Tag Archive: House


First off, I’m going to participate in the “post a week” hoo-hah that is going on. You have all been warned.

Second, I have made a decision of my life path. I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that my dear friend over at The Uncomfort Zone has some terribly ambitious plans in the making, and is making them happen by studying for the LSAT and being all adult. Those of you that follow my twitter and have read my delusions of grandeur know what I’m talking about.

I’m gonna be a screenwriter. Preferably for TV.

You know how shows seem to fizzle at the end of approximately two seasons, and that’s if you’re lucky? How House has gone all to hell because (House Cuddy ) Huddy is fanservice. Bad. Fanservice. That would be fine except for the fact it is OUT OF CHARACTER for both of them? How Chuck is dead to me because of the shit they pulled in season three? (Aside rant: Chuck is not James Bond, people. I don’t give a flying fuck what magical computer he has stuck in his head, he’s still been a dork for how many years of his life? And NOW he’s Mr. Superspy? Oh no. Also, the only reason Superspy Barbie (Sarah) hasn’t been hauled out and shot in the head for some of the stupid shit she pulls is an act of Deus Ex Machina, nothing more. I hold to my idea that she is what murdered the show because the writers keep trying to set up chemistry that ain’t there. If Chuck has any sense at all, as he seemed to demonstrate early on, he would have taken this yo-yo thing and gone “You know what? Go cry in your ‘daddy’s in jail, I trust no one, I’m a hardass spy and cannot love you–OMGPLZDON’TGO I NEED ATTENTION IN THE FORM OF BLIND ADORATION BECAUSE NO ONE LOVED ME’ corner. Fuck this. I’m going to go find someone sane.” )

See that, right there? That’s why I’m going into screen writing. Because apparently, character continuity does not exist. It’s all about “omg, MAKE SEXUAL TENSION. MAKE IT NOW. Now beat it to death! Do it, do it!” Further more, there seems to be a trend of perpetuating the idea that you should keep pining over people that treat you like shit that needs to stop. The idea that you should let them treat you like shit, and that this is good writing and television, disturbs me. Huddy is an example (really, Cuddy? You’re the “tough” chick on the show and suddenly you NEED a baby and are letting House treat you like garbage?) and so is Chuck/Sarah. There are other examples in popular literature at the moment (Twilight, anyone? “OMG, I love you so much I’m going to take away all your friends and your decision making ability! I KNOW WHAT’S BEST”) but I’m taking on fixing TV. Why? A little history.

I have always been into two things: characters and the way they talk. I love mind hacking characters, I love figuring out why they do what they do, and I love the way they say what they do and don’t say what they do. I have been writing fanfiction most of my life. Yes, I know, I just lost all respectability as a writer. Stay with me.

Why did I turn to this hobby? Well, combine a shitty home life, school life, and a fascination for people in a little sixth grade body. Add in a dash (okay, more than a dash) of wanting to talk to someone. There you are. My writing process for getting to know characters in a nutshell. I drag a character in, sit them down, and talk to them. I’ve been poking around other people’s brains and lives ever since, learning from their mistakes, their biases, pondering the questions of what it is to be human and to be alive. Why one should bother to be alive is a popular topic, especially with the pessimists that claim to hate humanity.

Perhaps it is because of the way that I deal with characters, as beings I have little control over, real living breathing beings that have their own agendas and thoughts despite whatever I come up with and are not simply playthings for me to fuck around with and puppet as I please, that dialogue is a strong suit. How I first get to know characters, how they first charm me or repel me, is how they speak. What the say. I listen, however offensive I may find it. I spend a very long time having conversations with them before I dare to try to write for them. As a result, I always tend to get high marks for dialogue in assigned work even if the rest is crap. It’s from all those years of imaginary conversations that I kept writing until they rang true, not just settling for making the character say what I think they should to make me happy.

The other stuff, meanwhile? The long-winded ramblings of setting, back story as provided by an omniscient narrator, writing that “This happened, then this happened?” Ehh. I can, but put in that form, my words come out as clotted cream, not something you would want to put in your coffee. Dialogue, or text that sounds like dialogue, is how I tell a story, other wise it comes out dead and flat. That’s a problem in books. You gotta summarize something sometime, and describe things sometimes, and I just… suck. Believe me, I’ve been trying really hard to fix it, but I still suck. Screenwriting, on the other hand, is all dialogue and actions. You CAN just imply other action, or skip it entirely. You can cut between scenes much more easily, showing what is important rather than the important bits AND a whole bunch of summary AND description. You set the dialogue and the scene, but the rest is implied via stage direction and other suggested action.

