This personal essay was my submission to Quills & Pixels, a peer-reviewed literary journal published by the department of rhetoric and writing at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. My essay was rejected for reasons that have nothing to do with my storytelling abilities (which even they admit are “excellent and captivating”) and everything to do with me personally. I’ll let you read my essay for yourself before I break down the rejection letter.
It’s done.
Kicking back in my chair. Drinking Jack and Coke as I watch a video file upload to YouTube. A mild September night. Interior surroundings illuminated by only my monitor and the dim amber glow of a desktop lamp. “Babooshka” by Kate Bush floats softly from my speakers. As much as I’d like to watch that video with her crazy eyes right now, I’m not taking my eyes off this upload status. So much invested into this project. Time. Effort. Money. There will be no rest for the wicked until I see the magical notification that my upload is complete.
It hasn’t set in that my first film as a director is complete. One I not only directed but wrote and produced. I also scored it and made a brief appearance on camera. And I edited it. Finishing that last job minutes ago before exporting the final cut and taking it straight to YouTube. A cut that is three and a half minutes long but took a year to complete. Even with all the excellent help I received from others it mostly came down to me. Often working alone. Against all odds coming at me from every aspect of my life during this time. This project was an escape from the headaches of my reality. The personal victory that kept me going. But only one thing matters now. It’s done.
And my upload is complete.
***
There was nothing to prepare me for the culture shock of higher education the first time I entered a college classroom on a warm August morning in 2010. Not even earning my GED a few weeks prior. Being a high school dropout had been almost a prudent move until now. It hadn’t impeded my ability to earn a living and achieve entrepreneurial success as an entertainer and talent agent. I didn’t quit school because I’m stupid or lazy. Rather, I was bored and unchallenged. Primed to strike out on my own in the real world at sixteen. And that’s what I did.
But things were different fifteen years later. I was in a prolonged slump both professionally and personally. Business was down. Way down from years prior. My nest egg slowly dwindling. And I wasn’t supporting only myself. I was also footing the bill for Willow. My useless pagan girlfriend. Still unsure how I acquired her a few years prior. But there she was. Letting herself go further and further as I maintained my athletic physique. Even after quitting her job to earn an LPN certification. That never happened. Instead spending her days sleeping and leaving on every light in the house. She also took up smoking for some reason. Presumably to establish a rapport with our white trash neighbors. The ones I went out of my way to avoid.
Unsure as I was about college it was a welcome respite from my home life. That first morning on campus was like being on another planet. So alive with energy. The scent of mowed grass filled my nostrils as the sun’s rays reflected in all directions off the countless windows of multiple buildings. A grid pattern of students filtered out from the parking lot and between buildings. Many younger than me. A handful around my age. And a few old enough to be my parents. But each of us was on a mission that morning. The start of a journey to better ourselves. To gain valuable knowledge. And, unlike Willow with her baseless quoting of The Artist’s Way ad nauseam, to learn how to apply said knowledge and produce something of value.
My first college class took place in a Mac lab. I grabbed the chair nearest to the door. In case I needed to make a break for it. The instructor was a guy named Steve. That’s how he preferred students address him. A devout Baptist, there was a hint of free spiritedness about him. He was also the only person in the room older than me. Man, I felt so out of place amongst all these kids fresh out of high school. There were a few other nontraditional students, but I was the only one on the wrong side of thirty.
“I don’t belong here,” I thought as my first session of Intro to Film and Video Production commenced. Part of me wanted to slip out while no one was looking. Somehow, I managed to make myself stay. And I survived. Barely.
Film is an artistic medium that has intrigued me since I was a teenager. After the first time I watched David Lynch’s seminal feature film debut Eraserhead. That not only could such an outrageous and unconventional film exist but also be produced on a shoestring budget blew my mind. It still does. I wrote several screenplays of differing mediocrity over the ensuing years. And I spent eighteen months co-producing and starring in a low budget feature that was eventually completed years after I bailed. My business needed me, so my filmmaking aspirations would have to wait. But I never gave up on them. The only positive to come from Willow’s brief flirtation with LPN school was that it inspired me to consider attending film school. I now had not only time to invest in this pursuit but ample motivation to get out of the house.
Directing in particular interested me. Yeah, I could’ve taken a number and gotten in line for that. Nearly everyone interested in filmmaking wants to direct. The most celebrated of roles behind the camera. And the most misunderstood.
Steve cleared this up for the class on that first day when he posed the question, “What is a director’s job on a film set?”
