watching extras...

Am I a geek for loving the extras on dvds sometimes more than the actual movie itself? Lol. I don't know. I get so creatively inspired when I watch the extra.s. Right now, I'm watching the extras of The Incredibles. And, sorry for the pun, it is incredible. THere are so many wonderful insights they give. I should have just let my Creativity class watch this instead of Stranger Than Fiction :-P
Anyway, it's all about research, right? I remember that they said writing a story is abotu planning and research. The actual writing is like only 20% of the actual work. So much of it is planning and preparing and researching and editing and proof reading, etc. Will thsi be good?
Right nwo, I'm a bit intimidated. Read Micah's paper that I assigned him for the class i teach. Micah is just sooooooo amazing in writing. Seriously. I can't, I seriously can't, get how he can write people so realistically and with the right amount of quirkiness. I feel like a CS Lewis book while Micah feels like a contemporary writer. One is a deep story that people don't really pick up after reading it once, while Micah's is something people keep going back to. I don't know. I need to really refine and work on what I do.
So, those are my random thoughts of the day. Lol.

just a short update

My project is up to 2 pages right now. But at least I like the two pages. Lol. Let's set the goal at 50? And let's say I lose one pound for every page I write? Lol :-P If it were up to me, I'd say I write until the story is done. But if I do it that way, I might cap it off at 200 pages. Of course if hte story is really good, then people will read it anyway, right? Anyway, just an update. How far can this thing go and how much fun can I have in the process?

Psalm 22

Psalm 22

For the director of music. To the tune of "The Doe of the Morning." A psalm of David.

1 My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me,
so far from the words of my groaning?

2 O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer,
by night, and am not silent.

3 Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One;
you are the praise of Israel. ^[a]

4 In you our fathers put their trust;
they trusted and you delivered them.

5 They cried to you and were saved;
in you they trusted and were not disappointed.

6 But I am a worm and not a man,
scorned by men and despised by the people.

7 All who see me mock me;
they hurl insults, shaking their heads:

8 "He trusts in the LORD;
let the LORD rescue him.
Let him deliver him,
since he delights in him."

9 Yet you brought me out of the womb;
you made me trust in you
even at my mother's breast.

10 From birth I was cast upon you;
from my mother's womb you have been my God.

11 Do not be far from me,
for trouble is near
and there is no one to help.

12 Many bulls surround me;
strong bulls of Bashan encircle me.

13 Roaring lions tearing their prey
open their mouths wide against me.

14 I am poured out like water,
and all my bones are out of joint.
My heart has turned to wax;
it has melted away within me.

15 My strength is dried up like a potsherd,
and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth;
you lay me ^[b] in the dust of death.

16 Dogs have surrounded me;
a band of evil men has encircled me,
they have pierced ^[c] my hands and my feet.

17 I can count all my bones;
people stare and gloat over me.

18 They divide my garments among them
and cast lots for my clothing.

19 But you, O LORD, be not far off;
O my Strength, come quickly to help me.

20 Deliver my life from the sword,
my precious life from the power of the dogs.

21 Rescue me from the mouth of the lions;
save ^[d] me from the horns of the wild oxen.

22 I will declare your name to my brothers;
in the congregation I will praise you.

23 You who fear the LORD, praise him!
All you descendants of Jacob, honor him!
Revere him, all you descendants of Israel!

24 For he has not despised or disdained
the suffering of the afflicted one;
he has not hidden his face from him
but has listened to his cry for help.

25 From you comes the theme of my praise in the great assembly;
before those who fear you ^[e] will I fulfill my vows.

26 The poor will eat and be satisfied;
they who seek the LORD will praise him—
may your hearts live forever!

27 All the ends of the earth
will remember and turn to the LORD,
and all the families of the nations
will bow down before him,

28 for dominion belongs to the LORD
and he rules over the nations.

29 All the rich of the earth will feast and worship;
all who go down to the dust will kneel before him—
those who cannot keep themselves alive.

