17 Again

Sometimes, I think I’m living in a dream. I think I’m going to wake up any minute, still in college, done with the horrible nightmare that was the last four years of my life.

Because, there is no way smart A (okay A and B) student Fiona Fire has become this. There is no way she failed so hard at living up to her potential. There is no way she’s so far on the path to becoming her mother.

Sure, I wasn’t the hardest working high school student. I opted out of most activities. I got a lot of B+s in classes I could have easily aced. But I did well. I had potential. Excellent writer, great critical thinking skills. Hell, I was just as good at chemistry and math. I got a 5 on that AP test and it was easy peasy. I could have become a chemist, whatever the fuck chemists do.

But, no, I am here. I am not about to wake up. I am not going to do anything to erase how much I’ve failed to support myself the last few years. This is what I’ve done, and I have no excuses for it. Yes, I have a job. I work. But I don’t work enough and I don’t make enough. Tutoring sounds a lot snazzier than waiting tables, but it’s just as dead end. Maybe more so.

I saw an ad for Californiacation today. That show is the greatest masturbatory fantasy of all time. A good looking novelist turned screenwriter whines about being a sell out, is constantly propositioned by women, and stays in the good graces of his ex-wife and daughter despite being a terrible influence on their lives.

Sometimes, I think I am living a just as maturbatory fantasy. I spend my time writing, or whining about how writing isn’t supporting me, when other people learn real skills and take real jobs.

Sometimes, I think I am going to snap out of it and wonder why I wasted so much time “chasing a dream.” I will wake up and learn to code or get a teaching credential or get some shitty entry level job.

Sometimes, I think I am deluding myself about writing. Do I really love writing or am I just lazy? Is this simply my excuse for working part-time and writing 20 hours a week? Am I looking for writing or am I looking for a job that allows me many, many hours to watch Seinfeld reruns?

Am I looking for something to feed my depression– some excuse to stare at the computer with my heart torn from my gut?

I don’t know. I’m having one of those days where I just feel exhausted. I’m trying to cram a rewrite into one week, and I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to maintain focus. This whole book publishing endeavour has been as painful as it has been pleasurable.

My expectations were too high, sure, but I’ve never felt as fucking devastated as I did that first month.

I feel like my only chance at ever being successful is by writing. And, right now, it is. I’ve got no other fucking skills. So, every time my writing fails to live up to its potential (ugh), I feel both the sting of disappointment and the sting of OMG I HAVE NO FUTURE.

Maybe I’m melodramatic. I don’t know. Maybe I need to bite the bullet and get a day job. I have six or seven months until I’m finished with my tutoring commitments. That’s plenty of time to learn a skill, intern, get a portfolio in order. Something…

It would be easier than writing, honestly.

And I’d have a steady paycheck. I’d have a career path. I’d have a future.

The thought of it makes me sick.

But so does the thought of continuing like this. I’ve almost completely lost the motivation to write any screenplays. I can’t believe it took me film school and four years to realize how fucking hopeless it all is. I can’t even work on my super awesome, super fun idea. And it fucking kills to keep writing this romance series when I know nobody fucking cares about it. My reasonable self tells me I can make some changes to make it a little more palatable to readers. My reasonable self tells me I didn’t get enough exposure, that I gave away over well over a thousand copies during a five day promo with no advertising, that people will want to read it once they find it.

But that other part of myself screams that I am a stupid failure, again. And why do I bother working so hard when A) no one cares and B) I don’t make any fucking money? Really, why? I could invest so much of myself if I did something different. Sure, I would never really be excited about my work. I wouldn’t feel that passion. But who needs passion? Passion is a curse. Passion is a roller coaster. It demands all of your time and energy.

Maybe life would be easier if it were flatter. A train ride instead of a train wreck.

But, every time I try to talk myself into quitting, I get all sorts of ideas about a character at a turning point, thinking of abandoning her passion… and, of course, being reminded that she has to hold onto it.

That’s the narrative of art. Of course it is. It’s made by artists.

But, my imagination always runs away with all sorts of possibilities. I’ll win Nicholls, Jennifer Lawrence will star in my movie, I’ll win an Oscar (Jenny will win one too), Roger Ebert will come back from the dead to give me 4 stars, I’ll write a bestseller, earn a thousand five star reviews, have a rabid fan base who constantly asks me when my next book is coming out. I’ll be so rich, I’ll have a house in NY and a house in LA, and hell, why not one in Portland or Seattle too? I’ll travel the world. I’ll finally have the wardrobe of my dreams, and I’ll looks awesome at all times. No jeans and baggy t-shirt bullshit. I’ll have all sorts of friends. My life with be full–hobbies, an active social calendar, better relationships with my family. And I will look at my bank account and feel safe, because I have more money than I can spend. And I’ll fall asleep content, finally.

