You Should See My Desk

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If you were here, you could see my bookshelves, the clutter of sticky notes with my user Id’s and passwords.

You’d know all my secrets.

You’d see the hodgepodge of books, plays, CDs,  and the bedroom paraphernalia: earrings, cough drops, eye drops, eyeglass cases, sunglasses, Chapstick, thread, framed photos, necklaces, cameras, lotions, jewelry boxes and contact solution.  I have everything I need, from this morning’s cup of coffee to the night before last’s empty glass of wine.  You’d find my passport and stacks of photos, backup discs and printed screenplays, radios and scissors, pens (some that work), ceramic gifts crafted by my children at school, squeezy stress ball thingys, decorative boxes filled with receipts and sealed envelopes marked with the date, the child’s name, and a tooth inside. The tooth fairy gave them all to me.

The desk.  It’s covered with an open binder of work I need to do.  ( A script, blah, what else?)  I’m to write a query letter RIGHT NOW, but instead I am writing this.  Guess which is easier?  Guess who the child is in the room?  Yeah, and I am at her desk.  It’s a good size desk with poor storage options.  On this desk is a shiny, Hollywood gift shop gag of a fake Oscar.  The inscription:  Oscar Winning Screenwriter.  It was a second-hand gift from my husband.  He used it as a prop in one of his short student films over 10 years ago.  On this desk are quotes I copied from The Bible, quotes I copied of particularly inspiring acceptance speeches, and certain sections of Joel Osteen marketing letters.  Yes.  It’s true.  I should be embarrassed, but I’m not yet.

I even have good stuff underneath my desk.  Three external hardrives –  4.5 terabytes in all — stuffed to the gills (if hard drives had gills).  Also underneath my desk is a big box of Italian Language discs.  (I’ve wanted to learn another language for a long while now.) Another default gift.  My brother sent it here, but forgot to leave room in his suitcase when he went back to Japan.  I am not springing for the postage.

The WALL in front of my desk bursts with more INSPIRATIONAL STUFF.  My headshot photo which includes the following graphics: SAG-AFTRA, WGA.  (Some of it is true).   I put it there, and it will remain there until it is all true.  Also printed on cheap paper, a photo of a GIANT Oscar statue and the words The ACADEMY AWARDS.  I have note boards, magnetic boards, dry erase boards, all held with ticky tack, pins, nails and packing tape.  Calenders with contest deadlines, rejection letters,  an old birthday card from a former friend that says:  FOLLOW YOUR BLISS.  I have a check made out to myself for 1 Million dollars.  I signed it 3 years ago. I have a magazine cover page featuring myself as a filmmaker — I designed it, wrote it, printed it and taped it to the wall.   I have my current body weight (not going to say) and my goal weight.  Current goal weight is 117 pounds, but I’d really like to get down to 112 or so.  This too, has been up here for a while.  I have pamphlets from skin doctors of procedures and injections I’d like to try.

All of this done to keep myself inspired and encouraged.

It all helps a little, but not nearly as much as the feeling of getting to page 105 and typing THE END.  Nothing inspires as much as the weight and sound of my newest first draft,  holding a receipt from a contest submission, or seeing emails come in, requesting I send my screenplay.

Yes.  Those things inspire.

*    *   *   *    *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *  *  *

There.  That (See above) out-of-the-way.  Now on to write my query letter.  On to the rewrite of a short.  On to another frickin’ stab at a script of mine that I am SICK of looking at.  On to reading and reviewing another friend’s work.  On to reading THE WOLF OF WALL STREET.  Later tonight, after cooking for the kids, harping about homework and music practice, after feeding and cleaning and listening and hugging and saying, “Everything’s going to be alright…”  I will have my date with a bowl of buttered of popcorn and watch a screener of The Dallas Buyers Club.

If you were here, you’d know all of it, first hand, front and center, in your face, Full Monty, not gonna lie,  it ain’t pretty madness of the woman in this room. 

Consider yourself lucky.

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About Fringe Details

I write spec screenplays. Mum of five awesome people and caretaker of 6 chickens, five cats and one smelly dog. View all posts by Fringe Details

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