Writing on a Saturday night whilst wind blows through skyscrapers

it's strange, writing this screenplay. It's a totally different way of writing. I have to throw out so much of what I have been taught, of what I have taught myself, of what comes instinctively to me. It feels like I'm cutting the beauty out of words, which is, I guess, what I am doing, what I have to do. Because I am saying that, for this story, words are not enough. Or, more, not the right medium. Which is not necessarily true. But I have chosen a medium of images, and that means writing in the language of images, which is not possible with words on a page, but only with pictures. But in order to get to the pictures, I must first use words to express the ideas in a visual way. Not in the sense that one does with prose, but in a way that is directly able to be transferred into image, that instills image into the reader, but not in a restrictive sense either.
I find myself cutting out everything I struggle to create in prose in order to make the screenplay effective, and 'right', in the funding body sense of the word. 'Correct'.
Laziness has not paid off. Every other time I have written a screenplay knowing it was for myself, I have written whatever I wanted and justified the fact that it was not 'right' by saying no one needed it bar myself. And now I find myself struggling to write for myself in a way that is not only acceptable to others, but is also satisfying to me. And all I find myself doing is crossing out words that otherwise bring tears, laughter, fear, hope, happiness or sadness to me.
But I struggle on. Because I blindly hope the pleasure of the end product will outweigh the pain of the pressure needed to get there.
Thus ends Ross' rant on writing, at 10:36 on a Saturday night. Why am I at home on a Saturday night? It's been a long week.