What followed was a free for all of answers including, “Figuring out shots,” and “Pursuing his artistic vision.”
“Wrong,” Steve shot down every response succinctly, “The director’s job on set is to direct the actors. That’s it.”
Thank you. I was relieved to hear someone besides me say that. There were so many aspiring and practicing film directors I’d encountered over the years who spoke about everything but working with actors. When they did mention actors, it was always in derogatory terms. And they’d immediately return to talking about cameras or other equipment. Always equipment. I’ve long despised this blind materialism among self-proclaimed artists. As when musicians do nothing but covet instruments. Even some writers obsess over expensive computers for no good reason. You don’t need a MacBook Pro to write a book. Much less an essay. Or a listicle for BuzzFeed. Anything written on an expensive computer is never inherently good for that reason.
The opportunity to work with actors was a major reason I longed to direct. One of life’s greatest pleasures for me is working with committed and enthusiastic talent. Guiding them from beginning to end. Working to maximize their individual strengths to everyone’s benefit. While I was also passionate about the other aspects of filmmaking, that’s where a crew comes in. The director works with his crew members during pre-production to decide shots, lighting, production design, and more before turning those aspects over to each respective department on set. As with actors, I was excited about working with crew members to help them shine individually. My first semester was only beginning but I couldn’t wait to direct my first film.
I wouldn’t have to wait long.
***
A mild September morning. I awoke to a slight chill in the air. My blanket wasn’t thick enough to protect me from it. Yet I felt cozy enough for it not to bother me. The first rays of the day’s sunlight gradually peeking through Venetian blinds. Illuminating yet dark enough to leave the previous night’s shadows barely in place. Birds singing their respective songs outside filled my ears. As did the sound of passing vehicles every so often. The world outside was awakening to a new day. And so was I. But I was free for the moment. Temporarily absolved of all my sins.
This was true for me every morning. Basking in those few minutes of half consciousness before remembering where I was at this point in my life. Realizing I’d slept on the sofa that night. As I had every night for the past several months. Somewhat uncomfortable but preferable to waking up next to Willow. It’s not that I fell out of love with her. I never loved her in the first place. Why was she even under my roof at all? Ultimately because boys, unlike girls, are never taught to be discriminating enough when it comes to choosing a mate. Never taught to say no if she’s not the right one no matter how much she likes him.
Fortunately, today was a weekday. A morning’s worth of classes awaited me. As did homework at the campus library. I could’ve done it at home but that would entail listening to Willow and our loser neighbors just outside. Chain smoking up a storm as they took turns on their soapbox. Ranting and raving about nothing in particular on the basis of pure ignorance. All the while dumbfounded as to why I never joined them. Assuming I thought I was better than them. That wasn’t it at all. I knew I was better than them. They’d all given up on the battle of life. I hadn’t despite every albatross around my neck.
So, I spent my weekday afternoons in the library. Comforted by its silence and intellectualism housed within the physical confines of the building’s prairie school architecture. Artificial lighting was barely needed at any given time on sunny days. My regular presence led me to make the acquaintance of the staff including the director. A woman named Allison. Glamorous and soft spoken. The sort of woman some would mistake for a dumb blonde. An assumption that would quickly be proven foolish. Intelligent, organized, and knowledgeable on a variety of subjects. There was an excellent reason she held that position.
She approached me that September day and opined about wanting a short film to promote the library. Showing me several examples on YouTube that other colleges had produced.
“Maybe there could be a competition among film students,” she wondered aloud to me.
To hell with that. If she wanted a quality film about her library it needed to be a singular, full scale effort. And I saw an opportunity to for me to lead that effort. I offered to write, produce, and direct a short narrative film utilizing this year’s freshman class of film majors. She immediately and enthusiastically agreed to this. Now all I had to do was sell Steve on the idea.
“It sounds like an excellent project for the Video Production I course next semester,” he responded after I pitched him the following morning.
And my film directorial debut was greenlit. Production was six months away. But my work on the project began immediately. First up was writing a screenplay.
***
Although conventionally attractive when we began dating, Willow was never my type. And not just aesthetically. She was weird. Constantly writing in notebooks. Waving burning sage around the house. Talking about energy and mystical stuff for which I cared nothing. It was like living with Marianne Williamson at times. Willow did possess artistic talent. Not only could she paint and draw, but she excelled at refurbishing and customizing old furniture. She was good enough to earn a living from these skills. But it was easier to do nothing all day.
