Magically my screenplay is at 105 pages. It's in the magic range - nothing over 110 pages please. (Wait until I try and get my miniseries sold - well over 200 pages, my dears!)
So I've added some scenes to flesh out Dane, the protagonist, and also to reinforce his relationships with fellow characters, like Janey, his housemate, and Boy (he has no name until the end) who cusses like a sailor at age 11.
After all, it's Dane's affair with a village and its people. I've also had to add some material about being shocked out of his comfort zone and belief system, so some setups were required there.
I've been having some serious deja-vu over this story, specifically when it involves the town chosen as the setting. I've driven its streets, you know, walked its footpaths, I'm even spelling British style again! I feel that when Dane walks the streets, I know where he's headed because I know what the buildings look like, what footsteps sound like on the road, what the air smells like near Cinnamon Bear as opposed to the Memorial, or even the A6 through town!
Now the Business Plan is next - no small feat but it wouldn't be the first one (thank goodness, no learning curve) and this time it'll be on the Mac to make it look pleasing as well. There's a list of films that are "like it" and once the script manager or agent comes into this, I'm certain it will be easier. However, I will not rely on that.
If I'd waited around for anyone's help, I'd still be in the corporate world inside a windowless cubicle, deep inside a stale office building, where the only faces one sees are those one meets on the elevator going up (dreary) or going down (happy to get out).
Onward and upward! In my head this film is planned down to the shot, so why wouldn't it come off the ground as planned?!
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
And then came the other D&D...
I had begun an incredible new adventure in writing when I decided to adapt my (failed) novel into a screenplay. And, yes, it was speeding along. But as always, my brain cannot do one thing at a time, my "other brain", the one that thinks of distractions, interrupted with "I think you need to focus on something else for a while. This is becoming tedious." Although, of course, it wasn't.
So, after many distractions on other writing projects I will not bore you with, I have my friend, Robin, tell me this: Why don't you write a screenplay for D#1 and D#2, two of her favorite actors. I mull it over and conclude that it will take a while to come up with a brand new idea into which to cast them. Like some writers, I "cast" real people into my stories. Not every character is based on or loosely based on someone real, but some are. In this case, I would have to cast them - they're actors!!!
Irony: I am a casting director/agent.
One day, only about two months ago, I'm driving back from the Bay Area and I have this tiny glimpse of a dream stuck in my brain, playing over and over. Frankly, I don't know if it really came from a dream, not sure WHERE it came from, but there it was, sparkling like a large shard stuck in glistening flesh.
Image: D#1 (also one of my fave actors), in character, in an expensive suit, sitting on an airplane, entirely distracted by his own thoughts, just staring down the aisle into nothingness. A couple next to him are sunburned but delirious, coming back from their honeymoon.
Image: Then he stands at the airport, still distracted.
Next image: He's in the back of a taxi being driven home, passing the lights of outer Heathrow, heading into the suburbs of London.
More images: He arrives at home. It's impeccable. It's empty. He follows a lonely routine and is utterly alone.
One more image: He grabs his phone and keys, still in his suit in the morning, and heads toward his car, ignoring neighbors. He pulls out, showing the first sign of emotion, and drives away. Given the option, he chooses the country over the city, and we find him at a cross roads in the English countryside.
By this point I am on my cell phone, yes, while driving, and telling the idea to Robin. She is right there with me, understanding the emotion, the tone, the conflicts (still not completely formed), but thinks I'm on a good, solid track to a story.
Born: A Village Affair.
It took three days to write the first draft of the script. By Day 5, I'd rewritten the draft two more times, written the logline and the treatment - 20 pages! It's down to 18 after a few more days.
It's a record. That story just fell out of me. What was I channeling? I think. Sometimes it feels like I'm just channeling the words because they just flow so easily and freely, they come out as fully formed pearls, one after the other, and eventually form a beautiful necklace with clasp. And there it was, A Village Affair.
I work on it as I can - truly busy with my real job of casting, producing and coordinating productions - yes, even here in Fresno.
Today I get to tackle it again. Why? Because Robin and I have been searching the internet for the perfect location and found it: in County Derbyshire. It's the perfect village. Robin found sites, we visited them, but one of the first was this lovely town with all the things we needed: a small population, old, charming, crumbling castle, water feature, pub, cobblestones, etc.
