The Adventures of Nowhere Kid

The image above is copyrighted ©2016 by Marc Alexander Valle

I finished four screenplays as a teenager while my grades suffered. The first was called Land of the Lost River. It was a Spielberg-inspired story. It involved heroes fighting Nazis and dinosaurs, looking for the fountain of youth and messiah-like aliens saving the day in the end.

Then there was An Unserialed Surreal Christmas Carol. It took place in a small mid-west city. The main character, who attempted to move to Hollywood to make movies, got stuck in this city on his way there. No need to get into detail. Nearly all other elements resembled Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs.

Worn to Perfection was a script that I wrote for Paul Newman and Robert Redford. It was about two aging con-artists bonding together for one last heist.

Finally, there was Abduction. It was about a teenager who abducts the man that he believes molested him.

This is what I see now:

Land of the Lost River was about being saved from myself.

An Unserialed Surreal Christmas Carol was about being lost

Worn to Perfection was actually about the pain of absent grandparents. Elderly relatives that would have put my household’s anxiety in balance had they been present.

Abduction was about anxiety, depression, mental illness and my desire to be diagnosed with one. Because if you were as strange as I believed people saw me, and if you were alienated as I felt, than you’d want a mental illness to explain it too.

But like many teens did with their comic books and baseball cards, I threw out all of those pre-graduation drafts. The only thing I bothered to continue to work on for years was Abduction.

I cringe at the thought of reading a draft of that. And hope that I always will.

Why I Write, Part 2

Sequel to sci-fi film. Crowded audience. The movie previews play. One after the other, it’s a preview for an animated kids film.

The animated animals do silly things. Make silly jokes. A man, three seats down, laughs. He laughs with his mouth wide open. I don’t find any of this funny. They’re jokes for kids, but somehow it tickles his belly. He sounds like Santa Claus ho-ho-ho-ing at a bar with friends. The lady he’s with laughs too. She’s not as loud, but she sounds like she’s enjoying herself just as much as he is. I’m disgusted. Is this all it takes for some people?

After several animated film previews, a preview for a superhero film comes on. I’m not a fan of these recent superhero films. They’re candy for tweens and fanboys. But I’m enjoying the preview for this one. It involves the government and the superheroes.

This can be good. Very philosophical. Risky even. I want to see it.

“I don’t get it,” the guy says.

“I don’t get it either,” she says.

Is this it? Is this the top of pops when it comes to being a successful artist? Entertaining this guy and his wife? Could I even have a conversation with them about anything other than football scores? I will not write for these people.

. . .

It’s not about writing for yourself. It’s about writing from yourself. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about perfectly expressing who you are.

I still entertain thoughts of being widely accepted by the public. But the style of my artistic output says that it won’t happen.

It’s hard to accept, but liberating in those moments when you do accept it.

Why is it hard to accept?

We have no right to see ourselves the way we want to. It violates who we actually are. And who we are is not always beautiful. It’s rough, it’s twisted, it’s a weirdo. But if we can express those things than we can create beauty.

. . .

The movie ended. It liked it. I went home. I sat down to write.

Nothing came out.

Writer’s Jounal, Part 1: The Imaginary Critic

I finally got back into writing my novel. I skipped out on finishing a chapter, and I started a new one. I have no problem with that. It felt right. My problem was that I wrote only 500 words. I know from experience that only writing more (1000 words a day) will make me a better writer, but you get so caught up in what’s missing from your writing and how it looks.

Writing seems to be about giving yourself the opportunity to look bad to yourself.

You argue with an imaginary person standing over your shoulder, telling you what’s wrong.

This is where you lose your voice.

Can writing ever be pure?

Can we really ever write for ourselves or do those moments exist in between the negative thoughts?

At this point in life and career, I’m going with the latter.

I know I’ve been there. I just don’t know how to get back.

Why I Write

Fish swim, birds fly, I write. There’s no need to romanticism the purpose of writing. Just as there’s no need to glorify a dog’s daily walk. That’s just what dogs do.

15 years ago, I would have given you an idealist’s answer as to why I write. I would have went on about its function as a social catalyst to change people’s views. I feel now that it’s not my business to change peoples’ minds.

How can one assume that a point of view is beneficial for others, when 10 years from now he or she will feel differently about that view?

We write to keep from getting in trouble. Not necessarily from vices, but from feelings that allow us to become ‘stuck’ in our lives.

The mind needs positive motion. It needs to construct. It needs to explore. It needs release subconscious energy.

We must write to write. If you write to be great, is it you that is writing? Or the person that you think you’re supposed to be?

First Blog: I, Marc

To run or not to run before your first blog? It’ll be just you and your thoughts, Marc. Maybe you’ll come up with a nifty quote or a funny line.But then again you just need a break from all this blog site setup and new e-mail set up and new Facebook account set up. 

 

Relax. Go for that run. And on it, you’ll think about politics, movies, your future and things that bother you. And if you run long enough, you just might realize that you’re not just thinking, but you’re running. 

. . .

Writing is one of the few things that I can be consciously aware of as I’m doing it. In this sense, it’s been my more accessible portal to the present. It helps me see that my past thoughts and feelings is full of other peoples opinions and helps me see that my own voice will only grow stronger. Words are a miracle. I dare to see which ones will come out after this short run. Do you?