30 Posterity will serve him;
future generations will be told about the Lord.

31 They will proclaim his righteousness
to a people yet unborn—
for he has done it.

The Fray "How to Save a Life"

The Fray - How To Save A Life lyrics

Step one you say we need to talk
He walks you say sit down it's just a talk
He smiles politely back at you
You stare politely right on through
Some sort of window to your right
As he goes left and you stay right
Between the lines of fear and blame
You begin to wonder why you came

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

Let him know that you know best
Cause after all you do know best
Try to slip past his defense
Without granting innocence
Lay down a list of what is wrong
The things you've told him all along
And pray to God he hears you
And pray to God he hears you

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

As he begins to raise his voice
You lower yours and grant him one last choice
Drive until you lose the road
Or break with the ones you've followed
He will do one of two things
He will admit to everything
Or he'll say he's just not the same
And you'll begin to wonder why you came

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life
How to save a life
How to save a life

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life
How to save a life

LET'S DO THIS THING!!!!

YOU KNOW WHAT?!!! YES, I KNOW I'M YELLING. BUT ANYWAY, THE POINT IS THAT I'M GOING TO FINALLY GET OFF MY LAZY STUPID BRAIN AND WRITE THE DARN THING THAT I'VE BEEN MEANING TO WRITE FOR THE PAST TWO MONTHS.
Ever have those times where you just get frustrated with yourself? That you decide that you are finally going to fulfill a promise that you made? Well I do right now. So I'm doing it. I'm givi g up this "perfectionist" mindset. After all, whoever heard of a perfect first draft? That's why writing stories is an organic creative process. Come on, man, come on. That's how I feel. i'm like, enough of this nonsensical stuff. I need to just sit down write. I'll go, i'll go, i'll go. Fine. Fine? Fine. Anyway, I'm going to just do it. enough talking. You'll knwo what I'm talking about by Valentines, God help me.
In the words of Linguini from Ratatouille, "Let's do this thing!!!!!"

Random thoughts...

This is complete random random thoughts, just things that I want to get off my mind. I don't know what's going on with me creatively. I taught this big seminar in the college and thought it would get me all creatively fired up. It did. But my writing skills seem to have died. It's all Aliza's Fault! She's the one who got me into writing blog style. You know? Like totally Yuna randomness style :-P And now it's hard to actually sit down and write anything.
I just feel like a seed planted in the ground or an egg waiting to hatch. Just waiting. And waiting. And waiting for the right time to come.
Why do we do anything? What drives you? What drives me? The one thing that drives me and inspires me has been lacking as of late, P. Eug can attest to that. I just, it's hard to get up each morning and go to work. It's hard to be excited about life. It's the daily grind, or the daily grindstone if that suits you. I just feel like I go in and out and life needs some excitement. I enjoy waking up some days and smiling and thinking of how things could be. Then I realize what I need to do to get there. And its' going to take awhile, unless God does something.
Maybe the key to living life is risk. Playing safe is just...hard? its' safe, but sometimes you have to wonder, maybe i just have to live life. I see people, ahem, really enjoying those tiny details in life and then I wonder - why the heck can I not do that? Sigh. Darn it. I...shoot...just, why can't I walk around the city, enjoy myself, and live a life that brings glory to God in everything and just be satisfied with that? Why must I strive to enjoy the little random details in life - the joy of smelling the cement after a strong rain. Yeah, I'm weird. Anyway, it's like, why, why, why?
Summer vacation, semester break, etc. These are the things that make life fun. Why? Because ANYTHING can happen. Literally. Did I mess things up? Did I completely destroy things? What can I do to make things right? I feel that life keeps going up and down, up and down, and I can't get it to just be steady, to just go up. Part of me wants to push and make something happen! If you stab me, do I not bleed? Oooooo...emo line. No, quoting a poem, easy there, partner. Other times, I feel like Lady Macbeth, staring at my sin stained hands and screaming that it can't get clean and falling on the ground in a pile of tears. Condemnation. Bad. There's your spank on the hand, Mark. Now, I'm supposed to go on with life. It should be that simple. No, I sit and think about my regrets constantly. Regret is an empty desk, an unsaid word, a half-felt hug...
Speaking of which, you know you can tell a lot about how a person feels about you by their hug? A hug communicates it all. You can tell if they just like you as a friend, if there is something more, if it is a brother/sister thing, or if they just don't like you. Like, they absolutely DO NOT like you and want you to go away from them and just get away. Like, "Get away from me!" Of course, those people usually run away screaming like they just saw the monster from Cloverfield. Lol. Frick. That's why I like hugs. You can tell, it affirms a friendship, it lets the other person know "this is how much I appreciate you, and even if I don't say it, I want you to feel it." I wish it could be more like that here. In NYC, hugs were common. Here, well, it's only a few random people. Or people are picky with who they hug. Or they just...never mind.
So there are all my random freaking thoughts. Talk about a depressign update after a long line of depressing updates. I guess I'm tired of pretending I'm happy.

