On packing

There is something sacred about placing your beloved possessions in a cardboard box.

One last look, maybe a thought about what drew you to said object in the first place; necessity, beauty... was it a gift? One final look and you wrap it or toss it into that box, sealing it up with its brothers. The sticky snap and peel of plastic tape, sealing it in darkness. The smell of Sharpie as you label the cardboard: FRAGILE or KITCHEN or BOOKS or PHOTO ALBUMS.

The walls of my flat are seemingly lined with boxes, all containing my beloved possessions, lovingly packed one at a time. My collection of snow white pottery. Piles of costume jewelry that stains my skin with its imitation luxury. Notebook after notebook and piles of screenplays in various stages of completion. Birthday cards and six years of Elle Decor back issues. CDs neatly tucked alphabetically into spacing-saving binders: the complete works of Beastie Boys, Beck, Bjork, Bob Dylan. Unused vitamins, 26 different shades of eyeshadow, a box of soon-to-be-expired teeth bleaching strips. What does it all add up to? Do all these thing equal me?

I recently found an old box that was labeled POSTCARDS, DIPLOMA, EARLY NOTEBOOKS, YEARBOOKS. At one point, that box seemed to have contained all the memories of my high school years. At least, I imagine it did. Now, it's filled with old cooking magazines destined for the donation bin. But really, what do a few yearbooks, a certificate with some fancy typeface and a stack of whiny, Freshman year poetry really say about me? Are the memories there real or do we give meaning to things filed away in boxes? Do we convince ourselves to cherish these valueless objects? Or do they truly hold a small piece of us inside that cardboard tomb?

As I look at the objects around me, the trinkets on my desk that my gaze occasionally wanders to as I write, I realize there is a kind of wonder about them. The flat, palm-sized rock painted in wide strips of red and orange paint I decorated in kindergarten has a spot where the paint is worn thin. I like to rub it when I can't think. It helps me focus. The photograph of my baby sister, aged 2. Caught mid-spin in a pair of overalls on the front lawn, a look of blurred happiness crossing her face. A framed quote from Henry Rollins: "It'll destroy you if you try to make it mean anything to anyone but yourself."

Right next to my computer sits a red and black glazed ceramic statue of a cat given to me by my grandmother after I'd spent eight months helping her pack and move to a new place after more than 30 years. We went through each and every inch of her house, stuffed nearly to the rafters with endless collections. Each one had a story. She sat with me as I packed each of them carefully away, telling me when and how she'd gotten each footed candy dish, each Barbie doll, each vintage this or antique that. A lifetime of spending time and money acquiring material things and giving them meaning. There was a sadness about her as we did this. She was telling these stories for the last time, it seemed. Like she had to speak her memories aloud. As if otherwise, these things would cease to matter.

So when I finally place the Royal Doulton Flambé Cat in tissue paper and pack it in a box labeled FRAGILE - OFFICE, I will think of her and the endless afternoons spent with her and her stories of flea market shopping and antiques shopping in Indiana with her sisters. Of the anniversary gifts and wedding presents and long sought-after china finally discovered on eBay. But also, I will think of my own memories. Of the hours spent knocking out the finals drafts of my first feature screenplay, and all the ones that came before and after. Then I'll seal the box and it will wait for me to discover the stories it can tell once again.

On filmmaking

I begin a new film project today. Excitement is not the word I'd use for what I'm feeling at this moment. More like loathing. Trepidation. More like "what the hell am I doing?"

The dichotomy of my given career is this: I actually don't like working on set.

There. I said it.

Those who know me know this about me. Everyone tends to roll their eyes. Why don't I like working on set? Well, it's a combination of many factors beginning with the crazy, life-sucking long days, the discomfort with shooting conditions and weather and the the whole hurry-up-and-wait thing.

With each project I tackle, I always hope that I will feel different. That maybe one day I'll find a reason to love working on set more than hate it. To rebalance the scale, but alas, it has yet to happen.

Last year, I even dreaded the set of my own film. I co-produced and co-scripted the effort and still, each morning I woke up with that old familiar sense of dread. There I was, working to see my own vision come to life and I still couldn't get into it. Did I have fun on set? Sure. Occasionally. Was it worth it? Abso-fucking-lutely. But did I still loathe most parts of it. Without a doubt.

So the question most asked of me when I reveal this is: Why do you do it if you hate it? The answer isn't complicated but hard to understand. I work as a filmmaker because I love it.

Huh?

I know, I know. It doesn't make a ton of sense. Why would I claim to love something that I just said I hate? That's the dichotomy of it all. And, no, it's not just that I love filmmaking but I hate the work. I understand that the final product is a direct result of the months of effort put in on set. But this is the thing: Filmmaking sucks. It's hard, exhausting, debasing, cruel, tedious and often thankless. It breaks you down as a person, separating your good traits from your bad and wringing them out to dry in front of everyone. It's the essence of creative process. It's what happens to painters, writers, artists. And I hate the process. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

So I'm headed into this project with good intentions, although not positive. I already know that the next four weeks of my life will be filled with lack of sleep, body aches, headaches (real and imaginary), rude, insistent people asking too much of me and creative geniuses who will ask for every drop of blood and sweat I have... then a little more... just to see their "vision" come to life.

And I'll do it. I will do it until I can't anymore. I have to. After all, it's really the only thing I understand in this world.