The Corrie Writer's Thread

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The Guy in the Trenchcoat
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The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by The Guy in the Trenchcoat » Sun Feb 22, 2015 10:59 pm

Seems like this board could use one of these threads. So... why aren't you writing?
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rad
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by rad » Sun Feb 22, 2015 11:07 pm

The Guy in the Trenchcoat wrote: So... why aren't you writing?
clinical depression and the grind of being a wage slave
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The Guy in the Trenchcoat
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by The Guy in the Trenchcoat » Mon Feb 23, 2015 2:12 am

Writing helps my depression. But when I'm super depressed, I don't want to write. It's a weird catch 22.
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undinum
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by undinum » Tue Feb 24, 2015 4:30 pm

if anyone knows how to combat the writing&reading&everything-inhibiting fog of anti-psychotics i'd uhhhh be much obliged
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MadMan
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by MadMan » Tue Feb 24, 2015 7:34 pm

These days I spend more time watching movies and therefore I don't have time to write about most of them.
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Fabian Thomsett
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by Fabian Thomsett » Tue Feb 24, 2015 10:14 pm

Writing makes you gay.
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by MadMan » Wed Feb 25, 2015 5:42 am

Nah. Being gay makes you gay.
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snapper
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by snapper » Wed Feb 25, 2015 6:57 am

i'm writing. sorta. adapting that blog as an epistolary autobiography, have some structure planned for my next entry but meaning to find time to write it. and this used to be a chapter-a-day project
Latest notable first-time viewings:

* The Sun in a Net / Uher
** The Seashell and the Clergyman / Dulac
The Tales of Beatrix Potter / Mills
* A Flood in Ba'ath Country / Amiralay
Times and Winds / Erdem
Most Beautiful Island / Asensio
* Japanese Girls Never Die / Matsui
* Birth Certificate / Różewicz
Bush Mama / Gerima
** Paris Is Burning / Livingston


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snapper
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by snapper » Thu Feb 26, 2015 8:36 am

here's my favourite bit of writing I've done recently:
XXII - Codename: La Toya

Your Name: ***** ********

You Were From: New Zealand

Your Penis Was: Average / Circumcised

You Were: 27 years old

I Was: 18 years old

The Year Was: 2010

Did We Date: No

Tier: Tier 1

Songs That Remind Me Of You: 'Sandcastle Disco', 'T.O.N.Y.' and 'I Decided', Solange Knowles, 'Might Like You Better', Amanda Blank, 'Sunrise', Milk Inc., 'Tarzan Boy', Baltimora, 'Sexual Feeling', La Toya Jackson, 'Couleurs', M83

Movies We Watched Together: Precious

Things That Remind Me Of You: Gay culture, gossip blogs, drag queens, ‘the scene’, pool parties, messy bedrooms, gay pride events, gay bars, insulin
You are the problem.

I met you online. Your profile read “Looking for: Someone who prefers Solange to Beyoncé”. I studied up. That was my opener. Later you’d call me out on it - “that was before I knew you were a fake fan who only liked two of her songs.” You got me. I’ve always preferred Beyoncé.

You invited me to spend the weekend with you. You were part of the team responsible for organising the annual gay pride festival in your city, the city I live in now. As far as I know you don’t live here anymore.

Sex was inevitable - I was staying with you, after all; it was my room and board. But I liked you, for a little while at least. I trickled through the cracks in the crowd like water seeking a place to pool, seeing people I recognised from dating websites, running into Carpenter, who I barely knew then yet who insisted on giving me a bear hug in front of his boyfriend. There was a singing competition happening on stage - one kid, J, took top honours for his exaggerated vibrato on The Phantom of the Opera. He got his prize, I can’t remember what, but the other contestants never stood a chance. They weren’t told about the other criteria for success in this competition, for acceptance in this milieu - youth, slimness, smoothness of skin, whiteness. J was a quadruple-threat.

You looked a lot older than 27. Eyes narrowed in a permanent wary squint, thinning blonde hair, wide lips, a stretched-out, toneless body. But you were the fulcrum around which this world spun, your attention was humbling; it made me hard.