Why we write...a series of short essays on writing

By Greg Garcia, Creator and Executive Producer of My Name Is Earl.

I hate writing. I hate it. Sitting down to write a script is torture. In fact, the only good thing that's come out of this strike is that it's given me an actual legitimate excuse not to write. Usually I have to spend most of my mornings trying to come up with reasons to be lazy. But these days, I simply wake up and my guild has decided that I am not permitted to put pen to paper. Not permitted to sit and stare at a blank page and feel like a failure for hours on end. Not permitted to type scene after scene only to read it at the end of the day, hate it, and throw it out. And for that, I'm grateful to the AMPTP and the WGA. However, I'm bored out of my mind. Because as much as I hate writing TV, I love watching it. Writing TV is hard, but watching it... Watching it is a breeze. All you need are eyes and an ass. When I sit down to watch an episode of one of my favorite shows it's like Christmas morning. I get excited. What have they come up with for me this week? I can't wait. And when it's over I quickly shut off the TV before I can see the promo for next week's episode because I don't want to ruin a single second of it. I don't have to watch the promo. I'll be there. I'm hooked.

The first few days of the strike were great for catching up on my shows. My TIVO was bubbling over with new episodes of Dexter, Family Guy, Friday Night Lights, 30 Rock, and a whole bunch of other shows I'm not going to admit to watching. One by one they were watched and deleted. And now my TIVO is empty. I fear that as the strike goes on my TIVO may try to eat itself to stay alive. Nothing is more depressing than going through the guide for the next few weeks and seeing shows like American Gladiators, Clash of the Choirs, Duel, and Celebrity Apprentice. I'm not gonna watch that foolishness. And I'll watch almost anything. I always have. While other kids were out playing tag, tossing around the ball, and getting laid, I was glued to the TV. I liked it all, but sitcoms were my main drug. At least until I discovered actual drugs and then sitcoms and drugs were my drugs. I watched everything from Father Knows Best to WKRP in Cincinnati. The only time I would stop watching was when my mother would make me come upstairs for dinner. And then, so I wouldn't miss a word, I would prop up my audiocassette player against the TV and hit record. After dinner I would race down, lie on the couch, close my eyes, and listen to what I had missed. Only having the audio, I would be forced to block the scenes, design the swing sets, choose the camera angles, and edit the show in my head.

Years later when I was going to college at the very prestigious Frostburg State University I was excited to learn that they had an actual sitcom writing class. Not only did they offer the class, but if the script you wrote was good enough, it would be sent to Warner Brothers and if they liked it, they would fly you out to Hollywood to hang out with the writers on one of their sitcoms for a week. Eleven o'clock the night before my script was due, I hadn't written a word. I popped a few caffeine pills and sat in front of my roommate's computer staring at that goddamn blank screen. But then, just like I did when I was a kid in my parents' basement, I closed my eyes and pictured the set of Cheers. I pictured the characters, imagined what they might say and I watched as they began talking to each other. I quickly started typing.

The next day we had a table read of my script in class. I remember being tired and nervous as they started to read the first scene. Soon we got to the first joke. People laughed. We got to the second joke and they laughed again. Now, as I'm sure you know, there's no way of describing the feeling you get from people enjoying something you created. It's quite a high. I was hooked.