Between school and what work there was I chipped away at my directorial debut. The entire screenplay, all seven pages of it, was written at the library. Being able to author it within the building where the film would be shot was helpful in many respects. This allowed me to act out the physical movements of my characters as I wrote. I took countless photos of the facility to aid me in storyboarding my shots. Unlike Willow, I’m terrible at drawing. But my pitiful sketches of stick figures and shaky lines would suffice for letting my camera department know what I wanted.
The shots I planned were ambitious because the story was ambitious. It’s the only way I know how to operate. I wasn’t content to shoot uninspired footage of talking heads. Every shot. Every movement. Every line of dialogue was a deliberate step taken to fulfill the narrative’s promise from start to finish. I was guaranteeing everyone involved a realized story. And I would deliver on that guarantee one way or another.
My story was a combination of fantasy and humor loosely based on Federico Fellini’s Juliet of the Spirits. A DVD copy of that film would even make a cameo appearance. Along with being a fan of Fellini’s unique and amazing storytelling approach I saw this as an opportunity to introduce my classmates to films outside the American mainstream. Many of them were fanboys and fangirls of the Star Wars franchise and similar films. That’s fine but I didn’t want them to think they couldn’t tell a story without a big budget and loads of special effects. Something about which I’ve heard countless wannabe filmmakers lament. My crew and I were going to produce an engaging piece of visual storytelling through acting, shot composition, lighting, wardrobe, and set dressing. Skills that wouldn’t cost us a dime.
The screenplay was complete. Shots were storyboarded. And my first semester of college was in the can. I couldn’t wait for round two. Continuing my higher education odyssey and produce my film. But first I had to survive a long cold winter break.
Aside from school my other respite from Willow was after dark. Once she and the neighbors dispersed for the night I would hang outside with my superior group of friends. A gaze of raccoons living in the woods next to my home. I fed them nightly. Watching them eat as I exuberated about school and the film project when not stressing about money and my home life. The trees were largely bare by early December. Night air growing ever cooler. I’d pace back and forth along the side of my house. Walking towards the dim amber glow of the street light. Then walking away into wooded darkness. Desperately searching in vain for a solution to everything.
My days with Willow became more unbearable than ever. Her obliviousness to the stresses I carried on my shoulders pushing me closer to a breaking point. Following a particularly nasty argument one sunny afternoon I had her mom come and take her off my hand for a couple of weeks. What was especially rich about Willow was that she had her family convinced I was the freeloader. How anyone could’ve reached that conclusion is still beyond me. But nothing about this entire debacle made any sense. At least I could stress in peace for the next two weeks.
With all this free time suddenly on my hands and business still in the dumps I attempted to score a side gig. Taking a shot as an independent contractor making house calls to repair fitness equipment. This bombed instantly as the company wanted me to cover a large territory but refused to pay for fuel and drive time. Having the nerve to lecture me about mileage deductions. I was well aware of business deductions thank you very much. And I was aware that I needed money now. Not a tax deduction in April after performing services at cost. Somehow, they insisted, I was the unreasonable one.
After what felt like the longest December in history a new year was upon me. It was only a matter of days before a new semester was too. It couldn’t get here fast enough. I had things to learn. And a film to direct.
***
It was six years prior when I commenced work on a feature film with my co-producers. We were a four-headed monster of massive egos. Add in our collective ignorance of filmmaking and that project was doomed from the start. The director constantly rewrote the screenplay as well as my character so many times that I no longer recognized him. Much less could portray him on camera. And I probably didn’t help matters by dating my co-star. I learned throughout my first college semester how wrong our approach was to every aspect of filmmaking. We tried to fake it until we made it, but we even failed at faking.
That was in the past. It was time for me to redeem myself. To put up or shut up. And I was putting up by any means necessary. My second semester included the much-anticipated Video I course through which my vision would be brought to life. My classmates, many of whom were already accumulating actual filmmaking experience, were also ready to put up. And not only because their grades depended on it. They were devoted to the cause as much as I was. We used class time to decide which position each student should hold. I listened to what each one wanted to do, looked at what I needed, and fit everyone into place as best I could. There were no complaints.