Maybe there’s a way to write books like that. Maybe. But at the present, I’m leaning toward screenwriting as being the place I wanna be. It plays to my natural strengths. All that stuff, the arguing around the table with a bunch of coffee driven writing fiends, the deadlines, the being a part of something that’s a hit but still being able to walk down the street unmauled– I like that idea. I really do. Plus, I’m overqualified for the job, which helps. I’m gonna have a degree in English and Psych both here soonish. Now, all I gotta do is convince the folks out at Warner Bros. to let me in their elite screenwriting program once I get the hell out of this damn college.

Wish me luck.

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Watching Sherlock Holmes (the newest movie) and contemplating what it is about this movie, and about the older episodes of House, that I find so very calming.

Yes, ladies, gentle folk, and those in between, ’tis a trip inside my head time. Do feel free to skip if you’re uninterested, but I will try to make it entertaining, despite its egocentric nature.

As many of you have probably noticed, I have a take on the world that is a bit unusual in some ways, not so much in others. The differences in my mind, in how it works as it processes is in some ways a blessing, some ways a curse.

I am good at school. I can twist and argue things well, which is why I do well as an English major. I have good grades there, not spectacular but a respectable B average after almost four years there. However, this same ability to twist my mind inside out around Kafka’s The Trial and work my way into a character’s emotions like a happy heartworm. For those of you that are scientists out there, ignore that “heartworms” mostly reside in the arteries in the lungs and run with the simile.

However, this same ability turns reality into a nightmare, where paranoia is justifiable by the sheer number of negative outcomes that can be thought up for every action and its reaction. It whirs, an overclocked CPU, taking the smallest pieces of information and expanding it, tracing it’s origin, route to the present, and the many ways it can meander into the future to significance or none, wanted or not. I cannot control when it decides to run off on these tangents– They can be summoned when needed, but once they appear, they cannot be stopped. If this process takes a dark turn, it can end with me turning into an angry, suspicious, cynical, inconsolable mess and there is really no way to properly explain how or why to most individuals. Not only does my mind run in all directions– it has the sadistic ability to convince me that whatever conclusion it comes to is right, or at least has a high enough possibility of being right that it will cause me to worry and take precaution.

My mind has the remarkable ability to synthesize the past, future, scenarios, sensations, reasoning, logic at a speed that would shame a cheetah. Despite the above problems, it does come in handy, and not only with school. A large part of why I am a writer has to do with the fact that if I try hard enough and harness that power, I can hack my way into a character’s mind to the point I feel the stitches of their clothing over my skin, the weight of their jewelry, know the breadth of their shoulders and how they have to move because of their shape and build, their inflections when they speak and the sound of their voice. I know their biases, their fears, their reasoning. Due to this immersion technique, I will pick up moods and mannerisms for whomever I am writing occasionally. Hell, I’ve been told I have a certain expression on my face when I write some of my best loved characters. I can synthesize a person from a touch of perfume, a tea, a turn of phrase. It’s alchemy. Beautiful, glorious alchemy of a god, where I turn not lead into gold, but clay into flesh.

My mind eats input, craves stimulation, and consumes itself when left idle, usually for the worst. My… sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

For those of you that aren’t familiar with Sherlock Holmes or House, both are brilliant detectives and utterly kick ass at what they do– they can solve things no one else can solve. They also are drug addicted, eccentric, and a complete and utter bitch to get along with.

It is arrogance to compare myself to those two, lowly being that I am. However, even in my most self loathing of moods, I can see similarities. I have a dangerous fondness for alcohol and painkillers that (thankfully) is kept carefully in check and under constant watch by myself and my dearest. I have eccentric tendencies. Where House sets the hospital on fire or Holmes lures flies into a bottle to experiment with how they react to his violin, I have been known to write compulsively on any flat reflective surface I can find and mutter River-esqe nonsense while gnawing my nails and lips until they bleed.

I suppose it is their kinship, perhaps, that is so calming. Their sound flowing of ideas and reasoning, the timbre of their voices as they explain their latest theory. Their own immersions into the minds of the criminals they’re chasing or the patients they’re treating. Or perhaps it is simply the fact that when Holmes and House go off on their flights of reasoning, it ends well. It doesn’t turn around and impale them. Usually. Perhaps it is even more soothing when it does.

Maybe what is most comforting is that for all of the shit that has happened to me, how people seem to avoid me, how I seem to have some repellent air about me, people like me can be useful. Needed. Needed enough that what little relief simply drugging myself into a stupor or worse can provide from the constant tangled blur inside me, I am worth more to the world awake, alert, functioning. Useful enough that someday, I will find where I am needed, much as House and Holmes have. Somewhere I am needed that will keep my mind active, awake, and busy so it does not consume itself. Somewhere that prevents the consumption and destruction without halting my mind or blood completely.

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