The Guardian Today

Check it out, I especially like the quote about playwrighting being an indulgent upper middle class career hobby. Zing.
http://arts.guardian.co.uk/theatre/drama/story/0,,2043664,00.html?gusrc=rss&feed=41

On first looking into Martin's "The Jerk"

"His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred."

-Ernest Hemingway on F Scott Fitzgerald. A Moveable Feast.



The middle aged malaise. How competely terrifying. If only I were far enough up in my own career to worry about The Fall. At the moment I'm still fixated on The Climb. The Fall would be welcome. A regular Fall in the park.

But today, of course, "The Jerk" still in my laptop's DVD player, I am particularly interested in The Fall. Or Steve Martin's Fall, to be precise. Seeing how well 1979 treated his grey hair and sweet smile, it seems such a shame that his last written offering was "Shop Girl." Utterly mediocre by all counts. Perhaps some artists really do have a best before date on their packaging.

A couple of friends have intimated to me that the only reason to make any kind of art is because you can't help it. You should be a writer if it's the only thing you can do. Is it possible that Steve Martin is now writing forthe wrong reaons- Is he writing because it is what's expected of him? Or is he indeed helplessly tied to a typewriter, spewing out mediocrity and receiving calls every three months from movie producers who think this next project just might be "the one."? According to celebrity photographer Rankin, once you believe your own hype you risk becoming a twat. Steve Martin is all hype and no substance these days. It can't be that we're actually tired of his substance. The Jerk and I never met until today, and I'd certainly invite him round to dinner. So what gives? Where did all his good work go?


Much have I heard of Steve Martin of old
And eighties goodly films and stand-up seen;
Father to our Bride has he been
A candle to Spencer Tracy and less cold.
Oft of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels had I been told
That grey-haired Martin ruled as his demesne.
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard "The Jerk" speak out loud and bold:
Then I felt like some watcher of the skies
When Groucho Marx first twitched a moustache at his ken;
Or like Diane Keaton when with eagle eyes--
She stared at Woody Allen pick up his pen
She looked at him with a wild surmise
As I do now, to know what Martin lost since then.

Sorry to be so hard on you Steve, but I need someone to look up to. And if you keep Falling the only place to aim will be down. So stop being a twat and get back to being a jerk. Because we miss you. We really do.

What's in a Name- Part Deux

Corresponding exactly to a friend's claim that I neglect my blog until a day I have too much time on my hands and then post prolifically: Here is my second post of the day. Though the first was an email written by someone else, so I do feel that this blog is owed some of my own effort, rather than simply my copy/paste abilities.

So the career question is ever looming. As I sneak this blog entry into my ninth hour of a shift at the video store "Today is Boring" I can't help but think how this whole thing would be different if I'd chosen to call it "Confessions of a Video Store Clerk." In fact, considering that this is the seventh year and fifth video store, I am definitely as qualified as anyone to write or title such a blog. Just as Michael Stacey pointed out about my name, both Debbie and Deborah are principally about promise- in fact, most of these entries have been about the future. Who I am and what I aspire to be. So the "young playwright" title refers not so much to what I am, as to what I hope I am, or what I hope to be. And the internet is certainly the ideal place to decide who you are based on what you hope to be.

But it's a funny thing- this video store identity. I sometimes wonder, since seeing MacIvor's "Here Lies Henry" what kinds of surreal things could be in store for us when we die. One thing I picture is a list of all of the positive and negative things that have ever been said about you. You would have to read through it at length to understand how you affected other people's lives. Or imagine having to watch films of the part you played in other people's dreams and nightmares. But mostly, I think that there will be a list of "fun facts." Unexpected gobbets about yourself. On my list, I may just be reminded that I've handled more DVDs then 90% of the human population, and that to most people I have met in my life, I will forever be "That girl at the video shop."

I think about this quite a lot. An old video store co-worker friend of mine moved to LA last year to work as an assistant at a screenwriting agency. He sent me a pilot he was working on about video store clerks. In the script, one clerk comments that she is actually a musician, the owner is actually a writer, and the other worker is actually an artist. She says, "Everyone here is actually something else." And here I am, Actually a Playwright. According to my Blog.

The same is never said of bankers, or consultants, or lawyers, who may very well write, play music or make art on the side. It's one of the few pros of working for minimum wage in an artsy and therefore acceptable customer service role. You get to actually be whatever you want to be. Perhaps I could offer to do a friend's taxes once a week and claim that I'm actually an accountant. But probably not. This is not an insult to the many artists working as something else, it's merely a curiosity. One of my closest friends is actually a video store clerk. And arguably the best video store clerk I've ever met. I suppose it all comes down to whether you are doing what's in your gut. And whether you're doing it well.

I suppose that's why I will never call myself a video store clerk. I may always be a video store clerk. And perhaps that's also why I fear well paying jobs in consultancy or banking. One of the nicest things about being in your twenties is that you are always actually somewhere else. There is something so beautiful about a promise- even when its reality pays 5.50 an hour.