Over the course of the past two or so weeks, I’ve worked harder than I ever have on anything. I put in somewhere between 170 and 180 hours in service of a collective effort to produce a feature film.
This was the first feature any of us had ever seen through from start to finish and the cast and crew coagulated into a curious little family. I could not have asked for better coconspirators in this venture and I look forward to many more projects with them in the future.
And now that it’s over, now that we’ve wrapped on principal photography, now that we won’t be returning to set, I have time to reflect on what this experience has meant for me. It has been profound. A life-giving two weeks.
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Throughout my life, I’ve gone through seasons of great depression as well as incredible personal satisfaction. Unfortunately, I have far more experience with the former than with the latter. During the past two years of my life, I’ve faced the lowest lows in my memory. I’ve gone to such depths of despair as I have never known to be possible for me personally.
This is the result of several factors all coming to a head in relatively simultaneous fashion. I’m not going to go into any of that right now, but, just to paint a picture, I have been ready to give up on everything at multiple points in the past two years. It got worse than you probably realize, but as I said, that’s a different story for now.
Last year at some point, I got a message from a friend of mine named Joe. We met in film school and ended up working on several projects together, both for school and outside of it.
He sent me a draft of a horror feature he planned to make in the near future. He asked if I would be willing to read it and give him notes on the story and all that so he could hone in and make it better. I was eager to help and read the screenplay, taking notes as I went. I sent him my findings and told him to let me know if I could help out in any other way.
I ended up reading, and giving notes on, several drafts of the story. Each time, he sharpened the structure a little further until, finally, Joe was ready to begin preproduction.
A little ways in, he asked if I would be willing to serve as script supervisor during production. I told him I would love to. Aside from director, script supervisor is my favorite on set role. But there was a catch: I have a job and would need to clear the time off with my manager before I could definitively agree to anything.
I told Joe to give me a date range as soon as possible…sooner, if he could. This January, he cemented the production dates and I requested the time off immediately after I found out. We were somewhat short staffed at the store; I was apprehensive. I didn’t know if it would be feasible.
Much to my great delight, my manager approved the time off. A day or two after that, Joe purchased a round trip ticket to West Virginia where the shoot would take place. This was happening. I couldn’t believe it.
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In late March, I arrived in West Virginia, unsure what to expect. I was nervous as hell. What was I thinking? I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d only ever worked on short films. I’d never been a part of something of feature scale. Even though the budget and crew was tiny, it was still far larger than anything most of us had done prior.
Day one rolled around and we worked sixteen hours. The next day we worked nineteen. During that first week of production, Joe and I put in (conservatively) 100 hours of work. And most everybody else on the film wasn’t far behind. In spite of the brutal schedule, we would finish each day, sometimes as late as 4:15am, and I would be excited for the next one.
On day four or five, I had an actual mental breakdown. I pushed my mind well beyond its capabilities to the point of frightening physiological response. Joe was legitimately concerned for my health. About forty-eight hours passed before I fully recovered, but even in the midst of all that, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. Even when I literally couldn’t comprehend my own words spoken back to me, I was excited.
Such a mental break only happened once and brought with it a revelation: I was born for this. I have never worked so hard on something that felt less like work. I won’t lie or romanticize it; the past two weeks were the most taxing and difficult of my life. They were also the most fulfilling. I have never felt so happy and satisfied with anything I’ve done.
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For the past two years of my life, one of the only things (and sometimes theonly thing) that has kept me emotionally and psychologically afloat has been running. I typically run at least fifty miles in a given week. During the past two weeks, I’ve run less than forty and I feel better than I ever have.
What I’ve learned is something I’ve always known. I am a storyteller. I am a writer. I am an artist, a creative. This, and nothing else, is what I was born to do. Pragmatically, I may always have to do something else to pay the bills. Any creative industry is hellishly difficult to earn a living in. But the beautiful thing is you don’t have to have money to create.
This, and nothing else, will keep me afloat. This, and nothing else, is what I am here to do. So even though adult responsibilities will often take precedence, I now fully understand I cannot abandon my creative work. Not, that is, if I want to live a life in which I am happy to be alive.
Depression will likely always be my struggle, but I now have a tool at my disposal I’ve never had before. I know why I’m here. I know what I am supposed to do. And not out of any sense of obligation, but out of a deep sense of gratitude and joy I have only just experienced for the first time.