Tag Archives: Sketch

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I’m Quitting

Tuesday after work started like most Tuesdays after work do – dinner and the dramatic announcement of “I think this is my last sketch writing class.”. “Yes, I’ll give myself this last class and then I will plan to be home before 10pm from here on out!” My friends never grow tired of this pronouncement and by “never” I mean “always”, because it’s usually followed by a small “I’m the worst sketch writer” pity party with balloons shaped like sad little animals as I recount why what I’m saying is 100% gospel. Their protests to make me see reason are now printed on a colorful flyer so they don’t have to repeat themselves one more exhausting time. I wear them thin on Tuesday The flyers help lessen the need for eye rolling this way. (As you can see, I’m making tremendous strides towards my resolution to work on my self-esteem. You can see that, right?)

Well, I come by my lack of faith in my writing quite honestly. On that very first day of class a couple of months back, I was traumatized when I discovered that I was the only person who wasn’t born with a pen in their hand. As we went around the room establishing our writing creds, everyone seemed to be a serious writer and I, on the other hand, could only offer up “I blog!!” There was smiling, that patient kind you give when faced with someone who is severely mentally deficient that you don’t want to discourage. “Umm, I can also sign some really filthy things in ASL,” but I suppose that’s not writing or anything to really brag about – it’s more a neat pet trick to horrify a friend who does sign. As an educator, she’s quite proud that “this was all that Beth learned.” The only other person who wasn’t a writer was an accomplished fashion photographer, so that left me without a peer and signing quietly to myself.

So, Tuesday evening arrives and I’ve got my first parody sketch prepared and ready for feedback. I wander into the inner calm place in my mind that says, “you can survive the next three hours and as a reward you never have to come back.” YAY! Half an hour into class and I manage to never raise my hand to read anything of mine, because it’s a bit like raising my hand to gargle glass or poke my eye out with a stick. Why would I do that? My friend Morgan strolls in. Morgan is the reason I took sketch writing in the first place; she has a way of making things seem cool. You may remember her from the story about the obnoxiously expensive purse that could feed a third world country. I think, “how sad I won’t see Morgan after this evening, but we still have email.” I’ve positioned myself so I can see the clock clearly. I watch it closely as it ticks down my final hours in class. I make it two hours without volunteering to read my first parody. (Aside: Yes, rationally I know sketch writing is new for me and I’m doing something I’ve never done before, but I want to be the best. Blame my upbringing. Waiting on my brain to understand the fundamentals gets in the way of kudos, awards and a ribbon that says “Best Girl”. I want the bloody ribbon.)

Then the time comes where there are only two parodies left to read. A game of rock, paper, scissors is called to determine who will read next. I can see that Morgan is going to throw “rock” by the way she’s holding her hand in the 1-2-3 lead-up and I immediately throw “paper”, because I like to win. Then I realize, “you threw paper!!! IDIOT! What were you thinking?!?!”

I had to cast my sketch, “I’d like you to play the part of Clara, I’d like you to be my narrator, and…” Once the roles are cast, I immediately proceed to shake as my words are read. I don’t like being a squirrely, twitchy person, but as you know, my writing being read out loud does this to me every time. It’s much worse if I have to read it. I watch everyone’s reactions to see how it’s playing out and to my delight they seem to be laughing. Whew, they get the jokes. I can tell when each one realizes what I’m parodying.

When it’s over, I throw my notebook down on my lap and prepare for the feedback on how to make it better. I can conceal my trembling easier on my lap than I can on the table.

Morgan turns around and looks at me and says something like, “Beth, that was great. I have nothing.” Well, she likes me personally. She’s my friend. Did I mention that purse? So, I wait for someone else and that’s Jason, whose writing I admire greatly (in my next life I’d like to be as funny as he is). Jason adds, “I’ve also got nothing and I’d like you to submit this to the Etch-a-Sketch showcase I host on Fridays.” I don’t know any actors and shyly stammer that out. Jason responds, “I’d be glad to play a part.” That’s when the rest of the class chimes in, “me, too!”