We've been there, virtually, driven down its streets (thank you, Google) while eating cake with strawberries (dessert), peeking into yards, discovering its back roads and hidden trails, finding different routes to enter this Shangri-La, it even has caves! We've picked our lodgings, visited the cemetery, found several possibilities for our central location. It's perfect!
Now I'm rewriting the story to better fit our location. Even if this isn't the town we finally choose, though I can't imagine anything else, the script will be more vivid anchored in this real place!
This is one of the reasons why I love to write. It opens endless worlds not only of imagination, but it propels me forward into making this film, gathering the crew and cast perfect for this production, meeting amazing people along the way who will support this film in every way possible (emotionally and financially), and eventually traveling here to film "A Village Affair".
Actually, I'm perfectly sane.
So, after many distractions on other writing projects I will not bore you with, I have my friend, Robin, tell me this: Why don't you write a screenplay for D#1 and D#2, two of her favorite actors. I mull it over and conclude that it will take a while to come up with a brand new idea into which to cast them. Like some writers, I "cast" real people into my stories. Not every character is based on or loosely based on someone real, but some are. In this case, I would have to cast them - they're actors!!!
Irony: I am a casting director/agent.
One day, only about two months ago, I'm driving back from the Bay Area and I have this tiny glimpse of a dream stuck in my brain, playing over and over. Frankly, I don't know if it really came from a dream, not sure WHERE it came from, but there it was, sparkling like a large shard stuck in glistening flesh.
Image: D#1 (also one of my fave actors), in character, in an expensive suit, sitting on an airplane, entirely distracted by his own thoughts, just staring down the aisle into nothingness. A couple next to him are sunburned but delirious, coming back from their honeymoon.
Image: Then he stands at the airport, still distracted.
Next image: He's in the back of a taxi being driven home, passing the lights of outer Heathrow, heading into the suburbs of London.
More images: He arrives at home. It's impeccable. It's empty. He follows a lonely routine and is utterly alone.
One more image: He grabs his phone and keys, still in his suit in the morning, and heads toward his car, ignoring neighbors. He pulls out, showing the first sign of emotion, and drives away. Given the option, he chooses the country over the city, and we find him at a cross roads in the English countryside.
By this point I am on my cell phone, yes, while driving, and telling the idea to Robin. She is right there with me, understanding the emotion, the tone, the conflicts (still not completely formed), but thinks I'm on a good, solid track to a story.
Born: A Village Affair.
It took three days to write the first draft of the script. By Day 5, I'd rewritten the draft two more times, written the logline and the treatment - 20 pages! It's down to 18 after a few more days.
It's a record. That story just fell out of me. What was I channeling? I think. Sometimes it feels like I'm just channeling the words because they just flow so easily and freely, they come out as fully formed pearls, one after the other, and eventually form a beautiful necklace with clasp. And there it was, A Village Affair.
I work on it as I can - truly busy with my real job of casting, producing and coordinating productions - yes, even here in Fresno.
Today I get to tackle it again. Why? Because Robin and I have been searching the internet for the perfect location and found it: in County Derbyshire. It's the perfect village. Robin found sites, we visited them, but one of the first was this lovely town with all the things we needed: a small population, old, charming, crumbling castle, water feature, pub, cobblestones, etc.
We've been there, virtually, driven down its streets (thank you, Google) while eating cake with strawberries (dessert), peeking into yards, discovering its back roads and hidden trails, finding different routes to enter this Shangri-La, it even has caves! We've picked our lodgings, visited the cemetery, found several possibilities for our central location. It's perfect!
Now I'm rewriting the story to better fit our location. Even if this isn't the town we finally choose, though I can't imagine anything else, the script will be more vivid anchored in this real place!
This is one of the reasons why I love to write. It opens endless worlds not only of imagination, but it propels me forward into making this film, gathering the crew and cast perfect for this production, meeting amazing people along the way who will support this film in every way possible (emotionally and financially), and eventually traveling here to film "A Village Affair".
Actually, I'm perfectly sane.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
200!
