Pen to Paper

I had hopes for Echelon Conspiracy. I like a good thriller, and like most of the lead actors. There seemed to be a lack of promotion, though, which made me worried I would be disappointed.

For the first 45 minutes or so, I was hopeful. I was thinking “the direction and camera work is distracting, but the script is decent and the acting is actually pretty good.” Moving into Act II, though, the script takes a nosedive. The dialogue takes a turn for the worse, and many scenes feel haphazard and forced.  For example, at one point two characters hand off their only copy of very important information and essentially say, “We don’t necessarily trust you, but we’re going to leave for 3 hours so don’t betray us.” Why do they do this? So they can go to a different location and have a cliched conversation about one of their backstories.

The movie keeps forcing its way forward to what it hope will be a thrilling climax. I think they hoped it would be described as a mix of the ends of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid with War Games. However, since Echelon Conspiracy take a standard Hollywood approach towards human life (actors from the opening credits will not die, everyone else probably will), there’s not really any tension left by this point. I was actually hoping the main characters would fail and the not-so-good guys win, just because that’d be more interesting then a standard morality tale. There’s no real bad guys in the movie, though – the most evil anyone gets boils down to “we weren’t going to do this, but it’s happening anyway so why don’t we just roll with it?”

There’s also an epilogue that’s pretty pointless, and tries to make the case that Russian military intelligence are the world’s only competent and moral spy agency. Really? I mean, c’mon guys, really? The CIA, FBI, and NSA aren’t exactly angels, but have you heard of gulags? From what I’ve seen in news and believable fiction, there’s no such thing as a fully competent and moral spy agency – they’re all a mix of good and bad, success and failure.

That’s only one point that Echelon Conspiracy departs from reality. The movie would have us believe that Echelon is a single computer program that just recently came into existence. If you’ve been paying attention to spy thrillers, though, you’ll remember Enemy of the State describes 80 acres of underground computers that existed back in the 80s. Tom Clancy mentioned a similar program in the 80s and early 90s. While these are fictional references, they’re the best I have to work with (and they’re far more credible that this most recent version of Project Echelon).

There’s also the small matter of a Russian intelligence agent hacking into the NSA’s most secure servers from a cheap apartment that the movie tries to gloss over. I would be okay with this if the agent was played by Matthew Broderick and he just thought he was playing tic-tac-toe on the Internet, but this is supposed to be believable. A little effort would go a long way here, guys.

So if you want to watch a good spy thriller, instead of going to see Echelon Conspiracy go rent a Jack Ryan movie. Or the first Mission: Impossible (or the third). Or Enemy of the State. You’ll be happy you did.

I read a blog post by Richard Smith of Simply Syndicated yesterday in which he discussed some of the things holding podcasting back from becoming mainstream (original post available here). On first reading I agreed with most of what he said, and after a short Twitter conversation with Smith I found the only bit I had questions about was due to my own misunderstanding.

One of the problems Smith identifies is “normal people who fancy a go at it.” At first I was afraid this meant “someone who’s just starting out,” but this turned out to be incorrect – instead, I now think he means people who produce rubbish shows and just don’t care – the podcasting equivalent of putting your home videos on television.

My first reaction got me thinking, though. I can’t emphasize enough that this wasn’t what Richard Smith was saying, but what I thought he meant is something I’ve seen or heard explicitly in a few different places and contexts. The gist of the complaint is, “our medium would have mainstream respect if it weren’t for all these amateurs glutting the market and keeping the public from finding the good stuff.”

I’ve heard this applied to webcomics, books, web series, art, music, even community theatre. What’s funny is that it’s usually coming from someone who thinks he/she would be more successful if the “amateurs” weren’t getting all the attention.  To that person, I’d point out that people like what they like. Your competition isn’t preventing potential audiences from reaching you, which means you’re the only obstacle to your own success.

The flipside of the coin is that there’s only one way to gain experience, and that by necessity requires starting from inexperience. When a writer, musician, artist, or anyone else is just starting out the quality will be less than after they have a few years of experience. The key is using your experience, combined with role models, mentors, and other learning experiences to develop and grow in your art.