It’s all bullshit, I know. Back in high school (and even middle school), I was chubby. I daydreamed about the life I’d have once I lost weight. Things would be perfect. I’d be popular, stylish, cool. My grades would be better. I’d be prettier. I’d finally have a boyfriend.

And guess what– I was never more miserable than when I got down to 125 pounds. (I’m 5’10”, okay. That’s quite thin). I’ve never been more lonely. I was bulimarexic and depressed and the only reason why I’d even eat my fucking lunch was so I could get through my work out. I thought about driving into freeway dividers. I thought about swallowing bottles of sleeping pills. I lied in bed all afternoon crying to songs about suicide.

And I was only 17. Fucking 17.

It’s so easy for those of us that call ourselves artists to glamourize this pain. Oh, we’re so fucking deep and insightful because we hurt so much. And maybe there is some truth to it. Maybe we do have a better understanding of life, knowing how easily our brains can lie to us, knowing how hard we have to fight to even feel normal.

Or maybe we’re pathetic, whiny losers. Maybe we really can suck it up and get a job and contribute to society.

I once got into an argument with a friend over a Blink 182 song. He was annoyed by the singer whining about his hard high school life. Now, my friend is a rather self-centered person and he seems to believe that because he works 60-70 hours a week (when he’s employed, works in *shocker* the VFX industry. Shocking that a job in the film industry sucks) other people can’t have problems. But I told him I suffered more fucking pain in high school than some people suffer in their whole lives.

I feel like an asshole for saying that. Who the fuck do I think I am, claiming all this pain like it makes me special? But it’s true. I feel like I’ve had so much pain in my life, and sometimes I wonder if I can really add any more to it.

Can I really take yet another disappointment?

Can I really suffer any more pain?

It might be better to say no now. To get a job, work 40 hours a week, and stay too busy to realize I’m not fulfilled. Maybe I would be fulfilled. I don’t know.

I don’t even know what I’m saying.

I started getting really serious about writing in high school, back when I was feeling all that pain. All that honest, raw emotion. And, really, journaling constantly was the only way I could keep it from rising up and swallowing me whole.

Maybe it would have been better if it swallowed me then. I wouldn’t have wasted so many years of other peoples lives dragging into this black hole. I wouldn’t have spend 100 grand of my dad’s money on a useless film degree.

But what good does that do me now? I know I’m a depressive. I have fucked up brain chemistry. I eat right. I exercise. I’m in therapy. It only does so much. I’ve tried pills, but I don’t like them. Sometimes, I feel like I have to devote all my mental energy to keeping depression at bay, to keeping it mild. It comes back no matter what, no matter how good things are.

It can be the tiniest thing, the tiniest disappointment.

My pain doesn’t make me more real or more authentic or more worthy. It just makes me another whiny, entitled brat.

And nobody wants to read some depressed bitch’s depressing shit.

I had this moment a few years ago. I realized that it would hurt too many people if I did kill myself. And I realized that the great challenge of my life would be making it to the end without committing suicide.

It’s exhausting.

And writing is exhausting.

And failing over and over again is too fucking exhausting.

Maybe I just need to pick up the pieces and accept mediocrity.

The truth is, I haven’t changed that much since high school. If I look at my high school journal, my thoughts are exactly the same. Sure, they sound a little nicer now. The polish is better. The writing is better. But it’s the same shit, over and over again.

I’m still melodramatic.

I’m still in my room, crying by myself.

I’m still incapable of getting thoughts from my head to my mouth.

An eating disorder was the only thing that got me through my high school depression.

If I’m being totally honest, nothing has felt right since. I’ve lacked that purpose, that reason to wake up every day.

So I think I will wake up from this dream and be 17 again, trapped in that ugly gray life, pouring thoughts onto my drab gray blog (Diaryland, of course).

But at least I will have eight years of potential I’m yet to waste.

I’m a logical person. I can see the results of my actions. I put so much time and effort into my writing and the net result is pain. The opportunity cost is so high. There is some fulfillment, yes, but it comes at such a heavy price.

Is it better to cut my losses?