Here are some facts:
-It's a mini-series
-It's obviously going to be way too long on the first draft
-Flashbacks are inevitable in an "epic"
-I cannot grow tired of this story because it has so many twists
It's been a while since I've written about my experience with this screenplay and much has happened since I last wrote. For instance, I cannot explain why but I'm writing songs for it as if it were a musical - perhaps because some other part of my brain is composing a musical about it. The songs aren't bad and it does help to keep the mind occupied so that other parts may do their creative magic.
I've passed page 200 now. In screenplay time, this would calculate out to approximately 3 hours. There are many scenes with little dialog and so the description takes up more space than the action, and in some case, the opposite is true. Other scenes seem to be entirely dialog driven. Here my fear is a "play" and not a screenplay.
The difference? Screenpalys are visually driven while plays are dialog driven. My film professors used to say: If it can be told without words, do it! (I paraphrase here.)
I'm now on the third day of the story, which takes place during a week - the week during which England enters the War with Germany. It strands a group of friends in New England who have traveled here from all over the world to celebrate a supreme-socialite's surprise birthday bash (enough alliteration for you? - no? I'll keep trying).
The last main character has been introduced, Day Two, and another conflict has been induced which affects half of the lead characters. Now they'll begin to "cross-germinate" their troubles and I haven't even gotten to the murder yet!
I suppose it's a soap opera, but almost any novel or movie can be boiled down to it. Look at Jane Austen or DuMaurier, Michael Faber, Yukio Mishima, all of whom I love. This screenplay is my Merhant Ivory tribute.
After page 200? I keep plugging on and will cut later. The story comes first, then the form.
Back to writing for 1 hour before work! (Are you writing?)
-It's a mini-series
-It's obviously going to be way too long on the first draft
-Flashbacks are inevitable in an "epic"
-I cannot grow tired of this story because it has so many twists
It's been a while since I've written about my experience with this screenplay and much has happened since I last wrote. For instance, I cannot explain why but I'm writing songs for it as if it were a musical - perhaps because some other part of my brain is composing a musical about it. The songs aren't bad and it does help to keep the mind occupied so that other parts may do their creative magic.
I've passed page 200 now. In screenplay time, this would calculate out to approximately 3 hours. There are many scenes with little dialog and so the description takes up more space than the action, and in some case, the opposite is true. Other scenes seem to be entirely dialog driven. Here my fear is a "play" and not a screenplay.
The difference? Screenpalys are visually driven while plays are dialog driven. My film professors used to say: If it can be told without words, do it! (I paraphrase here.)
I'm now on the third day of the story, which takes place during a week - the week during which England enters the War with Germany. It strands a group of friends in New England who have traveled here from all over the world to celebrate a supreme-socialite's surprise birthday bash (enough alliteration for you? - no? I'll keep trying).
The last main character has been introduced, Day Two, and another conflict has been induced which affects half of the lead characters. Now they'll begin to "cross-germinate" their troubles and I haven't even gotten to the murder yet!
I suppose it's a soap opera, but almost any novel or movie can be boiled down to it. Look at Jane Austen or DuMaurier, Michael Faber, Yukio Mishima, all of whom I love. This screenplay is my Merhant Ivory tribute.
After page 200? I keep plugging on and will cut later. The story comes first, then the form.
Back to writing for 1 hour before work! (Are you writing?)
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Style - How much "action" in a screenplay?
Screenplays have a very unique format - but within the boundaries of that format are innumerable ways of expresing the content. Some are brief, mostly dialog, virtually no description of action. Some are lengthy, a long narrative chock full of the exact vision the screenwriter had.
I suppose I fall toward the latter.
Directors want to create their own vision of the screenplay and so many tend to dislike being told exactly what to do every second of screentime. The writer will be either terribly pleased or terribly disappointed in what they'll see at the cinema. We hope for the former here. (I specify only director here, though we all know that it takes an enormous group of dedicated and hard working folks to bring a script to the screen!)
Actors want to bring their characters to life - and each actor will bring elements to the character the writer never dreamed of. Again, terribly pleased or terribly disappointed...
I can't possibly go against my nature - I'm verbose on paper. BUT, I know I must cut back on Action description in the screenplay - but where...? It's difficult to separate oneself from the story which comes from an elusive place in our brain and soul and heart. I'm constantly refocusing on: 1) what is it that I absolutely NEED to see on the screen and 2) what is absolutely vital for the actor to portray the line as I intended.
