Yesterday I was deeply indulged in the preparation of shooting a pilot for a limited run television series I’d been noodling and developed over the past year or so–storyboard’s rendered, camera setups meticulously attuned, lenses selected for three cameras, lighting grid locked, marks taped down, microphone placement dialed in. Yes, on Monday we’d start on yet another journey of documenting some extraordinary sliver of meager human existence for the purpose of insight and entertainment. Action! We’re shooting the show.
Then it occurred to me, late in the early morning: Who gives a shit?
Those who know me know I harp on the importance of documenting everything that transpires in one’s life. Shooting Gramps at the kitchen table discussing the Armenian genocide. Talking old bitter family feuds with Mom and Dad over Pabst Blue Ribbon on the back porch. It’s too late to do so once events have passed. Failing so means there’ll be nothing left to pass forward. Nothing for the kids. Nothing for the official record. No evidence of purposeful being; of being present, regardless how briefly. That’s why, though a filmmaker who works across genres, I still take the greatest pride in being a documentarian. To prove this happened. This person existed.
The SCWC motto remains Aim for Excellence. Settle only for Exceptional. I believe that as a writer. I believe that as a filmmaker. Thing is, when is it worth it? Perhaps more importantly, why?
Kind of came out of seclusion these past many months and started, reluctantly, consulting on projects again. The bulk of them turned out to be stories based on the authors’ true life experiences. Not all were necessarily memoir or autobiography but, admittedly, “based on my life” tales. A couple were even “fictionalized” takes based on rather extraordinary events deeply rooted in tragedy.
But like the show I was going to shoot, the question is why? What is the purpose of presenting these stories to strangers, whether across the page or through a screen. People expect a payoff. Make me laugh. Make me cry. Make me think. Give me joy. Just don’t be a mope.
The show I just shelved is called “Good Riddance.” Thought it was a cool idea for one particular reason: me. Wasn’t making it for you, I finally realized. At least not as a weeknight refuge from the soul sucking realities of any given day. The concept is simple, focusing on the burden each and every individual reading this has or will at some point in their life confront: sorting through and trashing a passed loved one’s stuff. Mom. Dad. Son. Daughter. Grandpa. Grandma. Sister. Lover. Husband. Wife.
It’s a crucible we will all endure.
Thankfully, the inherent, internal drama of the show ultimately playing out as a big-ass drag to audiences occurred to me. Good fodder for documentary. Shit for a weekly dinner dining distraction.
So, whether documentary or memoir, a novel based on one’s true life experiences, or some other genre in which one is reaching out to share their plight or pain, at the end of the day one must ask who for and why are you writing it. For you or me? Or group therapy?