I don’t know. I wish someone else had the answers. I shouldn’t be responsible for them. I barely have any mental energy left. I used it all up trying not to slip into another fit of depression. Again.

I swear. I don’t even know how I’ll manage to have a job. I really don’t.

I kept a lot of journals in high school, online and on my computer. Xanga is down. Diary x is down. So many of my thoughts have turned to cyber dust.

It means something, but I’m not sure what.

I can’t think of an apt metaphor, but I have to wonder… what will happen as all these disappointments add up? At some point, where my heart just break?

Maybe that would put it out of its misery.

You’re Dead to Me

This is a public declaration. I, Fiona Fire, will no longer be visiting the Kindle Boards.

I thought screenwriting communities were filled with obnoxious know-it-alls who recite the gospel of their guru leaders, but kboards makes Scriptshadow look like the pinnacle of public discourse. Any interesting conversation is drowned out by loud hacks who worship the democracy of KDP. A good book–no such thing. Only a book that sells. They worship poorly written trash with great sales/reviews.

You must write fast and publish fast–that is all that matters.

It’s a shame, because there are smart, helpful people on the board. Lots of people there are genuinely kind and supportive. But, unfortunately, these people are drowned out by annoying know it alls. One super cunt, oh yes, she was truly a cunt, called characters a technical part of writing. (Full disclosure: that awful bitch made some very rude comments to me, personally. I don’t care if her next book sells a billion copies. She’s still a stupid bitch and I hope she is lonely and miserable for the rest of her life).

There is no joy of discovery, no passion for the medium, no interest in crafting something unique and dynamic. There is only writing down the middle, pandering to readers, going by the numbers.

I’m sure many writers at the kboards are passionate about great writing. But they are drowned out by those who only care about sales.

Everytime I go there, I leave miserable, angry, and insecure. So no more.

I’m done.

Horny Yet Awkward

I had a revelation yesterday. A revelation that was simultaneously obvious and obscured. That is both dramatic and irrelevant.

See, I finally figured out why I care about project A, why I had to force myself to write project B, and why project C, an amazing idea that almost everyone responds to, holds so little appeal.

And the revelation occurred in the form of a ridiculous anime sex comedy.

You see, this show was so ridiculous it has some poorly translated slang name, and I would have almost no hope of finding it on Google if it weren’t for the power of Netflix remembering what I’ve watched. I will spare you the trouble. It is called (I dare you to remember this in five minutes, much less an hour) B Gata H Kei and it is about a teenage girl who wants to have sex with a 100 men, well, teenage boys. Only she is totally clueless about all things sex.

It is everything I ever wanted out of screenwriting (even if it engages in all sorts of shameless fanservice).

See, when I finally got good coverage (*cough* no thanks to the first blcklst reader *cough*) on project A… I guess we can call it High School RomCom (although that really does it a disservice), I was delighted. The score, a six, was not amazing. Fair enough. But the reader called it a unique take on teenage sexuality (I’d like to thank the academy…) and praised my protagonist as awkward yet horny.

And, holy shit, did this weird anime encapsulate awkward yet horny, turned up to 11. If you watch anime, you know good anime turns everything up to 11 or 12. Everything is ridiculously, wonderfully over the top, making great use of its conventions, even as it breaks them. I’m thinking mostly of my perennial fav, Death Note, but also of my lesser fav, Ouran High School Host Club.

It’s not that I didn’t realize I love writing about awkward sexuality. I did. But I didn’t realize how much it appealed to me. I still love High School RomCom, despite not having touched it in over a year. And I’m still lukewarm on Projects B and C, despite knowing they are better written.

I just don’t care. I don’t care about the characters or their problems. Objectively, the scripts are better. The dialogue is better, the story is tighter, the concepts less convoluted. But I don’t care.

Even though they deal with sexuality. B is all about sex, even more so than A, but it doesn’t have that glee, that youthful exuberance. It’s so pragmatic. It’s real, and it makes a good point, but God does it lecture.

Now, it’s possible that distance makes the heart grow fonder. That HS RomCom was a beast to write. I was still in the phase where I had no idea what I was doing, and made a million lateral changes, and rewrote everything to death. By the time I declared myself done with it, I never wanted to see it again.

But I miss its je ne sais quoi. My current projects are lacking whatever it had, and that’s draining my motivation. I’ve got no real desire to be funny anymore, though I don’t know if it’s burn out, depression, or something else entirely.