The best part about a script or play making it into production is that it is a team effort. The script is the start, the seed, if you will, and we, as writers, watch it flourish from then. I will always be amazed at how complex the bloom grows, how its petals form and how they are colored, how thick the stalk is, how many leaves it carries, does it have thorns? As the architect of the seed, I am always astounded at what that tiny seed can become.
For the first read through of IMPUNITY, I could not have been happier than on the first day of production or its premier. (Never think small!)
I suppose I fall toward the latter.
Directors want to create their own vision of the screenplay and so many tend to dislike being told exactly what to do every second of screentime. The writer will be either terribly pleased or terribly disappointed in what they'll see at the cinema. We hope for the former here. (I specify only director here, though we all know that it takes an enormous group of dedicated and hard working folks to bring a script to the screen!)
Actors want to bring their characters to life - and each actor will bring elements to the character the writer never dreamed of. Again, terribly pleased or terribly disappointed...
I can't possibly go against my nature - I'm verbose on paper. BUT, I know I must cut back on Action description in the screenplay - but where...? It's difficult to separate oneself from the story which comes from an elusive place in our brain and soul and heart. I'm constantly refocusing on: 1) what is it that I absolutely NEED to see on the screen and 2) what is absolutely vital for the actor to portray the line as I intended.
The best part about a script or play making it into production is that it is a team effort. The script is the start, the seed, if you will, and we, as writers, watch it flourish from then. I will always be amazed at how complex the bloom grows, how its petals form and how they are colored, how thick the stalk is, how many leaves it carries, does it have thorns? As the architect of the seed, I am always astounded at what that tiny seed can become.
For the first read through of IMPUNITY, I could not have been happier than on the first day of production or its premier. (Never think small!)
Impunity - First Reading
IMPUNITY is a script about the arbitrary temperament of love. On the eve of WWII, a surprise reunion of Charlotte Dusquesne's intercontinental friends, admirers and former entourage sets the stage for atonement and retribution, love and envy, murder, and games...
This fictional story takes place over one week's time in 1939 - it's a Merchant Ivory kind of tale.
The first 104 pages were read last night by some amazing local actors (Kate, Leslie, Matt, David, Brian, Gabi, Alexis, Lori, Nicole, and Robin) with great feedback. I seem to be on the right track after all!
Now I move forward to finish the manuscript, which has been coming together very easily. My muse likes this one - Teri would be proud. It's a story that's been rumbling about for a while. Mitch, dear hubby, you were right: this is a script and not a novel!
So, stay tuned for the further adventures of miniseries teleplays.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Lightning and the morning after (on writing)
Like the proverbial lightning strike, you get THE idea, the one that will fix the story/script/play. It's a triviality, really, but it repairs this little problem or that little issue in your writing and it's something that will carry through the entire thing.
The next morning you mention it to a friend - one of those honest friends who doesn't mix metaphors or sugar coat anything - feeling a little uncertain of the brilliant strike from the previous night.
"Really?" your friend states, looking a tad skeptical. "[Blank.] That's your idea?"
"Yes. Don't you like it?"
"It's fine."
It's okay if you think it's a bad idea, but when someone else agrees with you... "Well, don't you think it fixes the problem?"
"I suppose."
"It's like [insert name of novel here], where [character] [does something wonderfully witty] and it just adds that other little something to carry through the manuscript."
"Like subtext?"
"Okay, like subtext."
"Nah, won't fix it."
Writers have to have rhinoceros skin. We want the truth and we have to learn how to accept it, even when we don't exactly agree with it. We respect that someone else has an opinion, even an educated opinion, and we can learn to look at it objectively. We take from it the possibility that we are wrong, that they see something we couldn't, that their insight is bona fide.
We then turn it in our hands as if it's a strange little antique gadget we haven't quite figured out how to open and we study it, look for the seams, see if there's a crack, look for a hinge that may swing in another direction.
That's what we must learn as writers. We must not only accept a non-biased critique from another, but we must learn how to critique honestly, unbiased and professionally for other writers. We must do it in a fashion that disregards whether we like the genre or not and look at the writing itself as it exists within its parameters. We must disregard personal likes and dislikes in favor of objectivity.