Have you ever heard a successful writer talk about his first book few books? I mean an author who’s been writing for 20, 30, 40, or more years. Most of the time, these experienced authors will say it’s painful reading their first book, even if it is a fan-favorite. This is because they’ve been growing as a writer continually for decades, and now they see their own early works as “amateur.”

What’s the takeaway from that? Don’t worry about making your first work perfect. It won’t be. Just do something now, make it as good as you can, and put it out there. Then get feedback, find ways to improve, learn from the experience, and do it again – but better. Before long, your quality will be up to a respectable level.

And maybe 40 years down the road you’ll be able to look back and say, “that wasn’t my best, but I’m glad I did it.”

Specialization is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, specializing in an obscure but necessary field is a pretty sure-fire way to get a big salary. Look at successful programmers, doctors, or scientists. It seems like most “leaders in their field” reached that point by doing one thing and doing it well.

On the other hand, this sort of specialization comes with a relative loss. Unlike the scientists in prime-time television, in real life most top level scientists are single-subject experts. The expert aerospace physicist doesn’t design his own rocket fuel, the chemistry expert does. An archeologist specializing in Judeo-Christian religious iconography doesn’t translate lost Mayan tablets (sorry, Indy).

At the top level, this isn’t that big of a deal. After all, the physicist doesn’t need to design rocket fuel when he can hire a rocket fuel expert to do it better. Itzhak Perlman doesn’t play every instrument at once, he plays his violin while Yo-Yo Ma plays his cello, and the result is magnificent. But this way of thinking has permeated society to such a degree that we let it keep us from activities we are perfectly capable of doing.

How many times have you heard (or said) something like this: “I don’t play basketball, I’m a runner.” “I don’t sing, Pam’s the musician of the family.” “I’m a writer, not an artist.” Even “She cooks, and I do the dishes,” is a symptom of low-level specialization. And before you think I’m trying to imply I’m above all this, those examples (or something very close) are all things I’ve said myself.

When we’re children, we don’t think this way. It’s perfectly reasonable for a child to plan on being a basketball playing-doctor-soldier-policeman who fights aliens and explores ancient temples. And, while it may not be reasonable for an adult to think they can be paid to do all that, I do think we can diversify more than we normally do.

Last night, I spent a while drawing. Were the results greatness, bound for gallery walls? Nope. Was it as good as something my old roommate, an art teacher, could dash out in 15 minutes? Not even close. But was I happy with the results? Given my expectations for myself, I’d go so far as to say I was surprised by how good it was.

I was even more surprised by how much fun I had in the process. For so long I’ve fallen into the trap of thinking, “I’m a writer, not an artist. I don’t even want to be an artist. Leave that to the artsy-types.”  When I stopped comparing myself to artists who’ve been drawing for most of their lives and are professionals, I was able to enjoy making my own scratchings – and I’m planning on coming back to the drawing pad again.

I’d encourage you to try something new this week. Maybe that means making something in the kitchen, or picking up a guitar or harmonica, or sitting down at a piano, or doodling on the back of a grocery list, or taking a few pictures. Whatever you do, don’t compare the results to someone years of experience, or a freakish amount of God-given talent. That’ll just discourage you. Instead, judge the results by a much more subjective standard: “Did I have fun?”

If the answer’s yes, maybe you’ll decide to de-specialize, just a little.

I’m a fan of the TV show Lost. Not a fanboy (I’ve been avoiding all the meta-content that the producers put on the Internet), but I make an effort to watch each new episode as soon as possible. Whenever this comes up in conversation, though, I almost feel like I have to apologize for it. “I know it’s silly,” I’ll say, “but I really like Lost. You either hate it or you’re hooked, and I’m hooked.” While I was watching this week’s episode, though, I started thinking about the sort of show Lost is; why some people can’t stop watching and other’s can’t stand it.