I don’t know if– gasp–part of the problem is actually that my sex life is unfucked or that I’m sick of writing about sex period, what with writing smutty books for 20 hours a week.

And I don’t really care.

Except, that I have this weird feeling I used to recognize as inspiration. I think. And I actually WANT to write something for the sake of it, as opposed to because my schedule says I must write it.

I’m sure, that this slutty new idea is a tease, that once I tangle with it, I’ll realize it’s just as difficult as anything else I’ve ever written. And I’m not really planning to devote much, if any, time or energy to it.

After all, I don’t see much utility for another teenage romantic (sex) comedy script, even if I write this one knowing what it is, instead of figuring that out after a bajillion drafts. I already have the one. It’s not great, but it’s pretty good.

It’s not likely this will actually help my career. Or that I’ll ever have a screenwriting career.

Still, I might entertain it for a little while…

The truth is, I’ve been pushing this aside, shoving it where it can’t hurt me. I’ve told myself I don’t care what I write, as long as it’s in the ballpark of what I like to write. And that’s true, to some extent, but it hurts to think about not writing the awkward female sexuality stuff.

It’s literally painful.

I really do enjoy writing my angsty romances, even knowing I’ll have to write a little more to market, but I like them for different reasons. I still need that outlet, that opportunity to get into the weird and funny of sex, and especially of burgeoning sexuality.

But I can do both.

Sure, I won’t be able to devote a ton of time and energy to the latter, especially not if I go through with my plan of devoting myself to self pushing romance novels for 2 years in the hopes of making it into a career.

I’m 25 and I’m on track to make less than 20k this year. I want to have a career.

I guess, what I’m saying, is that there will be a screenplay D after screenplay C, and it will be another take on awkward teenage sexuality.

Or maybe I’ll write a YA novel instead.

Or maybe this is a random assortment of thoughts that lead to nowhere.

I’ve figured out what’s missing in my life (my writing life at least). That’s a solid first step.

Even if I’ve got no plans for a second.

A Passionless Marriage

It’s funny. A few days ago, I was getting ready to write a post about how I’m not quitting writing. But, now, I’m unsure again. No, scratch that. I am not quitting. Not right now at least.

But it’s starting to feel like it’s all work and no play. I don’t mind work, and I expect writing to feel like work some of the time, but I’m starting to dread it.

I’m not excited about my projects anymore. They feel like time and energy sucks instead of artistic fulfillment.

I guess a side effect of trying to make money off of something is that it becomes work.

But let me back up.

I wrote a book. I didn’t have much of a plan when I wrote it. I wanted to try out this whole novel thing. I did a little research and learned that romance is a popular genre. And, hey, I always write romanceish screenplays, so why not a romanceish book? And why not a sexy book too? I’m always taking stuff out of my scripts because it’s too sexy.

Then, I did a little more research, and I bought a cover and paid and editor and I published the book as the start of a trilogy. I failed at some marketing stuff, and I totally failed to move any copies.

Apparently, this is normal for most. But it’s still depressing.

You’ll notice that I failed to accomplish a critical step in this process–to properly understand the genre. I never read romance until I got the idea to write this book, and I only read a dozen or so books. Certainly not enough to give me a feel for what the readers want.

And, well, the thing is… I might hate what the readers want. It’s mostly alpha males and billionaires (no, really, it is) and I fucking hate alpha males. Just. No.

No, no, no.

And, now that I’m finally doing some proper research, I’m realizing exactly what this book publishing endeavour might entail. I’ll need to publish 3-4 books a year, in a series, that really cater to reader’s expectations. A breakneck pace that would surely leave no room for screenwriting (not that I’m particularly excited to do that either).

No room for enjoyment really.

I get so caught up in making these writing and publishing plans. My ambition skyrockets. Then, it all crashes around me and I have to ask myself–would I actually enjoy this life?

And, at this point, I just don’t know.

Maybe I’m just in the downward part of the swing, but I’m starting to feel like it’s just not worth it. It’s too many compromises.

Yes, I want to be a writer. And, yes, I’m willing to mold what I write to some degree in order to appease whoever…

But sometimes I get the distinct sense I’d have more luck if I tossed my integrity out the window and just copied what’s popular.

And that’s depressing.

Or maybe I’m just depressed and nothing would really stimulate me.

This time, I mean it

Something inside me snapped last week. I’m not sure exactly what it was or what it means, but I feel myself pulling further and further away from writing.

The more progress I make, the farther away I feel. 