How did my friend's opinion fare? Well, it's made me think on it for quite some time and I am not yet decided whether my lightning strike was all show, just bloody painful, had true electricity, was CGI, or has something worthwhile keeping. I have decided that whether I keep it or not, the concept behind it was the value. My story needed something else, and that is something I will need to craft.
The next morning you mention it to a friend - one of those honest friends who doesn't mix metaphors or sugar coat anything - feeling a little uncertain of the brilliant strike from the previous night.
"Really?" your friend states, looking a tad skeptical. "[Blank.] That's your idea?"
"Yes. Don't you like it?"
"It's fine."
It's okay if you think it's a bad idea, but when someone else agrees with you... "Well, don't you think it fixes the problem?"
"I suppose."
"It's like [insert name of novel here], where [character] [does something wonderfully witty] and it just adds that other little something to carry through the manuscript."
"Like subtext?"
"Okay, like subtext."
"Nah, won't fix it."
Writers have to have rhinoceros skin. We want the truth and we have to learn how to accept it, even when we don't exactly agree with it. We respect that someone else has an opinion, even an educated opinion, and we can learn to look at it objectively. We take from it the possibility that we are wrong, that they see something we couldn't, that their insight is bona fide.
We then turn it in our hands as if it's a strange little antique gadget we haven't quite figured out how to open and we study it, look for the seams, see if there's a crack, look for a hinge that may swing in another direction.
That's what we must learn as writers. We must not only accept a non-biased critique from another, but we must learn how to critique honestly, unbiased and professionally for other writers. We must do it in a fashion that disregards whether we like the genre or not and look at the writing itself as it exists within its parameters. We must disregard personal likes and dislikes in favor of objectivity.
How did my friend's opinion fare? Well, it's made me think on it for quite some time and I am not yet decided whether my lightning strike was all show, just bloody painful, had true electricity, was CGI, or has something worthwhile keeping. I have decided that whether I keep it or not, the concept behind it was the value. My story needed something else, and that is something I will need to craft.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The Encumbered (Novel excerpt)
CHAPTER 1 - VOYAGES
Owen Cullings desperately needed to return to his cabin, evermore on the short side of jittery as his steamer neared Liverpool. From the dining hall, he followed the glowing milky glass bowls through the narrows of dark paneling as he held his breath through the straits, quickly releasing it to force another in before emerging into the next corridor. The soles of his boots scuffed harshly against the short nap of the crimson runner, the desiccated tongue of an ancient beast in whose belly he could rest. His hands were weak as if he had clutched his burden thus far through the summer, but even a brave knight sheathed his sword occasionally – he had not yet released his undertaking once. The handsome Cullings by no means failed to politely greet those he encountered, subservient to convention even when devastated beneath his ascetic exterior. He might have reached Neptune’s salon by now, he thought, though he was housed in a luxury cabin on the topmost passenger deck.
On the eve of setting foot on his father’s soil, where his parents were married and where Anna Liese purportedly died in an unknown place and of unknown causes, proximity to unanswered questions fueled the speed of his heart by a few beats each passing night and soaked his fair hair into curls each morning. He wanted to read the letters again, starting with the one from Lester Meryton with the atrocious news. They were hidden in his leather valise, in the rear lining torn open to form a private compartment. He was reciting Meryton’s letter in his head, “We regret to inform you, by way of this insolent and impersonal letter, of the death of Anna Liese Cummings on the Fifth day of June of our year 1855. Please be comforted by the news that her burial was attended to lovingly.”
Owen breathed only while walking around corners. Once arriving at his cabin, he forced his eyes closed with a painful intensity, not relieving his clenched jaw which ached up to his temples and down to his collar. Owen saw yellow geometrics form in his blind gaze, as they vibrated and grew while he pushed his fists into his eyes to gain more colors that waned and ebbed with the rhythm of his grief. Soon bursts of red and green appeared, and then pinks and blues danced into greater abstractions, suitably reminiscent of the day the letter arrived. It took several long minutes to adjust his blurry vision to the darkness of the stained wood paneling lit by a slow swinging lantern hung from the ceiling. It was nothing like a beast’s belly, with all the comforts of home.