You ran a gossip blog with your friend and partner in crime, A. You fancied yourselves Antipodean Perez Hiltons, applying his flip humour and cruelty not to celebrities but to private citizens, denizens of the amyl-soaked gay bar at which you were the permanently scowling DJ. That’s why you squinted - you were watching, waiting to seize upon weakness, upon deviation from the homosexual decorum whose etiquette you reinforced with relish while at the same time openly disdaining. You and A did a weekly radio show on the same topics - the sluts and the skanks at the club, the Bad Romance video, AIDS awareness. That weekend, I sat in on one of your sessions, perched meekly on a chair behind you, trying not to breathe too loud in case one of the mics picked it up. You’d welcomed a guest, S, some kind of local celebrity up north, to the show. A Donatella-bronzed, bottle blonde stick figure with the slouch of a vulture.

"Hi!"

He stared at me, smirking, dismissing me from court with a brief flutter of his eyelashes.

That weekend was like a debutante ball. I was Eliza, you were Henry. I was eager to be your perfect twink, to rise the ranks in this feudalism, to flatter myself with the amount of Facebook friends I could glean from four hours of campari and meaningless conversation. You introduced me to the most prominent drag queens of the city, none of them altogether too good at their vocation, promoting their moonlighting comedy shows in between the usual rabble of misogynistic RuPaul hand-me-downs. A drove us in a car with his teenage Asian boyfriend - “the only one I’ve ever seen him be exclusive with” you whispered - past a gallery of friends’ houses, pit stops, networking loci on the way to the pool party at which your presence was expected. This was for the gay gentry of the city, a horde of late-20s and early-30s with hairstyles five years’ past their expiration date, teens hanging off their arm, snarling at each other like purse chihuahuas passing in the street. But the stars were in my eyes; I wasn’t judging quite yet. You and I stuck to one side of the pool and talked, my erection pressing its polyester against your back.

You told me about your work - Customs. Your name - you’d adopted a pseudonym based on the surname of one of the Spice Girls. Your political activism - Labour, although you seemed like far too much of a nihilist to bother sign-waving. Your education - you spoke Māori, and it was clear that you felt this was your shortcut to being a better person. Your obsessions - reality TV, ‘pop trash’, La Toya Jackson. Your blog - an important service to the city’s community. Your past - you’d gone to primary school with Anna Paquin circa-The Piano, and had once thrown a ball at her face and made her cry. Your connections - you had been friendly with (and A had once lived with) the guy whose years-long odyssey of deliberate HIV infections had splashed him across the news, indicted him and left him to commit suicide alone in a jail cell. You looked across the Olympic blue at the crowd, and judged. Minutes earlier you’d been laughing with them.

"Yeah, she never shaves her legs, it’s tragic."

"Apparently he used to go to the local bathhouse and lie on the floor of the showers begging for people to pee on him."

"He keeps saying that his teeth fell out because of some kind of illness but I’ve seen what he eats, he’s obsessed with candy, his diet is terrible."

"Yeah, we’re good friends. He’s nice but his dick is kind of chodey."

"I used to think he was really hot, but he’s not really anymore. Look, he’s got a new Asian."

(“Fresh rice!”)

"No, that rice is spoiled, honey."

I laughed at every one.

That night you laid me on the couch in your flat, kissing me with a ferocity that belied your phlegmatic cynicism. Our sex was nearly violent, or at least violent in the pornography tradition - I reached behind your neck with my foot while you rimmed me, hooking my toes around your nape so I could grind your face forcefully into my ass. I must have bit your tongue at one point: standing together at the bathroom mirror like survivors of the trenches we saw that I’d been painted in blood where you’d licked me. This was pure romance. The erotic charge I felt at the sight was visceral.

I went home. I knew everyone by now, at least everyone important. They’d become the ghosts in my Pac-Man parade through the city when I finally moved there - shades of who I could have become, what I could still turn into; dark sprites to be avoided lest their touch turn me to stone. None of them have changed, although I doubt they’d recognise me now.

The next weekend you were travelling up north for a work function. Customs, not your ‘community work’. I received a text message from you saying “I wish I’d picked you up on my way through”. My smile bloomed; I fed on your flattery. This was my photosynthesis.