It hurts too much to put so much of myself into my work only to have it fizzle. It hurts to much to work so hard for nothing. And it hurts to much to feel like I’m not a productive member of society.

Once upon a time, I felt like I have so much potential. Now, I feel like I’m squandering it.

I’m increasingly unhappy by the products of my efforts. Not by the actual act of writing, though that’s never really been about being happy, more about being fulfilled. But by what comes after the writing and editing and perfecting.

And the problem is that so little comes after it.

The last few months were, arguably, my most successful ever, but I’ve never felt more like I’m wasting my time. Screenwriting is so whatever. And my novel is so not getting the response I hoped for.

It’s not that no one likes it. It’s hovering around a solid three and a half stars on Amazon, is (barely) scraping by at 3 on Goodreads (I gave a way a bunch of copies in exchange for reviews on Goodreads and using a Netgalley co-op)… but so many members of my intend audience are simply not interested in something anywhere outside of the contemporary romance box.

You wouldn’t believe how many reviews basically amounted to — It’s not exactly what I expected, I hate it. The characters aren’t likable enough. I hate it. The main character thinks too much (it’s too literary). I hate it.

I mean, it’s possible I’m making excuses for my own failure, but I don’t think I’m too far off base.

I’m proud of my work. I worked fucking hard to write something that is a great fucking book about fascinating characters and not just another formulaic, mediocre romance. An interesting fucking book, not interesting for a romance.

You know, the standard advice–write the book you want to read that doesn’t exist yet. And this is what I want to read– a contemporary romance with 3-dimensional characters, plenty of sex, and literary appeal.

And I think I succeeded.

But, apparently, I’m one of the only people who wants to read this kind of thing.

So many readers (apparently) just want the same damn thing. Over and over. I feel like they would have liked my super tropey first draft more than the polished, insightful draft I published.

Like I’d be doing better with something that, by my standards, is crap.

So, it’s not that I feel like I’m not good enough. I’m getting there. But I feel more and more like it doesn’t matter that I’m good enough. Trying is pointless.

And it hurts too much to see your marketing effort has created no sales, that you’re asking the wrong people for reviews, that so many people don’t actually want something thoughtful. When I saw my Goodreads score fall to just under three, I felt like I’d been hit by a truck.

And it only makes me feel worse that Bared to You has a better rating than To Kill A Mockingbird (insert other classic here). Are the readers as tasteless (no offense to Bared to You, it’s good for e-rom, but it’s not TKAM) as everyone suggests? Is romance a crap genre? Is writing a more literary book a big fat waste of time?

By all accounts, it’s looking like a yes.

I spend half my weekend actually thinking up an alternate career path.

I could never give up writing. I love it too much. But I’m starting to feel like all this time in front of my computer is only making my depression worse. That throwing myself out there in the world to be torn apart is too fucking painful.

See, in college, I took a lot of animation classes. A big waste of time, but studying film was a big waste of time. Back then, I was vegan and very passionate about animal rights. (Long story). In one of my classes, I spent the entire semester on a painfully earnest project about a guy adopting a pig. And, after I presented my final, my teacher made a joke about how bacon is tasty.

I never took another animation class again.

I was just done.

I’m starting to feel done.

Not with writing, but with ever trying to make anything resembling a career out of it.

I think I’ll be happier if I get a 9-5.

I’m not ready to call it quits just yet. I’m going to see my(school) year of tutoring and my trilogy through.

I’m going to keep writing in my spare time.

But, sometime in the next year or two, I’m going to be learning a new skill or going back to school. I’m going to work towards an actual career. (Probably teaching or programming)

Writing for a living is a pipe dream.

But worse, it’s stressful and depressing and utterly suffocating.

(Of course, there’s a good chance, I’ll be making this claim again sometime next month. Hope is a real killer).

Tomorrow Never Comes

Things haven’t changed much in the past year. I’m still not pulling my weight. I’m still not seeing the fruits of my labor. I’m still languishing in what the fuck am I doing ville.

Only, a year ago I believed I could make tutoring into a legit gig. I’d still be part-time, of course, but enough of a part that I’d pay my share of the expenses. I had this idea that maybe I’d write a novel, but I still clung hard to the I will be a successful screenwriter thing.

Okay… my first statement wasn’t true. Things have changed.

I published a book.

I made quarter (but not semi) finals in the Nicholls fellowship after two years of nada (not even one positive review).

