the space between

I finished the rough draft of yet another feature-length screenplay last Tuesday. My thirteenth, I think (losing track is a sign of prolific-ness, not incompetence... right?). 

A world of infinite possibilities has been shrunk waaay down. 

I have chained myself to a decidedly-finite set of characters and plot-points, and all that's left is about a million re-writes.

Not yet, though. 

First, I have to let the thing sit a while—to marinate, if you will, in my subconscious juices. 

To quote one of my personal heroes, the very-nearly-unparalleled artist-of-the-blade, Mr. Inigo Montoya, "I hate waiting." 

It's not just the pain of the aforementioned possibility-shrinkage, it's also that I'm desperately eager to dig back into this one. I know it probably currently sucks, because the first draft of everything sucks. Always. This particular script is easily the most zeitgeistey thing I've ever written* and I want to make sure I finish it before the World turns and its moment passes. But if I don't wait, my first-blush enamoration will make the necessary darling-o-cide impossible, and I'll end up with nothing more than a well-polished turd. 

So I wait. 

Caught between yearning and despair, I'm burning through a library's worth of novels, laying out beats for a TV series I'm developing with a producer who optioned my novel, POUNDERS, and counting the seconds until I can get back to it. 

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*For those curious about the script, it's kinda like WAITING meets FIGHT CLUB meets INGLORIOUS BASTERDS meets Donald J** Trump. Not sure it'll work for anyone else, but for me—absolutely cathartic.

**Jerk