A weekend or two after that I came to see you again. There were no events on this time; we hung about your place, eating KFC, watching videos of your drag performer friends, unpacking your shpiels about reality television, the Great Divas of music, the latest he-said-he-said scoop from your scene. This time I let you fuck me - your dick was stout, circumcised, at odds with your body. I felt the thrall of your face weaken, but I still got off on the recognition of my place by your throne. You ducked out of the room, once, to grab something. I lay, idly masturbating, on your bed, looking at the door upside-down, locking eyes with your embarrassed flatmate as he passed by. He’d make a Facebook status, you showed me: “La Toya, when you invite your boy toys into the flat please remember to close your door. Didn’t need to see that X-(“. It was meat for the piranhas. I later sent him a friend request, curious to see the reactions - I was dismayed that he never accepted.

You came back. I tried to penetrate you, but your hole was tight as a fist.

"Damn, I thought you said I could fuck you!"

"I was lying." That same dull-knife affect. It could pass as a joke, an insult, even a compliment in the right light.

We finished. I shot across my face onto the wall - “that was hot”, you said. You could have been complimenting my t-shirt - which I lost, forever it seems, in the quicksand of your bedroom floor. That night we went to a satellite suburb to watch Precious in the theatre owned by one of your friends. We cried at all the right times, laughed at all the wrong ones. “I’ve never seen you be so lovey-dovey before!” he’d tell you in front of me. Blood rushed to my ego.

Preparing to go out that night, I perfected my Twink in your bathroom mirror. Each curl was plastered to my head, chola-style. I rubbed toothpaste on my cheeks to bring out the rose. We went back to the club, where you let me sit in the DJ booth with you, monitoring the Matrix-style setup of programs and lights that you used to control the collective experience of this Homogeny - a microcosm of your wider role in gay life here. I put on some tracks of my own choosing - finding some success with Milk Inc., but eliciting groans and walk-offs when the rhythms slowed to catch up with the relative lethargy of Baltimora. These weren’t people, these were avatars in a two-player game of SimNightclub; moths flocking to the beat at the push of a button.

I saw Rice through the crowd. My brain caved. Talking was inevitable. My “how are you?” was answered with “I’m seeing someone”, as if I’d threatened him. You had no idea of the fugue I’d just entered. I told you I was going to go back to your place, and saw myself out. I spent a few hours awake, hugging your worn-out childhood teddy bear, impressing myself with the bathos of this image. The blinds were open; I was orange in the streetlight. I must have been dead by the time you got back.

The next day I went out on my own. I bought a dress shirt from the bargain bin at a clothing store. I cocooned myself in the sounds of M83, waiting on a reply to the text message I’d sent Rice, ostensibly angling for the return of the leather jacket I’d left at his place but really aching for his hand on my shoulder, his cock in my throat, his words in my ears. The shock of finding him alive, functional, fully corporeal distal to my own imagination of him had quaked me. He had no right to exist anymore, for him to do so was the biggest betrayal of all.

I went back to your flat to find you sitting on the couch, attended by a group of your friends. I collected my things. “I’m going.”

"Okay."

It was as if you didn’t know me, carnally or otherwise. I went to the train station to await my bus.

I’d come see you when I visited the city - not sexually or romantically, but as an excuse to swap barbs, to show off my slow development into someone whose wit might have some hope of cowing yours. I’d do this again when I moved down, calling on you unannounced if I was in the vicinity of your apartment. I had a beard one of these times - “you look like a hobo!” was your exclamation. You were always surrounded by friends, the same frowning faces. And you always had nothing but bile with which to paint them when we had a word alone.

In early 2011 I was sitting in a lecture theatre, trying to bend my understanding around Althusser’s theory of interpellation, when I got a text from you. It had been a while since we’d talked, and I was surprised.

"Are you going to the festival today?"

It must have been a year, almost to the day, since I’d met you. You were in that plaza again, corralling the drag queens and handing out leis, punctuating your hummingbird path through the day with the bloody full stop of a Novopen on your finger. “Nope” I said. I’d already begun to dislike you.