There were a couple of students I’d already handpicked for specific jobs. Like Tim. A machinist I put in charge of our combined electric/grip department to make use of his mechanical aptitude. And there was Carly whom I appointed my self-styled assistant director/associate producer. The story was built around two female characters. I cast my sister, who holds a theatre degree, as the librarian. The student role was filled by one of the school’s student ambassadors. A young woman named Rochon who was a favorite of the marketing department. She quickly became a favorite of mine too. Pretty and dependable. She was a natural on camera despite no prior acting experience. The remaining roles were filled by my classmates.
Despite this being a class project with free labor and equipment I still dropped $500 of my own money into producing it. There were costumes, props, and other visuals we needed that no one involved already owned. On one hand, all things considered financially, I couldn’t afford to spend that money. But on the other, making this film to the ambitious vision I’d put forth was exactly the success I needed to enjoy at that point in my life. A victory in the face of mounting personal and professional woes. And Willow would’ve just spent that money on something stupid anyway.
The first day of shooting couldn’t get here fast enough.
***
It was a cold and gray February morning, because of course it was. February is mostly cold and gray. And no greeting card holiday can change that.
But this morning was different. Electricity was in the air. This would be the first of two days of shooting. And the day in which all the scenes featuring my two leads would be shot. This film was now officially in production. My vision was about to become reality after months of plotting and planning. I would’ve been more excited if not for the huge workload ahead of me. No matter. I couldn’t wait to get started.
As my crew assembled equipment and set up the first shot, I prepared my actresses as they went through makeup. That’s right. My film even had its own makeup artist. I felt pretty high and mighty about that. And it felt amazing to have a group of subordinates on their collective game. Carly was a lifesaver as my liaison with the crew, the library staff, and Steve. All I had to do that day was direct my actresses during the handful of hours we had available. That would be easier said than done. But I was free to focus entirely on bringing out their best on camera.
My leads weren’t the only ones who had to be in character. I did as well. We were playing out a story that existed in its own universe. And I was in the role of God. Overseeing the proceedings while offering divine intervention as necessary. The library staff watched with amusement as I pushed my cast and crew from shot to shot at a rapid pace. Informing me later that I came across like a “real” director. Those months of preparation paid off as we nailed most shots within two takes. For the most part the only words from my mouth were “action” and “cut” along with the phrase, “Let’s get the next shot.” I was totally in my element throughout my first time in the director’s chair.
March was upon us when my crew and I returned the following week. Still winter. But that warm and sunny day could’ve fooled me into thinking otherwise. Once again pressed for time as we shot the remaining principle photography along with B-roll footage. But the mood was somewhat relaxed this time. The hardest shots were behind us. And I knew what I was doing as the director of this project. Unlike the formal manner I exuded the week prior, I took a more lighthearted approach as we took turns appearing on camera. I even operated it for the shot featuring our cameraman in his acting role. After dismissing everyone else he and I wrapped shooting by capturing documentary style footage of the library in action.
Production was complete. But my work was far from over as the film entered post-production. I spent my first spring break sifting through nearly two hours of footage. Picking the best shots and constructing them into an engaging narrative. Once again reduced to working alone. Save for reconvening individually with my two leads to rerecord their dialogue. Unfortunately, I discovered that all the audio recorded during production was unusable. It became apparent that I would not have the film completed before the end of the semester.
***
A horrific accident left Willow in a vegetative state. Despite our drama I did what I could for her. Even as medical bills piled up. Even as her family blamed me although I was nowhere near the scene. Her invasiveness continued hanging over me as her consciousness remained incarcerated indefinitely. The house felt empty. Not because I missed her. If anything, I felt somewhat guilty for not missing her. No, it felt empty because her absence alone hadn’t rendered me truly free.
I hit the road one morning. It was late April. Spring in full bloom. The world around me so green and lush. An endless sea through which the two-lane highway I traveled cut with surgical precision. Fresh blacktop and vivid yellow paint led me somewhere I’d never been before. I pressed on. My curiosity getting the best of me. Putting more and more distance between me and Willow. Between me and everything weighing me down. Everything holding me back. I had no idea what awaited me. But it didn’t matter. Whatever it was had to be better than what I was leaving behind.
But no such luck as I found myself scrunched up on the sofa yet again. The early morning light and singing birds announced a new day. I peeked in the bedroom. Willow was still here. And while she’d arguably been in a self-styled vegetative state for many months now, she would inevitably rise for that first menthol of the day. God how I dreaded that moment. What I’d just experienced wasn’t a dream. It was an intervention staged by my subconscious. I received the message loud and clear.
