And now, a word from my writing partner

I am stepping aside today to allow Writing Partner to speak his piece. I figure he's due, since I'm constantly going on about him on here with questionable accuracy. He's always emailing me going, hey! I never said that! And I'm like whatever dude. My blog. You said it if I say you said it.

So today he gets to have the floor. Please hold your applause until the end. Thank you.

Writing with Emily

She works her ass off. Do YOU know how rare that is? Do you? DO YOU?

Well, in less than a year a pilot, short, feature, and completely finished, in the can, final scene of the feature is finished…shot, made, crafts services, everything, DONE…well-done. Like a burger. Or steak.

That is why I work with Emily. She does shit. Shit gets does’d, I mean done. Is she easy to work with? Not really, but did you hear me earlier…SHIT GETS DONE! How many of you are actually getting it done? That’s what I thought.

But I digress, because sometimes it IS easy to work with her. It all melts together like a grilled ham and swiss in the toaster sandwich maker that cost $9.99 at Target. And that is a beautiful thing. On the set of Game Night when I saw all of what came out of our brains being brought to life like Frankenstein’s Monster it was exhilarating. And that is because Emily gets shit done. She helped me to curse more. Yep, she did that. I curse like I did when I was 13. But only in the right company of people. You people. The viewers in Blogdom. Readers, whateva’.

To get to the nitty gritty of it all, working with someone who equals or surpasses your passion is the steam that vomits creativity from the barf train. I am telling you these seeds get watered after you get a one sentence plotline racing through your head. You bounce ideas off your partner, she says, “No” and in your mind silently you say “Fuck You” but then by the end of the conversation 100 or more better ideas were not only conceived but slid out the slippery tube of the land of Fallopia. It is that madness, that inner anger, that turmoil of the insecurity of wanting to be an artist, of being a wannabe because you can’t call yourself an artist until you make art, James Joyce, all of those ego bruising phone calls at ALL hours of the day in different time zones, different countries, different universes, those phone calls made some damn good art.

Subject your opinions on our beloved short, object your opinions, I don’t care, because all effort ends in something good, something learned, and if the writing isn’t good enough for some egghead BS quarterfinal of some crap ass writing competition. WHO CARES….cuz I guarantee you most of those 25 cent-finalists will never have any part of their feature made into a beautifully crafted short, nevermind the feature it was intended to be. Okay?

Me and Emily-----We get shit done!