After getting a C minus on my Cheers script for refusing to take my professor's notes, I was one of two people in the country selected by Warner Brothers to go to Hollywood for a week. This is when I first learned to never take notes you don't agree with. If I had taken my professor's notes I'd probably be digging ditches right now instead of having my dream job of walking around in a circle holding a sign on a stick. When I got to Hollywood I watched the writers of the show Room For Two as they sat around a table laughing, fighting, and creating television. And later in the week I pitched a joke that included the words "grouper fingers" and they actually put it in the script. Once again I was hooked.

A few months later I returned to Los Angeles determined to become a television writer. And a year later I was. I was a staff writer on a show called On Our Own. I vividly remember watching the first episode I wrote as it aired on TV. I was sitting on the couch, just like I did in my parents' basement, only this time the people inside the magic box in front of me were doing what I told them to do. They were saying words that I came up with. Something that started in my head was being beamed out to millions of people all over the country. And I like to think those people watching were laughing. Once again I was hooked.

Since then I've been lucky enough to be a part of the writing of over 300 episodes of television. I've written on other people's shows, my own shows, family shows, office shows, black shows, white shows, four camera shows, animated shows, single camera shows, shows that get slammed by the critics and shows that win Emmys. I've had the pleasure of experiencing almost everything you can experience in the world of sitcoms. The thing I had worshiped as a child has become my life. But don't get me wrong, I still hate writing. I hate it because it's hard. But if I don't write it, no one is going to say it. No one is going to block it or light it or film it or edit it. No one is going to watch it. And most importantly, no one is going to laugh at it. And as much as I hate the writing part, I love the laughing part. I need the laughing part. I'm addicted to it.

And that's why I write.

Today’s piece is written by Steven Levitan, creator of Just Shoot Me and co-creator of Back To You.

I swear this is true. A couple of years ago I had lunch with a network president who asked me the following question:

“If I offered you a billion dollars, but you could never write again, would you take it?”

I tried to keep a straight face and act snooty because I knew he assumed my answer would be “no” and was paying me a compliment, but, let’s face it, he had me at “billi...” Hell, he didn’t even make it hard. I mean, if he had added, “But you have to cut off your fingers,” well, then now we’re talking a much tougher decision. I play golf. I play guitar. I have an iPhone. What the hell am I going to do all day now that I have a billion dollars and no fingers?

The truth is the strike has given me the chance to experience life without a creative outlet like writing. Here’s something amusing I’ve started doing the past six weeks: I have two teenaged daughters who have just gotten to that age when they’re ashamed of me. So, whenever I drop them off outside a party and there are other kids standing around, I scream out desperately from the car, “MAKE GOOD CHOICES!!!” They’re just mortified. Now that’s good fun.

Maybe I don’t need this job to be happy. I have skills to fall back on. During my senior year of college at (the) Harvard (of America’s Dairyland UW-Madison), and for two years afterwards, I was a television news reporter and anchor for the local ABC affiliate. I covered big fires, killer tornados, grizzly murders and, worst of all, holiday parades.

Like most newsrooms at the time, ours had three televisions on the wall so we could see what the other stations were doing. However, I found myself more interested in what came on before the ten o’clock news than during: Hill Street Blues, Moonlighting, Wonder Years, Cheers. I began to wonder if I could ever write something like that. So, one day, without any plan or guidance, I started firing off my first script -- a spec Moonlighting. It was one of the hardest things I had ever done and I had absolutely no clue what to do with it, but I finished. I had an incredible sense of accomplishment, even though, to those around me, I was like one of those crazy guys who builds a rocket in his backyard.

I then moved back to my hometown Chicago to take a job creating ad campaigns for Miller Beer, McDonalds and that little yutz the Pillsbury Doughboy (total prima donna). And I kept writing. A Cheers. Then a Wonder Years. My roommates would just shake their heads and wonder why the hell was I writing fake television shows instead of going out to the bars with them. a) I just couldn’t stop. b) It was fourteen below outside.