"You really don’t have a few minutes of your day to spend with your people?"

I didn’t know what you were talking about. I was around myself 24/7.

Now, I find it hard to engage with any sense of homosexual fellowship. The ‘community’ seems as imaginary to me as a God. And what should qualify me to be part of it, outside of the fact that I take cock in my ass? But I can respect its role as a mediator between hope and disillusionment, a green mile bridging trimesters of identity formation. This doesn’t mean I’m not political, or that I reject labelling - identifying with a group is the most convenient way to navigate a world divided by taxa. But, whatever ‘the scene’ is, aren’t you supposed to outgrow it?

A’s was a case of arrested development. His was the evil of banality, the short-circuit of a stereotype leading stereotypes. But you’d shown me photos of you from the early 2000s, their gloss seeming incongruously vintage only seven years on. You looked like a Westlife also-ran, singlets and chains and Timberlake’s noodle haircut bleached yellow. You had outgrown this. But you’d elected to stay, to shape and control. You were the engineer of a machine fuelled by social schadenfreude; your misanthropy kept you in the game. You were so skilled at tricking people into drinking the poison that you were even able to fool yourself into believing you were an activist.

Later that year N, a friend of one of my best friends from childhood, took part in a talent show at the gay bar around which your world turned, singing a number from a musical show. It was a disaster, apparently, and believably. I’d never have thought his speaking voice would rise well to song. You and A were adjudicating, and you wrote a detailed and mean-spirited putdown on your blog, calling him out by his first name, articulating his performance as a calamity of unfathomable proportions. E, my friend, saw this, and wrote a comment on the post, attacking its tone and accusing you of bullying. The faceless mass swirled around her at your command, mocking her anger, claiming that, as a woman, she knew nothing of gay culture and couldn’t comment on these things. But since when has cruelty been a cultural trope subject to moral relativity?

I gradually stopped contacting you, out of a mounting distrust. You got a boyfriend younger than I was, and you stayed with him for at least a year. Your friends testified that this kind of romance was unheard of for you. You and A eventually closed your blog, although the archive is still online. You must pay the domain fee monthly, as if this record is something to be proud of. I’d see you on the street a year or so later, while hanging out with Hurdy-Gurdy. You either didn’t recognise me, or didn’t want to. My “hi!” hung in the air before evaporating. I turned to Hurdy-Gurdy: “I don’t even know why I just said hi to him. I hate him.”

I haven’t seen you since 2012. I think you might have left the city. A month or so ago, on Scruff, I saw what might have been your face leant against a younger one. It wasn’t the same guy you’d been with in the latter stages of our acquaintance. “Travellers looking to play together” Of course you were open - if you couldn’t respect gay men en masse how could you be expected to respect one gay man on his own. I’m sure he was guilty of the same. Your love must be incredibly convenient.

In writing this entry I had a look through the backlogs of your website. I could feel my hearts deplete just looking at the banner. Some of the last articles you posted were criticisms of Flow - who I’d date a few years after meeting you and forever remain in some analogue of love with - and his behaviour as the designated Mr Gay of the city. Every observation you made - about his personality, his intelligence, his hopeless dreaming - was correct, but the assurance with which you said them still raised my hackles. I read some of the comments:

What has Flow done for the gay community? Apart from fulfil dreadful stereotypes about gays being camp theatre types? Ick.

@lol if you knew flow which obviously you don’t you’d know he’s butch as fuck … which is probably why he won because the fag stereotypes love the straight acting ones … except he’s not acting he’s just a dude … a very cool dude.

"sorry flow. u are cute despite ur receding hair line but you just can’t sing mate. u move really well but it just feels like you try to hard.. I felt the same thing watching you on stage. YOu have that actor thing which is always like – Love me love me – wanting the audience to like you and that is a real turn off."

HELL YEAH! Flow, he’s so HOT right now, and always talented!!!!!