Here’s what I realized: Lost’s hook is its characters. They’re interesting, conflicting (internally and with each other), and the structure of the show means that we’re constantly learning more about the characters as the story unfolds.  Also, because each and every character has their own personal goals, there are no permanent allegiances – at every conflict, battle lines are re-drawn and the characters are directly conflicting with each other – the characters drive the drama. Compare this to an action or war movie, where everyone’s objectives are defined by their uniform, and “the winner” is determined by strength and skill. In Lost’s character-driven conflict, there are no “winners.” The characters just slide back and forth along a continuum, with their personal goals at one end and death at the other.

On the other hand, and it’s hard for me to say this, the plot on Lost is pretty terrible.  This is why it’s best to ignore the plot entirely and just pay attention to the characters.

If you do pay attention to the plot, you’ll have one of two reactions. The most common is to start asking questions – what’s the smoke monster (how does it work, where’d it come from, what does it want)? What makes [spoilery detail about The Island] work the way it does? What’s the deal with the four-toed foot statue? And why does Richard wear so much eye makeup? At this point, you’ll either become obsessed and tune in every week hoping your questions will be answered, or you’ll throw up your hands and say it’s all rubbish.

The other way to react to the plot also involves throwing up your hands, but this time you’re crying “A ha! It’s all ‘deus ex machina’!” If you’re feeling particularly smug about this realization (like I was), you’ll make a snarky comment about the smoke monster being a visual representation of deus ex machina. You might even point to the movie Adaptation where the character Robert McKee says “don’t cheat, and don’t you dare bring in a deus ex machina.”

After a minute or two, though, your smugness will begin to break down and you’ll ask yourself, “but then why is Lost still so compelling? And didn’t Adaptation end with a deus ex machina?”

I realized something at this point. Maybe using a deus ex machina is only bad (or worse, at any rate) in plot driven stories. For example, if John McClane only saves the day because Hans Gruber suffers an unexpected heart attack, the audience feels like it’s been robbed. There’s no story if Commodus chokes on a grape instead of being killed by Maximus.

In character driven stories, though, the deus ex machina can serve a different purpose. It doesn’t resolve the plot and save the day; instead, it changes the characters’ circumstances, altering the situation and the conflict so that the audience can see another aspect of the characters. It nudges the character along their story arc.

I don’t want to encourage animal cruelty (I’m rather against it) but in terms of conflict, the deus ex machina is like putting two roosters into the ring for a cockfight. You can show the audience the lives of both roosters from shell to farm, up until the point that they just happened to find themselves in conflict over a hen, or you can just skip to the interesting part – the conflict itself. Not that cockfighting is interesting, it’s just a visual representation of character conflict (which is interesting).

Seriously, don’t make animals fight each other for your own amusement. Not cool.

So does Lost use deus ex machina as a shortcut? As a way to skip the hard work of “good storytelling”? That’s probably one way you could look at it.  Or you could look at it the other way – in the hands of a good storyteller, deus ex machina is a shortcut for the audience. It’s a way of skipping the tedious parts of the backstory you don’t really care about, and getting to watch the characters interact with each other and fight to reach their goals.

You don’t have to like Lost. You don’t even have to watch it if you don’t want to. But I’m not going to apologize for liking it anymore.

 I came across a couple links to a lecture by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, at this year’s TED talks.  You can watch it here (and I recommend you do).

Her main point is that it’s unfair and stressful, even depressing, to label someone as a “creative genius.” She explains how in the past, the genius was regarded as something separate from the artist, and the benefits to this point of view. I think that her message is important, but I’m more encouraged by the implications of one of her illustrations.

Gilbert describes sitting down to write and essentially having a meeting with her creative genius. Her point is that sometimes the genius doesn’t show up for the meeting; I think a corollary to this is that the successful artists are those who show up every time that the genius does. Of course, to guarantee this, you’ll have to show up all the times that the genius does not, too. In fact, it’s probably best to show up every day for a wide window of time, in case your genius is running late or misreads his calendar.

You’d probably refer to this habit as “self-discipline.” It’s a quality I tend to struggle with.  I’m getting better at it, though. It helps to have people who are successful at harnessing their creative genius (like Elizabeth Gilbert, Stephen King, the How To Make Webcomics team, and others) pounding that point into my head over and over.

For today, though, it’s encouraging just to hear that I don’t have to be a genius. It’s enough to tap into one.