The Beat

In a script, a beat signifies a shift in tone–a pause, a cue, a rest. For just a moment, the story stops, a performed punctuation that invites the audience to react. I spend a lot of my time looking at, writing, and interpreting scripts; my love for theatre and film are far from clandestine, and the beat just seems like something I can’t get right. 

For the bulk of my life, I’ve dreamt of “making it big,” the idea that should I work hard enough, someone could find value in something I’ve written and that I could be remembered among the “greats.” This manifested itself through an enumeration of diary entries, addressed to the version of me; twenty, thirty years from now; who when interviewed, cited each verse as though they had been tattooed on her brain, as though that ambition could not fade.

For the bulk of my life, this remained true–my ambition, a trick candle, a flame that refused to go out. I decided by eight that no passion of mine rivaled that of writing, and before all else, my career had to be grounded by my writing. 

Since then, I’ve fallen in love with the mediums of poetry, of film, of journalism, for I have always been enamored with the syntax of language–how such different modes of writing can be equally as moving. I became obsessed with learning each intimately, with my most recent and final revelation being my love for script-writing. 

Most come to the realization that they love film early on, working on stop-motion film or juvenile skits on iPad–I was no different. I used to direct plays to be performed for my family and spent summers crafting Lego stop-motion plots. But the greats–the Greta Gerwigs and Wes Andersons–seemed to be certain of exactly how their career was to progress much earlier. For them, there was no hesitation about who they would become, and their work, unique to just them, reflects that. 

To that point, I am at a disadvantage with little work to my name and the idea of “early greatness” far gone. I spend as much time as I can playing “catch-up,” with my evenings dedicated to assistant-directing for AHSPA, then to writing and editing new material as soon as I get home. 

My days usually begin at 8 P.M., and Courier New really does drive you insane once you’ve lost enough hours typing (and re-typing) dialogue. 

Then a beat. 

There is a soft reminder, usually between the haunting hours of 11 and 3 that remind me to slow down. That maybe, time may not be on my side, but that maybe–I will prevail. That, maybe, I have a story to tell and that maybe, I am capable of telling it.