He is fantastic in bed, no inhibitions, was a great few weeks ;p

I thought back to 2010, piercing a blister on my foot with a safety pin while peering over your shoulder, watching you moderate a reality TV forum. It struck me that this was the crux of the issue, for you but also for everyone you surrounded yourself with: all those manchildren pushing forty, showing up at the bar night after night, all the young ones conned into believing that ‘Born This Way’ was a sincere message of advocacy, all the Reginas and Chers, ten years removed from high school, thinking that either insulting or complimenting a private citizen’s sexual prowess on a public forum is a good idea. For them, life was a reality TV show, other gays were [rival] contestants. But you, most dangerous, most harmful of all, imagined yourself as the producer. I was just one of the characters in your cast. I elected to kill myself off.

Now, however, I’ve made you into a character in a story - so I’m probably just as bad.
Latest notable first-time viewings:

* The Sun in a Net / Uher
** The Seashell and the Clergyman / Dulac
The Tales of Beatrix Potter / Mills
* A Flood in Ba'ath Country / Amiralay
Times and Winds / Erdem
Most Beautiful Island / Asensio
* Japanese Girls Never Die / Matsui
* Birth Certificate / Różewicz
Bush Mama / Gerima
** Paris Is Burning / Livingston


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Samm@el
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by Samm@el » Fri Feb 27, 2015 4:42 am

I've written over 100 articles in the last year. My solution was simply finding an audience. If I get paid to do it some day, great, but I'm happy to just have my stuff read.
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The Last Baron
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by The Last Baron » Fri Feb 27, 2015 5:02 am

Can't think of anything to write about.
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snapper
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by snapper » Fri Feb 27, 2015 9:36 am

write about your sex life
Latest notable first-time viewings:

* The Sun in a Net / Uher
** The Seashell and the Clergyman / Dulac
The Tales of Beatrix Potter / Mills
* A Flood in Ba'ath Country / Amiralay
Times and Winds / Erdem
Most Beautiful Island / Asensio
* Japanese Girls Never Die / Matsui
* Birth Certificate / Różewicz
Bush Mama / Gerima
** Paris Is Burning / Livingston


TWEET1 | TWEET2 | FACE | BOXD | TUMBL1 | TUMBL2
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The Last Baron
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by The Last Baron » Fri Feb 27, 2015 5:16 pm

Ha, you flatter me
The Director's Cut + Light & Sound Are Ample Food
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Philosophe rouge
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by Philosophe rouge » Fri Feb 27, 2015 5:31 pm

i like snapper's writing
Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality - it's all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. What I'm attending here is a show with another set. And the show I'm attending is myself. Fernando Pessoa

Live. Laugh. Love. - Freddy Krueger
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The Guy in the Trenchcoat
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by The Guy in the Trenchcoat » Fri Feb 27, 2015 11:05 pm

It'll be a long proof reading/rewriting session tonight. Only thing left to decide is New York Style pizza or deep dish. I oddly really like all nighters. Also, pizza.
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Beau
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by Beau » Fri Feb 27, 2015 11:37 pm

I try to write what and when I can, but sometimes I do get tired of looking at Word documents, since I correct other people's (often shitty) writing for a living.
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snapper
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by snapper » Sat Feb 28, 2015 5:27 am

thanks rouge x
Latest notable first-time viewings:

* The Sun in a Net / Uher
** The Seashell and the Clergyman / Dulac
The Tales of Beatrix Potter / Mills
* A Flood in Ba'ath Country / Amiralay
Times and Winds / Erdem
Most Beautiful Island / Asensio
* Japanese Girls Never Die / Matsui
* Birth Certificate / Różewicz
Bush Mama / Gerima
** Paris Is Burning / Livingston


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wigwam
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by wigwam » Tue Mar 10, 2015 11:44 pm

wrote 20 pages last night, it felt gooooood
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Captain Oats
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by Captain Oats » Tue Mar 10, 2015 11:46 pm

I write some things sometimes.
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snapper
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by snapper » Wed Mar 11, 2015 8:39 am

wigwam wrote:wrote 20 pages last night, it felt gooooood
of letters to the editor or
Latest notable first-time viewings:

* The Sun in a Net / Uher
** The Seashell and the Clergyman / Dulac
The Tales of Beatrix Potter / Mills
* A Flood in Ba'ath Country / Amiralay
Times and Winds / Erdem
Most Beautiful Island / Asensio
* Japanese Girls Never Die / Matsui
* Birth Certificate / Różewicz
Bush Mama / Gerima
** Paris Is Burning / Livingston


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wigwam
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by wigwam » Thu Mar 12, 2015 12:47 am

:lol: screenplay

edit got 72 pages altogether now
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wigwam
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by wigwam » Sat May 30, 2015 8:04 pm

104 pages w/ 13 scenes left to draft (30-40 more pages?), might get it done tomorrow!

how's everyone else doing? I'm happy to read and give notes if you need someone
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snapper
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by snapper » Sat May 30, 2015 8:42 pm

I'm submitting to some online pubs
Latest notable first-time viewings:

* The Sun in a Net / Uher
** The Seashell and the Clergyman / Dulac
The Tales of Beatrix Potter / Mills
* A Flood in Ba'ath Country / Amiralay
Times and Winds / Erdem
Most Beautiful Island / Asensio
* Japanese Girls Never Die / Matsui
* Birth Certificate / Różewicz
Bush Mama / Gerima
** Paris Is Burning / Livingston


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wigwam
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by wigwam » Sat May 30, 2015 9:08 pm

cool! the a mes amours? those are great
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snapper
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Location: NZ

Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by snapper » Sun May 31, 2015 7:39 am

thanksss

have submitted to vice have no idea what im doing but idk
Latest notable first-time viewings:

* The Sun in a Net / Uher
** The Seashell and the Clergyman / Dulac
The Tales of Beatrix Potter / Mills
* A Flood in Ba'ath Country / Amiralay
Times and Winds / Erdem
Most Beautiful Island / Asensio
* Japanese Girls Never Die / Matsui
* Birth Certificate / Różewicz
Bush Mama / Gerima
** Paris Is Burning / Livingston


TWEET1 | TWEET2 | FACE | BOXD | TUMBL1 | TUMBL2
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wigwam
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by wigwam » Mon Jun 01, 2015 5:24 am

wigwam wrote:104 pages w/ 13 scenes left to draft (30-40 more pages?), might get it done tomorrow!
done! 140 pages, dunno how good it is but it feels great to complete something again, been awhile
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wigwam
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by wigwam » Sat Jul 04, 2015 4:35 pm

12 pages into a new one (from an old-as-fuck story I finally outlined)

(the last thing I had an outline for which I deleted the post abt just turned out to be a 25-page short :( )
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allinator
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by allinator » Sun Jul 05, 2015 1:26 am

I'm working on different script ideas for this nice international actress I met before she leaves the country in mid-August. Hope to do a short film or two with her.
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The Guy in the Trenchcoat
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by The Guy in the Trenchcoat » Sat Jul 18, 2015 7:14 am