The only real suggestion for a change I receive is, “maybe change the mummy’s name from Amenhotep to Tut – it’s easier to say.” (I may have killed my narrator with the number of times he had to say “Amenhotep” until our teacher finally gave him some relief by suggesting, “go ahead and say ‘the mummy’ instead”. Part of the fun of that sketch for me was forcing someone to say “Amenhotep” repeatedly. I’m a simple soul.)

I left class giddy and aglow. Their approval and willingness to play parts in my sketch was almost as a great as a “Best Girl” ribbon. So, tonight my sketch parody will appear in the theater’s sketch showcase and will star my super supportive classmates.

I guess I can’t quit until next Tuesday.

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Sketch Writing 101: The Sketch

On Sunday we had a showcase for all of the Sketch 101 writers featuring one of our pieces (we’d written 5 over the course of the class).  Throughout the course of the class, I had some lows and some very lows and an extremely dramatic meltdown that I dragged several people and my teacher into (lucky them!) because I felt like I was completely outclassed and over-my-head.  I mean, what was I thinking? I write a series of run-on-sentence style blogs.  Whether true or not, I felt like I was the kid with the Big Chief pad and jumbo pencil trying to muscle into the table with actual writers.  I spent the first part of the class trying to spontaneously combust.  Did you know that turning to ash on cue is actually a lot harder than you’d suspect?  You probably never thought of that, did you?  Errr… me either. *cough*.  Then I kinda found my writing legs.

So, without further ado here is my sketch:

WARNING: It’s PG-13 for suggestive language – if you’re easily offended, it might not be your cup of tea.  Also, it’s from a 101 class.  Several improv teachers just cringed because I typed that, but there you have it.  Oh, and watch the guy 2nd from the right, he has some subtle stage directions at the beginning and you may need the audio turned up a little to hear.

Confessions

Thanks to my super supportive friends and my awesome husband, Jay for putting up with me during this process.  A huge thanks to Tom Booker, my teacher (the guy on the far right – he was in Babylon 5!) who talked me off the ledge and read my stage directions for this performance.  Also a huge thanks to the actors who brought my words to life.

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This Sunday at 6:30pm!

Finished your holiday shopping and looking for a way to spend that last $5? Why not come join us tomorrow at 6:30 pm for our Sketch Writing Showcase?  We have some truly hilarious and amazingly gifted writers in my class, so you won’t be disappointed (and I’ll be there, too!).  Of course, if you have something better to do, I completely understand and I’ll only hold this against you until my memory fades.  Oh, and Happy Holidays!

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iColossus

For over a week now I’ve been telling myself I’m getting a MacBook Pro.  My rationale – I need it to be successful in the Sketch Writing 101 class.  That’s solid logic.  I mean, I’ve seen the class set-up before and watched in awe as various students whipped out their laptops. Now those are writers. That’s what writers do! I figured if I had the trappings of a sketch writer, then it would naturally follow that I would be a good sketch writer.  And if my writing failed, I could just wow everyone with the soft glow of the Apple emanating from the back of my laptop.  Oooo… magic glowy apple.

I pictured myself as the perfect Mac tool (you know I mean that lovingly).  I’d wear my turtle neck, view the monitor through my thick framed glasses, maybe throw on some Nina Simone, maybe a beret and sip some herbal tea while wiggling my naked toes around and then I would type exceptionally thoughtful thoughts.  Ponies would be replaced by my thoughts on the latest TED talks, maybe a little Bill Maher or the deeper meanings of Bob Marley.  I would then adopt snapping as a way to signal my delight with things.  People would take me more seriously.

I tried to justify it by thinking back to our family’s first Apple – a IIe (2E, since that suddenly looks weird to me) with its 64KB hard drive.  Dad taught it to speak while I had it challenge you with the question “Shall we play a game?” at each boot-up (I grew-up in 80’s, it’s not my fault that question seemed clever/humorous at the time – I’m a simple soul).  It’s the machine I learned BASIC on and the machine I’d sit in front of for hours with a copy of Byte magazine at my side carefully programming away typing in the free code from one of the magazine’s published programs.  When I was forced to use the school’s IBM, I nearly spit.  It was so clunky in comparison.  The command lines weren’t as intuitive. The file structures seemed more archaic.  Apples at that time weren’t even sexy, but some how IBM managed to produce an even less sexy machine.