Long story short, I finally moved to L.A. to write and produce trailers and TV commercials for Disney Studios and, a year and a half later, got my first chance to meet on a television series: Wings. I went in, pitched a story and, what do you know, they bought it. I then wrote the freelance script and, when I went to the showrunners’ offices to turn it in, they invited me to come watch the filming of the season premiere later that week.

I had never been on a sitcom set in my life and it was everything I hoped it would be. I would have loved every minute of it, but I knew they invited me before they read my script and, throughout the filming, I became increasingly convinced they hated my script and consequently the talentless hack who “wrote” it. Finally the show ended and David Angell (who left us too soon) asked me to come down from the bleachers onto the set. Here it comes, I thought, the speech where he tells me I should go back to Chicago and write more cuddly copy for the doughboy (who, btw, has an eating disorder).

“Steve,” he said in a “let’s just be friends” tone. “We really liked your script and, if you want to join us, we’d love to have you on staff.”

I’m not sure I can adequately convey the glory of that moment, but cue the fireworks. There I was, on an actual sitcom set, in actual Hollywood-adjacent, being asked to join a network show by the guy who wrote some of my favorite episodes of television ever. Kiss my ass, Doughboy, I’m on staff!

Now, some sixteen years and three or four hundred episodes later, I have to admit to being, at times, a bit jaded. The hours can be long, cancelled shows break your heart, and I have, on occasion, walked onto a soundstage with more dread than delight.

But most days, I pinch myself because I’m one of the lucky few who’s living out his Rob Petrie-inspired dream. And everyday I walk that picket line, I know I’m doing it so that, in the future, others will get to experience my good fortune. After all, my job is to sit in a room with genuinely funny people and tell stories. I get to see my work performed by some of the best actors ever on television. And, on a good night, I get to make millions of people laugh.

That’s something I never want to give up. Not even for a billio... I’m sorry, I can’t even say it with a straight face.

"Today’s piece is written by Damon Lindelof, Co-Creator and Executive Producer of Lost.

I was listening to the news on NPR the other day and two things occurred to me. First, only assholes feel the constant need to tell you they listen to NPR (does anyone ever say, “So I was watching the CW last night…”?) and I guess that makes me an asshole. The second was that in the midst of listening to the story in question, I had finally figured out how to succinctly sum up why I write. It goes a little something like this --There’s this ninety-year old woman named Rose who, after honking her horn repeatedly at the school bus idling in front of her, decides she has much more important things to do and guns her Honda Civic around the bus. Before she realizes that the bus was stopped for a very good reason indeed, Rose finds herself watching a freight train bear down on her and almost instantly, it smashes into the passenger side of the Civic and pushes it a good hundred feet before screeching to a stop. Forgoing all the gory details, Rose is pronounced dead at the local hospital and the attending doctor in the ER is tasked with notifying next of kin. Turns out Rose’s husband has been dead for decades, but she has a couple sons and a daughter. The doctor calls one of her sons and his wife answers the phone. The son isn’t home, but the wife offers to take a message. The notification ethics, however, forbid the hospital from telling anyone but next of kin about Rose’s death and so they ask when the son will be home so they can call back.And the wife responds “He won’t be back for two months.” And the hospital says, “Well… do you have a number where we could reach him?” And the wife says no, she doesn’t. And why not?–

Because he’s in space.

As in outer space. As in orbit. As in one of a handful of human beings who have the unique distinction of not being on the planet.

The son, Richard, is working on the International Space Station doing repair work. And as he floats in Zero-G, he is blissfully unaware that his ninety-year old mother has just been flattened by a train.

I kid you not. This really happened.

And what does this family’s personal tragedy have to do with why I write?

Because to me, this is an amazing story. And as soon as I hear it, my brain is already hammering out the scene where Rose’s other kids debate as to whether or not to even tell Richard. The daughter, Christine, insists on telling him that mom died peacefully in her sleep and holding the grisly truth for when he’s back on Earth. Richard’s brother Michael, however, demands they tell Richard all the gory details. Why? Because it was Richard’s fault she was still driving at ninety. Michael’s been trying to get her into assisted living for over five years now and if stupid fucking Richard had just fucking listened to him, she’d still be fucking alive!