During his journey, when he could not muster the concentration to think through the implementation of his multi-tiered plan – a list he had rewritten at least a hundred times until it was succinct and guaranteed triumphant, with multiple phases and alternative scenarios, all leading to bringing Anna Liese home – he had indulged himself with a book or a stroll upon the decks. He was guaranteed an interruption with innocent queries about his leisurely activities or a young gentleman interested in a discussion about his plans abroad. It disrupted his equable manner and this recent facet to his personality alarmed him to distress. He blamed it on the absence of Anna Liese, who had always soothed his exuberance and smoothed out the folds of worry. His even temper, even during the most heated debates or tense cross-examinations, was notorious.
On this last night aboard, he was coming undone. He was still seeing colors as he pushed his flexed index finger into the sharp chasm between his dazzling teeth until an acrid, metallic taste covered his tongue. The growl, formed deep from within, cut itself loose and tore at his throat. He breathed again, as if nearly drowned, but not reborn. Not energized. Not saved and weak, and again an only child, which he deemed more tragic than being an orphan.
Owen Cullings desperately needed to return to his cabin, evermore on the short side of jittery as his steamer neared Liverpool. From the dining hall, he followed the glowing milky glass bowls through the narrows of dark paneling as he held his breath through the straits, quickly releasing it to force another in before emerging into the next corridor. The soles of his boots scuffed harshly against the short nap of the crimson runner, the desiccated tongue of an ancient beast in whose belly he could rest. His hands were weak as if he had clutched his burden thus far through the summer, but even a brave knight sheathed his sword occasionally – he had not yet released his undertaking once. The handsome Cullings by no means failed to politely greet those he encountered, subservient to convention even when devastated beneath his ascetic exterior. He might have reached Neptune’s salon by now, he thought, though he was housed in a luxury cabin on the topmost passenger deck.
On the eve of setting foot on his father’s soil, where his parents were married and where Anna Liese purportedly died in an unknown place and of unknown causes, proximity to unanswered questions fueled the speed of his heart by a few beats each passing night and soaked his fair hair into curls each morning. He wanted to read the letters again, starting with the one from Lester Meryton with the atrocious news. They were hidden in his leather valise, in the rear lining torn open to form a private compartment. He was reciting Meryton’s letter in his head, “We regret to inform you, by way of this insolent and impersonal letter, of the death of Anna Liese Cummings on the Fifth day of June of our year 1855. Please be comforted by the news that her burial was attended to lovingly.”
Owen breathed only while walking around corners. Once arriving at his cabin, he forced his eyes closed with a painful intensity, not relieving his clenched jaw which ached up to his temples and down to his collar. Owen saw yellow geometrics form in his blind gaze, as they vibrated and grew while he pushed his fists into his eyes to gain more colors that waned and ebbed with the rhythm of his grief. Soon bursts of red and green appeared, and then pinks and blues danced into greater abstractions, suitably reminiscent of the day the letter arrived. It took several long minutes to adjust his blurry vision to the darkness of the stained wood paneling lit by a slow swinging lantern hung from the ceiling. It was nothing like a beast’s belly, with all the comforts of home.
During his journey, when he could not muster the concentration to think through the implementation of his multi-tiered plan – a list he had rewritten at least a hundred times until it was succinct and guaranteed triumphant, with multiple phases and alternative scenarios, all leading to bringing Anna Liese home – he had indulged himself with a book or a stroll upon the decks. He was guaranteed an interruption with innocent queries about his leisurely activities or a young gentleman interested in a discussion about his plans abroad. It disrupted his equable manner and this recent facet to his personality alarmed him to distress. He blamed it on the absence of Anna Liese, who had always soothed his exuberance and smoothed out the folds of worry. His even temper, even during the most heated debates or tense cross-examinations, was notorious.
On this last night aboard, he was coming undone. He was still seeing colors as he pushed his flexed index finger into the sharp chasm between his dazzling teeth until an acrid, metallic taste covered his tongue. The growl, formed deep from within, cut itself loose and tore at his throat. He breathed again, as if nearly drowned, but not reborn. Not energized. Not saved and weak, and again an only child, which he deemed more tragic than being an orphan.
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