It didn’t help that Dad worshipped Steve Wozniack.  He was a god in our house and we were probably only a frame away from having his portrait displayed prominently.

When I went to college, our dorm had a shared Mac sitting in the main office.  As an RA who spent plenty of time in that office, I had the luxury of having a lot of access to it. I was blown away by the innovation – so compact, so… cool. (An adjective that the Apple brand mastered.)  But when it came to buying my own computer, I had to settle for a PC.  It was just cheaper and post college, I was a telemarketer who didn’t have a lot of money to throw around.  I remember looking at all of the computers and longing for that Mac and feeling defeated as I brought home the PC.

Apple and I later met again when I became the IT gal for my office and was responsible for our mixed Apple/PC environment.  There was a movement to switch completely over to PCs, but I stuck-up for the Apple users and eventually got the powers-that-be to upgrade from the older Apple LCs to the new iMacs – another truly sexy beast when it first appeared on the scene.  PCs have never had that.  Their idea of upgrading to a sharper looking product seemed to be taking their chunky putty colored rectangles and replacing them with slimmer black rectangles. Ooh. It’s so very square. And let me just say from a networking standpoint, the Macs were easier for me to set-up,  Although, you could rebuild your own desktop, thank you very much.

Then Steve Jobs passed away and it felt like suddenly innovation had died.  I wore my black turtle neck in memorial.  I read and re-read his Stanford commencement speech and watched the “Think Different” Gizmodo tribute to “the crazy one” and felt sad.  That feeling fueled my desire as much as the idea of me looking smart among a group of writers.

Sometime this past weekend reality set-in.  Somewhere after I toggled and re-toggled the two or three customization buttons for the MacBook Pro I knew it wouldn’t be mine.  I just can’t justify that price for essentially what I would use as a hot looking word processor.  Jay suggested a PC laptop, but that’s a bit like wishing for a pony and receiving a stick horse with a plastic head.  (Yes, I am adept at pony analogies. You’re being spared rainbows and butterflies for now.)  I even looked at Dell to see if I could convince myself that those were cool.  What I got out of it was “hey, for the cost of the low-end MacBook Pro, I can get a low-end Alienware laptop”.  That would be great if I wanted to go a completely different direction.

For now I’ll just have to settle for the college ruled owl notebook with the new gel pen.

But man, I can still envision a me that has that silver beauty on her lap typing out a story for the Big Blue Mess or maybe composing my first really great sketch.  Some how beautiful words run fluidly through my fingers to the keyboard. I see myself in class, glancing down at the screen to read my new words from the screen, the class broadly smiles approvingly and laughter erupts around the table at my inspired comedic masterpiece.  Tom, my instructor, beams proudly and exclaims, “Beth, that was brilliant.”

iColossus

Not like Jobs, the brilliant giant of Geek fame,
With conquering vision astride from land to land;
Here at our sun-washed, drought-scorched classroom doors shall stand
A gleaming laptop with an Apple torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and its name
MacBook Pro. From its beacon-emblemed case
Glows world-wide welcome; its mild curves command
The back-lit harbor that brushed aluminum frames.
“Keep, ancient architecture, your outdated pomp!” it cries
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your befuddled PC masses yearning to be Adobe Flash free,
The wretched users of your lack-luster shore.
Send these, the future sketch writing greats, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my Apple beside the golden door!”

(Heavy apologies to Emma Lazarus)

EDIT:  Dad reminded me that the IIe had a 64kb hard drive, not 512 as I mentioned.  I’m blown away by how much that computer  could do with so little.  Back when programmers wrote very tight code (pre-memory leaks becoming so very common in the years that followed).

