The one with creative anxiety and Silence of the Lambs
laureeve.substack.com
MUSING In the last two weeks I deleted my instagram account, spent a week generating four feature film script ideas from my brain ferment across a panoply of genres I’ve never set foot in before (domestic-thriller, crime-thriller, assassin-action, romance-heist), lived in a near perpetual state of excited creative anxiety from urging myself to come up with a commercial masterpiece during the strict time I had allocated to do so, limited myself to only two days on shoots as a background actor and spent 12 hours at a time sitting or standing near very famous people, wrote myself notes on Career Strategies And Goals, tried to come up with Practical Actions I Can Implement Today, read a Neo-Jungian psychology book on how we’re all completely fucked up through no fault of our own but nevertheless owe it to both ourselves and every single person around us to work constantly, probably for years, maybe for the rest of our lives, on the near-impossible task of how to not be fucked up, because until we do we’re causing harm to both ourselves and every single person around us, co-threw a house party at which everybody seemed to have fun and I sort of did but also just felt tired all the time, which I think is what hosting mostly entails, watched Rashomon, two Hitchcocks, Uncut Gems, rewatched Sneakers because there’s never been a more enjoyably comforting heist movie ever made (I just want someone to let me rewrite Sneakers - my version of lazy comfort fun work) and rewatched Memento to confirm my suspicion that it’s still the best movie Christopher Nolan ever made, planted herbs, hung out with friends, deep cleaned bits of my house, had a couple of work meetings, researched and booked a three day camping trip, researched and bought birthday and cheer up gifts, washed up a lot of dishes, ran many errands, and talked to family members on long video calls.
The one with creative anxiety and Silence of the Lambs
The one with creative anxiety and Silence of…
The one with creative anxiety and Silence of the Lambs
MUSING In the last two weeks I deleted my instagram account, spent a week generating four feature film script ideas from my brain ferment across a panoply of genres I’ve never set foot in before (domestic-thriller, crime-thriller, assassin-action, romance-heist), lived in a near perpetual state of excited creative anxiety from urging myself to come up with a commercial masterpiece during the strict time I had allocated to do so, limited myself to only two days on shoots as a background actor and spent 12 hours at a time sitting or standing near very famous people, wrote myself notes on Career Strategies And Goals, tried to come up with Practical Actions I Can Implement Today, read a Neo-Jungian psychology book on how we’re all completely fucked up through no fault of our own but nevertheless owe it to both ourselves and every single person around us to work constantly, probably for years, maybe for the rest of our lives, on the near-impossible task of how to not be fucked up, because until we do we’re causing harm to both ourselves and every single person around us, co-threw a house party at which everybody seemed to have fun and I sort of did but also just felt tired all the time, which I think is what hosting mostly entails, watched Rashomon, two Hitchcocks, Uncut Gems, rewatched Sneakers because there’s never been a more enjoyably comforting heist movie ever made (I just want someone to let me rewrite Sneakers - my version of lazy comfort fun work) and rewatched Memento to confirm my suspicion that it’s still the best movie Christopher Nolan ever made, planted herbs, hung out with friends, deep cleaned bits of my house, had a couple of work meetings, researched and booked a three day camping trip, researched and bought birthday and cheer up gifts, washed up a lot of dishes, ran many errands, and talked to family members on long video calls.