But, mostly, I lost sight of where the fuck my life is going. A year ago, I had a clear end point. Now I don’t even know. I don’t feel like a novelist or a screenwriter or even a functional adult. I don’t want to keep delaying having a J-O-B, but I’m terrified of what would happen if I actually looked for a 9-5, legit adult job. I don’t have any skills.

(I actually can’t look for a full-time gig at the moment as I’ll need to help take my mom to chemo treatments in the next few months).

It’s not the job I want. It’s the sense of satisfaction from taking care of myself. I’m tired of relying on other people, but I have no freaking clue how to stop. Writing is the only thing I’m halfway decent at.

And, I know, I know, in both the case of screenwriting and novels it takes time to build a career, but knowing doesn’t help. My mood is a fucking roller coaster, plummeting with every perceived setback. I compare myself to other people, over and over, completely sure that I will never be successful the way I’m doing things. That I will never be successful unless I publish a (shitty) book a month. I obsess over these shitty books’ 4 star ratings. How can such utter crap receive such high praise?

Is it possible I know nothing about writing? Nothing about what people want to read? Is it possible all this I need time to write stuff is just laziness?

And then I convince myself that no one wants a well-written book about actual characters just like no one wants a weird comedy screenplay about dysfunctional women with dysfunctional sex lives.

Of course, with screenwriting, I have some idea of what I need to do to be successful. I don’t need to sell to the audience. I need to sell myself as a writer with ability to the people with writing assignments.

I don’t know how to do that, but I have some ideas.

I know my niche.

I know how to sell myself.

I’ve had zero success, but I have some idea (or I’ve deluded myself into this) of what the people want.

But in bookville, I’m going crazy, worried I’m not selling what the people want. And, well, I knew some people wouldn’t like my book (not everyone likes everything), but I didn’t realize the doubt it would strike into my heart.

With screenplays, I sort of expected that nothing would ever come of them. They are samples at best and files on my computer at worst. But I have screenwriter friends who encourage me, talk to me, commiserate with me.

I didn’t realize it, but I put so much hope into this novel. And it’s not like my hope has been dashed against the rocks. I know that self-publishing is a slow road. I know not to expect too many sales until I have a few books out (even with a few promotions), but I don’t know how to freaking deal with that. I don’t know how to convince my feelings that this is okay. Because they are not happy. They are riddled with doubt. They are agonizing over how hard I worked on this book (six months, at least), and how other people publish first drafts they wrote in a month and sell more, get better reviews, whatever.

And, sure, I know that it doesn’t matter what other people do, but try telling my feelings that.

Because they are convinced I’ll never be successful writing a book every six months, that I’ll never manage to make ‘dem benjamins writing stuff I actually believe in.

That I would be better off peddling crap.

Or at the very least, devoting all my time to straight up erotica.

And the thing is, I know my self-esteem and happiness can’t come from external forces. I know I need to feel comfortable with myself and my life regardless of whether anything I write ever makes a freaking cent.

But I still keep telling myself I’ll feel better after my promos, when my sales improve.

I’ll feel better when I finally have some validation that I’m doing the right thing.

And I will.

But what if that validation never comes?

Chicks on Whatever

It’s weird. Despite caring very much about the issues of female representation in film and lack of female writers in hollywood, I have no interest in girl writer meetups.

One of my usual groups is hosting a writing meetup specifically for female writers. And I have no interest.

I’ve never had good experiences in groups based on gender. Inevitably, it feels like we need to talk about our gender and the experience of being a woman and sexism and all that. I have a friend I met through her feminist blog, and whenever we get together, it feels like we have to talk about feminism and women in TV/film. It’s exhausting!

I mean, I don’t want to be here screaming about shitty female characters. I don’t LOOK for them. I just find them everywhere.

I try to mind my own business, but I can only watch Orange is the New Black so many times before I have to take a chance on something that might be sexist.

Honestly, I just want to watch a movie and NOT think why don’t the female characters do anything? I want to be able to watch The Princess Bride and not wonder why all the interesting characters are dudes. I think it’s a satire. Right? So Buttercup being useless but pretty is the point… maybe? Don’t get me wrong. I still love the movie. But I’d rather not have to question why there are, say, 10 important characters and only two of them are women.

I want to go to REGULAR screenwriting meetups and happen to see women there. I don’t want to go to special women screenwriting meetups.

I don’t really want to talk about writing at all.

Can’t we talk about Death Note or something?

(But, you really can’t talk about Death Note without talking about sexism).