FADE IN:
INT. MOVIE THEATER -- NIGHT
A dimly lit art house movie theater. Portraits of what appear to be movie stars line the walls but we can't recognize any of them. A sparsely populated audience is hidden in shadows. A small podium is situated in front of the screen.
RODRIGO WEINSTEIN, a chubby man with a large futuristic metal contraption over his right eye, slowly strolls over to the podium.
RODRIGO WEINSTEIN
Good evening everybody. In the year 15258 AD, only four years after the Sexual Big Bang, director Felipe Purple, in partnership with the Para Corporation, set out to make a movie. Felipe, who can be seen here, at young age, being different...
Rodrigo waves his hand. The screen lights up with a slide depicting a meek looking twelve year old child doodling on the back of a tablet labeled "Math Tablet."
RODRIGO WEINSTEIN
...and can also be seen here being persecuted for being different.
Rodrigo waves his hand and the slide changes to the same meek twelve year old being chased by bigger, scarier children tossing their math tablets at him.
RODRIGO WEINSTEIN
Felipe's movie would be different. Full of grand ideas and characters with emotions. Yelling emotions. It would be about race and politics and cis privilege. But most of all it would be a period piece. The period: The Twentieth Century. Enjoy.
Rodrigo waves his hand.
The screen goes black and Rodrigo walks off the stage.
Rodrigo quickly scurries back to the podium.
RODRIGO WEINSTEIN
Please stay after for the Q&A.
INT. ROCKO'S BEDROOM -- DAY
A messy bedroom with identical red ties, identical grey suit jackets and identical grey pants covering every piece of furniture.
ROCKO SANQUINE, a gruff man in his 40s, is fast asleep in his bed.
The alarms goes off. Rocko's hand shoots out, grabs the alarm clock and tosses it through the closed window.
EXT. APARTMENT COURTYARD -- DAY
A small courtyard surrounded by several large decaying apartment buildings.
Rocko's alarm clock flies out of Rocko's window and lands on a pile of garbage, consisting mostly of alarm clocks.
Two filthy looking garbage men douse the pile with gasoline.
EXT. SUBURBAN SIDEWALK - DAY
STEPHANIE and DAVID, an attractive young couple dressed in 1950s era attire, stroll down a quiet suburban sidewalk gazing into each other's eyes.
DAVID
Oh, Stephanie.
STEPHANIE
Oh, David.
A 1980S PUNK, clad in a leather jacket with a bright green mohawk, jumps out of a bush.
1980S PUNK
YEAH! DRUGS!
The punk plunges a needle into David's neck.
INT. KINDERGARTEN CLASSROOM -- DAY
A white KINDERGARTNER reads from his essay in front of a blackboard while a smiling white KINDERGARTEN TEACHER watches over his shoulder.
KINDERGARTNER
I think slavery was a good idea. I think we should do that more. Slavery is great.
KINDERGARTEN TEACHER
Well, I think we can all appreciate that this is certainly an entirely valid opinion.
REVEAL the rest of the class consists entirely of African American children.
EXT. ROCKO'S APARTMENT BUILDING -- DAY
Rocko's apartment is on an impossible Los Angeles street that never existed. Large decaying apartment buildings and Grauman's Chinese Theater on one side, quiet suburbia with a freeway running overhead on the other side and the Hollywood sign visible far in the distance.
Rocko, dressed in a grey suit with a red tie, with dual pistol holsters, a shotgun in his right hand and a glass of scotch in his left, steps out onto his stoop and surveys the street.
The kindergartner, dressed in a ku klax klan outfit, marches down the street with a torch.
The garbage men pull flame throwers out of their truck.
And a heroin addled David runs in circles, dressed in only his underwear.
Rocko breathes it all in.
ROCKO SANQUINE
I love this fucking city.
Rocko pins a police badge to the front of his suit.
A DOCTOR dressed in full medical scrubs -- holding dual AK-47s with a cigar in his mouth, passes by.
ROCKO
Morning.
DOCTOR
Morning.
Here is like 3 pages of something I'm working on.
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undinum
Posts: 258
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by undinum » Thu Jul 28, 2016 6:39 pm

So I submitted a porn story (my first ever) to my favourite e-writer of erotica, who said it was top-notch in both technical execution and emotional content, and she posted it to her blog, where the responses have been extremely enthusiastic.

Is there anyone who can shed some light on the current online erotica market and how I might go about exploiting it?
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topherH
Posts: 602
Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:05 pm

Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by topherH » Fri Jul 29, 2016 2:44 am

I can never figure out an ending so, you know....
State of Siege |Gavras, 1972| +
Deadpool |Miller, 2016| +
Z |Gavras, 1969| -
The Confession |Gavras, 1970| +
Missing |Gavras, 1982| +
The Revenant |Inarritu, 2015| +
The Hateful Eight |Tarantino, 2015| +

+ Recommended
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The Last Baron
Posts: 23212
Joined: Wed Feb 24, 2010 6:29 am
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Re: The Corrie Writer's Thread

Post by The Last Baron » Fri Jul 29, 2016 11:29 am

undinum wrote:So I submitted a porn story (my first ever) to my favourite e-writer of erotica, who said it was top-notch in both technical execution and emotional content, and she posted it to her blog, where the responses have been extremely enthusiastic.

Is there anyone who can shed some light on the current online erotica market and how I might go about exploiting it?
Nice, do you have a link? :shifty:
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