear friends–from my happy hour co-hosts and network via The Blacklist; to the brilliant lab-runners at Stowe Story Labs; to my ladies-in-arms, The Story Broads; to, lastly, a fantastic circle of career coaches and cheerleaders at Roadmap Writers.
This last group organized a competition this year centered around iconic characters where participants were asked to submit an essay framed in the voice of one of their protagonists, arguing the case for their script. It was a fantastic exercise, and one that has stuck with me, as my submission was not, so much, an argument for the merits of my story, but rather a rant from the voice I often cannot claim as my own.
Let’s be honest, for those of us of the more-liberal/feminist persuasion, it’s not been a good year. In my fantasies I run off at my mouth, but I’m also a mom, a mediator by heart, and I find that my art and my writing allows me to indulge in the rage my pragmatic day-to-day cannot.
Don is my Bacchus (Dionysius, get it?) in The Mess of Boys, my fantasy-horror retelling of the Bacchae. His is a voice of release, the sensation of escape when the horrors of life become too much. While I, blessedly, have not experienced the horror of gun violence, I find that on some days when my politically-sensitive heart can’t take too much more of a pounding, I turn to him. My god of the earth, booze, and release. He can rage for me.
While here Don’s speaking to communities affected by gun violence, there are days I turn to him when I know he’d react the same concerning the healthcare of our children, the safety of refugees, or the rights of women.
NSFW or C(hildren) or P(arents, sorry, Mom), or pretty much anyone right now who’s not angry at what’s going on in our world.
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You don’t fucking deserve my ti—Why should you read this…? Let me guess, so you can pass over it, like you pass over everything. The surface of the Earth, the air you suck in and push out. The sloppy-as-fuck caress you think turns your woman on, but she’s secretly aching for me to give it to her when you’re out of town…
The curve of a hip, the glint in an eye. I appreciate that. Screenplays. Writing. Film. Art. Women. Life. A pulse…Golden whiskey and blessed, golden babies. It’s all the same. A moment that you can never see. You’re too busy to notice. You’re too busy to see how the light shines off your little boy’s hair, as you’re yelling at him to hit harder, tackle better, run faster. You have no idea how the Earth, the dirt is pulsating beneath your feet, waiting to suck your wasted matter back into it so it can start over and try again.
Who am I? Sometimes you get a fleeting glance of me: you fall on your flabby ass and scrape a knee, get a well-deserved punch to the jaw—lose a few teeth. That coppery taste of blood reminds you that I’m there, under the surface of it all. I regenerate. I give life. You don’t live it. You consume it. You’re the garbage disposal of the universe.
You don’t deserve it all.
So Shelley took the time to retell my tale. Ancient Greece. Thebes. Funny sounding names to the ears of those too busy railing against refugees and dirty immigrants, right…? Well, let’s rehash it for your plebeian ears. I’ve lived long enough to see it all. The ancient Greeks are ancient history—but this story isn’t. There’s an asshole born every minute and I’m here to speak for those who were wronged. For those who can no longer take their own vengeance. Do I take it too far, you ask? Perhaps, but that’s for you to read and find out. (I’m not often proud of what I do, but I do it. Can’t let the hurt show, right?) At least I feel something, you clump of fucking nothing. My Sister coos over every last one of you, no matter how much you break her heart—and she knows you will, every time. But that’s a Mother for you. Mother Earth. Forgiveness… and only a mother cries over you when you’re gone, even if you were a prick. But me…? I’m angry.
The sun rises, the moon waxes and wanes. I’ve seen your kind pull yourself up out of the primordial soup. You play dress-up like children. Terrified your kids will see that it’s all one fucking farce. You have no clue what you’re doing. But you yell, you shout, you tear your hair at the thought of someone different than you. So you cower in fear behind a gun.
The gunslinger. The Hero. You all couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn playing cowboys and army—well this migrant of time is here to tell you that the Indians had you pegged from day one. You’re the monsters your children fear at night. Not me. Not the darkness. Not the wild untamed wilderness. They know that one toe out of line, just on one day could end it all for some poor sad sack who didn’t see it coming…
You have it all. You have the treasures of your bounty. The ceaseless gifts of the universe all wrapped up in one cheap shot of jiz. Your cum is magical, but too bad the beautiful women of this world must tolerate you piddling between their hips to make the human race move on. You never treasured it all. You bred fear. You bred anger. The horrors of your time are due to you not listening, not paying attention. Women are dying inside because you refuse to keep the machines of death away from their babies. It’s “freedom” you say. Freedom to swing your balls. Freedom to strut. Let it all burn, I say. You don’t deserve it all.
Run away with me, Ladies. Revel. Cry. Scream. Drink away your hurt. I’ll make you magical. In my eye, you are all Goddesses.
by 