Dreaming Takes Ignorance

I miss not knowing what I don’t know. Especially in writing.

I wrote my first novel in 2012 thinking it had a realistic shot of being published. I self-published it and pumped out a sequel the following year, mainly because I didn’t know how to write an ending tothe first one. Over the following summers I wrote more manuscripts of novels, and between revisions, I read books on how to write novels correctly. It was an eye-opening experience. And because of what I learned, I’ll never go back and read those those first two novels ever again (thank God they’re under a pen name).

In 2018 I self-published Around the Block, my first YA novel. For this book, I wrote around 7 drafts and put it through an extensive 26-step program that I paid close to $400 for. From start to finish, this book took around two years. It was worth it. Despite limited sales (mostly just after my comedy shows and to my students), I’m very proud of the story.

The revision program I put it through pointed out and correctly multiple flaws, and I became a much better self-editor...but now I see every flaw in my early drafts. I can’t ignore them.

I’ve started the sequel to Around the Block 6times. That’s 6versions of chapter one. I almost completed a first draft (60,000 words), but then realized the plot didn’t work with the earlier chapters, so I began a second draft which I’m about 38,000 words into. I don’t like this draft either. My goal is to finish a draft so I can put it through the 26-step revision program again, and I’m struggling to get there. Too much is wrong with it. I can’t even complete a bad version for some reason.

So what does a writer do when he or she gets stuck? We write something else.

This spring while the world shut down and my teaching career became less than a 40+ hours per week job, I began writing the screenplay to Around the Block. Why? Because no one’s reading books. And the students who did read it kept saying, “This would make a cool movie.”

So I wrote a draft of the screenplay from March until May. And I revised it during the summer and made it as good as I could during the month of September. How was I able to do this? I don’t know enough about screenplays to be critical. Writing is fun when you’re ignorant to how awful it might be.

It could be absolute garbage. I mean, I read two books and a few online articles about how to actually write a screenplay. Other people take college classes or pay thousands of dollars to learn this stuff. Then again, maybe it’s not so bad. I mean, have you seen some of the crap that Amazon and Netflix put out? Seriously, who are they saying no to?

I’m not sure where I am on this spectrum, so I networked around until I found a professional screenwriter who can gauge my work. His price? $150.

Kind of a pricy gamble on a dream, right?

I mean, everyone’s first successful screenplay is a dream. If no one believed in themselves, we’d never have any movies. But then again, everyone writes a screenplay. You could walk into any coffee shop and find a half-dozen dreamers working on one right now. Look at all the time and effort I’ve put into to writing books, and I’m still a nobody in the author industry.

Back and forth my attitude goes.

Yesterday, as I went through the screenplay one last time for final revisions, I believed in it. “This is great!” I told myself. “Each one of these scenes have suspense and your students would LOVE this movie!”

This morning, I went through it again. “Are you kidding? Why would this character do this? Where’s the connection from this scene to the next? You only know what’s going one because you wrote the book. Everyone else will be lost.”

Meanwhile, Paypal.com waited for me in my other tab. $150. Should I really spend that, especially when we have to get our roof replaced next week? I don’t have anymore shows booked until December, and who knows if those will even happen? Couldn’t I just wait and learn a lot more about screenplay writing before investing in feedback?

No. I can’t wait. I need to know as soon as possible. Crush my dream and shut me up if you must. Send me back to novel-writing where hours of work equate to “Aww, that’s neat. Maybe I’ll read it someday.”

I’ve convinced myself it’s okay to dream that this project has a snowball’s chance in hell.

$150.

Sent.