As my first year of college ended, so did my current living arrangements. I found a new place to live and informed Willow that she would not be joining me. She put up no fight to my surprise. I suppose she wanted out too. But as with everything else it was up to me to get it done. I packed up Willow and her things. Dropping them off at her mom’s place before returning to get my things. It hit me as I settled into my new home. I may have been alone, but I wasn’t lonely anymore.
I was home, but I wasn’t home free. My professional struggles continued. Making for a particularly cruel summer. Beating my head against the wall. Trying everything to rejuvenate my business. Taking a shot at various independent contractor side gigs only to quickly discover how shifty these operations were. In between I made time to complete my film. Fabricating every bit of audio from scratch. Meticulously inserting it into the footage. When Rochon enters the library it’s my footsteps you hear. And when my sister snaps her fingers… Well, you get the idea.
Before long a new school year was mercifully upon me. As was the completion of my film. Everyone involved loved its dreamy atmosphere, antagonistic humor, and synthwavy score. I endured and continued to endure so much. But this film was a triumph to which I could proudly point and say, “I made that.”
It’s not much in the grand scheme of things. But it was everything to me at the time.
A Criticism of Criticism
I wrote the preceding essay hot on the heels of completing Naked Ambition: A Male Stripper’s True Account of Making Girls Behave Badly. If the candy asses comprising the Ouills & Pixels editorial staff were triggered by my (justified) criticisms of Willow in this innocuous story, they would be well-advised to steer clear of my memoir and its brutal assessments of some truly nasty women. Let’s be honest… If the genders were flipped and I were a chick tearing apart my loser boyfriend my “peers” would’ve rewarded me with “You go, girl!” platitudes. The offense taken to the Willow subplot only lends credence to my argument about boys not being taught to hold girls to an equally high standard as girls are taught to hold boys. In contrast, my self-criticism regarding this piece upon its completion and now is that it’s too reserved. Failing to meet the gold standard of profane rawness I set for myself with my memoir. The profane rawness from which the artistic merit of my writing is derived. To quote Tony Montana, “You’re all a bunch of fucking assholes. You know why? You don’t have the guts to be who you want to be.”
These people are not my peers. If they are confused by a two paragraph dream sequence that couldn’t be any more idiot proof, then their collective intellect is nowhere near mine. And if they take offense to someone frankly reliving the experiences of a failed relationship, then they are not champions of self-expression. There is nothing “second story” about the Willow anecdotes. They blatantly serve to demonstrate how much weight was on my shoulders as I persevered and directed my first film under unenviable circumstances all around me. I’m long aware that insecure people choose to view my confidence as arrogance to serve a personal bias. If I truly come across as arrogant at times then so be it. I’m not afraid to let the world see that I’m not perfect by any means, and nothing embodies self-confidence more than that quality. I seek to challenge and excite readers. Not coddle them. My objective to make an honest statement in the boldest manner possible supersedes any desire to make people like me despite how much I’d prefer to get along with everyone. That complexity is what makes me an effective writer and dangerous to the rhetorical status quo. It’s what makes for “excellent and captivating” storytelling. For them, writing is a clique. An exercise in preaching to the choir as they confuse proofreading skills and grammatical nazism for storytelling prowess. To quote Jim Morrison, “You’re all a bunch of fucking idiots.”
The UALR writing and rhetoric department is the same organization that made me an award-winning essayist for my mixed media piece “Something About Benton, Arkansas” in 2018. While that essay was a personal triumph of self-expression at the time, it pales in comparison to what came after. Beginning with the college essay “Emily Stripped Bare” that led to the writing and publication of my memoir. I couldn’t have achieved any of this if not for all that I learned from the upper level writing classes I took at UALR. For each of which I earned an A, incidentally. So much was made about letting go and saying everything we felt compelled to say, and they taught us how to make that happen. Yet I committed the ultimate sin of taking all of this to heart and having the nerve to act upon it in real world scenarios. To quote The Clash, “You have the right to free speech as long as you’re not dumb enough to actually try it.”
On the bright side, I’m clearly on the right track if the status quo hates what I’m doing. Communities based around creative mediums have long bred mediocrity and mass conformity. Just look at any local music scene. The world of writing is no exception. My excellent and captivating storytelling skills would mean nothing if I didn’t have provocative stories to tell. And didn’t refuse to pull punches. It’s a good thing I’m disillusioned with the writing community at large. Because it means my writing will never suck. That I will always strive to improve my game with nary a concern for the fragility of people with nothing to say. My path forward is obvious: Keep doing what I’m doing.