Fortunately, I think, the decision is not up to Richard’s siblings. He is, after all, a member of the military, so this would be a NASA issue. And it turns out in their guidelines there’s this thing called the Dual Plume Protocol. The Dual Plume Protocol, or DPP, was officially incorporated into NASA’s Psychological Charter this year. Let me back up --

In September of 2001, the space station was manned by three people -- an American and Two Russians. As they were orbiting over the Northeastern United States, the American called Mission Control to report that he could see (with his naked eye) two massive pillars of black smoke rising up through the atmosphere. When they answered back, explaining that the black smoke was all that remained of the Towers, the American took a long, sorrowful pause and responded – “I wish you hadn’t told me that.”

As a result of the DPP, NASA started actually asking the astronauts who are leaving the planet what their personal wishes are regarding notifications of earthbound tragedies. And this is like, a very detailed document because it covers everything from worldwide catastrophes (i.e. Katrina or a Tsunami) down to things that would only affect the astronaut him or herself (i.e. their mother’s Honda getting pulverized by a freight train) and it must be signed and notarized before launch. Why? Because the emotional state and focus of these guys is critical. They’re being sent up to perform missions on a space station and after spending millions to train them (Richard is one of three people alive who has the skill set to execute these specific repairs) it costs BILLIONS just to get them up there to perform them and the last thing NASA needs is for someone to go batshit with grief on the day they’re supposed to fix the thruster converter thigamajob.

So I’m sitting there thinking how Richard may have filled out his DPP Form…

And I realize there’s no such thing.

I made it up.

Yeah, I remember hearing about the astronauts on the space station having seen the carnage over Manhattan from orbit, but that’s got nothing to do with the story of Rose’s death. In fact, I don’t know how many kids she had or, for that matter, whether or not they can just send an email to Richard (can you get email in space?) and dispense with all the formality.

But where’s the drama in that?

So that’s why I write.
I write because I can’t help but make things up.
I write because I love to tell stories.
I write because my imagination compels me to do so.
I write because if I didn’t, I’d be branded a pathological liar.
Oh, and also because I’m still trying to make my dead father proud of me.
But that’s none of your business.

New short quiz thingy

Name: Mark

Occupation: Assistant Director of Communications

Place of birth: Philippines

Best day of your life: The Day I called up the travel agent in the States and booked a one way ticket to the Philippines

Worst day of your life: When my kuya moved back to California and I didn't get to say good bye

Favorite Childhood Memory: Christmas in 1994 or 1995. We forgot a whole box of gifts and had a second Christmas.

Reason you're where you are? Nehemiah went back to the Israelites, I went back to the Philippies

Reason you're in the ministries where you are? Wanted to get involved, was too old, and ended up being editor of ChannelS and helping out in the Call Center ministry due to P. Mau's constant glowing reviews about me

Which is the greater joy - loving someone else, or being loved by someone else? I think loving someone else, the honor it is to have someone let you pour love on them brings so much joy. Why do you think guys love proms? it's a night that they are allowed to show love to someone.

Is it possible to be in love without opening yourself up to pain? No. Love is pain. Lol. There is a fine line between love and pain, and as a guy, we tend to put ourselves through pain as we love someone. There is this want to be with someone, to love them, but the pain of being incapable of doing so.

Pet peeves: Stupid people in the elevator and cab drivers who ask for extra money.

A recent event that you'll admit here, but deny if anyone ever asked you in public: I like some Hilary Duff songs from back in the day (mainly the So Yesterday song). I also liked Cheaper By the Dozen Two.

Can you keep a secret? Yes. It leaves me a wreck, but yes.

If your house is on fire, what's the first thing you grab? if its a thing, it will be my cellphone. if its a person, like someone else is in the house, it'll be my younger brothers.

Most important quality to have in life? humility

Deepest fear: being left behind and not making my life worthwhile or significant

Which of these best describes your relationship with that special someone: You trust them with your keys; You trust them with your job; You trust them with your life? As of right now, I'd say I trust them with my job. Not yet at the life part. Sorry.