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Sketch Writing & Ponies

Me Patting a Nice Pony, Galisteo, NM

Next Tuesday I start a Sketch Writing class.  Let me tell you what, I’m a little intimidated.  First, among my friends I’m not “the writer”, that honor belongs to someone else.  I’m not even the artist or the photographer or the actor or the musician. In fact the only title I’ve managed to wrangle is “the token blonde”.  I’m not even blonde, but there you go, that’s my proud designator. I suppose it’s well-earned. I may lean towards the dingy.  At times when conversations among my friends drift into the more profound and my opinion is mistakenly solicited, I tend to make use of that opportunity to regale them with the virtues of ponies.  Ponies are nice!  You can hug ponies.  You can’t exactly hug Kant. Kant probably didn’t even like carrots or apples. He probably didn’t even whinny.  (But if he did, I’m sure Aristotle would have welcomed the company had they been able to meet. Oh funny philosophy references.  See, ponies are more universal.  People get ponies.  People don’t remember Aristotle and his friend Phyllis that much outside of a hipster coffee joint. )  So you see, Non Sequitur Pony Enthusiasts who interrupt “important” or “smart” conversations get titles like “token blonde”.

Second, while I may tell you a story on occasion, it’s always at least 95% non-fiction.  Life does all the hard work for me and then I give myself the remaining 5% to try to spin the boring bits into something more humorous for my audience.  On the occasion that I’ve tried my hand at creative writing, I’ve managed to write down a few ideas, maybe even get it started,  and find that after a full page there’s a bright shiny object to bat around on the desk.

I guess what we’re learning is that I’m too impatient to be creative.

Plus, I just really haven’t had any life experiences to draw from.  I have a dog, a couple of cats, a great husband, and some friends.  My life is by and large a calm place with the occasional dramatic dust-up thrown in for spice.  If you want to throw me out of my element for kicks, just take me out of the state and I’ll act like every person and thing I encounter is completely alien. The “Welcome to…” sign heralds sudden forgetfulness on my part for all activities you would consider to be normal. How do I order food in this new crazy upside down world? The odd little man gave me a straw for my can of soda and a napkin! What strange customs you exotic creatures have at this Kwik-E Mart universe with it’s strange spelling.  Here, let me get my camera.  Someone take my photo with this strange creature!

Preparing to Crush Montreal (Revenge for climbing Mt. Royal)

My only adventure out of the country was that time I went to Canada.  Yes, Canada.  Granted, it was Quebec where the stop signs read “ARRÊT”, but to treat it like a trip  to a foreign country feels a  little like cheating.  While there, our grand adventures included standing on top of Mount Royal and crushing their downtown with our monster claw-like hands (a camera perspective thing) and admiring their chipmunks.  And while crushing whole cities is a lot like having an adventure, we still left before we could truly admire the devastation.  In other words, it doesn’t quite count. To my friends in Montreal who still suffer from the nightmares of the gigantic hand extending down from their mountain, I offer my sincere apologies.  The only other notable event while there was me politely explaining to a friendly shop clerk that she didn’t speak French.  It was my one French phase that went beyond pleasantries,“I’m sorry, you don’t speak French.”  Of course, at the time I thought I was saying, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French”, bygones.  I was living the stereotypical obnoxious American “English only” tourist dream, I suppose. And really these weren’t exactly life-changing events (unless you lived in Montreal).

This worries me greatly when it comes to this class.  What will I bring to the table?  Ideas brought on by my adventures?  Clearly, no. Characters?  I have exactly one and it’s of you.  My impersonation of you is just like my impersonation of that mutual friend of ours. Of course, that’s only because you all sound the same to me and oddly enough, you possess the same mannerisms. Another fear is about people openly critiquing my work. The thought reminds of the last few times I attempted to read my work out loud to a critical audience.  I noticeably trembled.  I had tried to prepare by reading my work several times out loud before hand. I tried taking deep cleansing breaths before I read and despite my best efforts and pep talks of “this doesn’t matter”  I still shook so badly that a cat who had decided I had the best fur stroking hands of the bunch, a cat who had been purring happily away, literally stood up, looked at me and then hopped down. in  complete disgust.  The only positive that came out of those few reading experiences was that people were too worried to actually offer up criticisms.  Involuntary body spasms leave people speechless.  I guess I could always try that if I think I’ve written a stinker.  (I say “try” like  I have some sort of magic control over it. I’m so cute at times.)

But still, I’m not so intimidated that I won’t give it a try.  What the heck.  It will be an adventure..  Maybe my first sketch should be about ponies.