Been A While...

It's hard to believe I haven't posted since April.

I apologize for neglecting you.

First, my niece has improved a great deal.  I invite you to visit Clara's picture blog, linked to at the right.  She had brain surgery in May to remove the largest of the tubers, the one most likely causing her seizures.  She hasn't had a single seizure since the surgery, and has now been weaned off her anti-seizure meds.  Things have not been entirely smooth -- in August, they discovered that the flow of cranial fluid was impeded, putting tremendous pressure on her brain.  They installed a shunt, which solved that problem, but cause some intestinal problems that had to be dealt with.  Now, however, Clara's back to eating normal food, and things seem to be progressing rapidly for her.

The biggest reason I haven't been posting here is that I've been steadily working on a screenplay.  Until early August, I had a writing partner, but we've had an unfortunate falling out: She scheduled a pitch session with a producer before we finished the screenplay -- a serious faux pas.  The producer was kind enough to ask to see the script when it's finished, but for some time, I'd been concerned about my partner's frequent attempts to drive the script off the story we'd carefully worked out.  So, while I was going to be out of town and unable to work for several days, I asked her to read five Oscar-winning or -nominated screenplays, and my previous work, in the hope that she'd pick up on the importance of story.

We're talking, at most, twenty hours of reading.  All of it available for free on the Internet.

She refused.  She wrote an impassioned e-mail about being unemployed and not having any money to spend on writing, how we were up against a deadline and needed to just get the project done as fast as possible, so she didn't have time to get "a college degree in screenwriting."  She said my suggestion came across like an order, and she doesn't take orders.

I, on the other hand, consider reading screenplays to be part of the job of a screenwriter.  At the core of every writer should be a heartfelt desire to improve and develop his or her craft.  Put in market terms, reading screenplays for movies that have been made helps a screenwriter know what sells.  It's just as important as reading the trades.

After I'd said as much to my former partner, she dug in.  No reading screenplays, we don't have time, let's just finish.

Sorry, I said.  If you won't do what's required to learn how to do it right, I can't work with you.

That was six weeks ago.  Since then, we've gone through many, many gyrations, including my concession that I'd send her my ongoing work and take her notes, incorporating those that fit.  It hasn't been easy, and it's actually slowed the writing process down by sapping my will to write at all; I've been so preoccupied with responding to her many, many e-mails regarding those few ideas of hers I don't incorporate that the writing has all but come to a halt.

For example, we took pains at the beginning of the script to show that our protagonist is a very good doctor.  Her idea for the scene that marks the break from act 2 to act 3 involves our protagonist running away in the middle of a medical crisis.  Now, aside from the fact that doing such a thing in real life would certainly cost him his medical license, it doesn't fit his character, and it diminishes the story.  A good doctor, when faced with a medical crisis and multiple distractions, would eliminate the distractions.  If that's not enough reason to keep the hero rooted to the spot, keeping him there shows that he's worthy of the eventual victory that comes in act 3.  When I thought about him doing a cut-and-run and looked ahead in the story, I couldn't understand how he'd deserve the prize at the end.  Why would our heroine choose to stay in a relationship with a man who won't face his fears or confront the obstacles in his life?

Granted, real life women choose such men all the time.  But this is fiction -- it should elevate the audience.  The story should aspire to something greater. 

So, now I've finished writing that scene.  The hero doesn't run away, he gets PULLED away, still managing to take care of his patient. 

My former partner didn't like it.

As I've been writing this, I came to a realization -- For my partner, the male lead was never the story's hero.  In her mind, the female lead...the love interest...is the central character.  That's the rock that derailed the train.  The logline, from the start, has always been, "A lonely, confirmed bachelor finally meets the perfect woman -- and she's exactly like him."  The story is about HIM, and from the start, she's been fighting to make it about the love interest character.  (I don't know why I didn't realize this before; in addition to fighting me on story elements, she's also been trying to get me to change the logline.)

I'd come to another realization the other night, while getting another screenplay ready to send out: that I need to be a little in love with my characters to make them "pop".  I've never had a sense of the female character at all, and have certainly never felt any love for her.

Maybe now, I know why. 

The Actress, The Doctor, and The Porn King

Picket Fences

The writer's strike presents me with an odd quandary: Do I continue to try to sell my script, or wait until after the strike is over?

For those of you who may not be familiar with the reasons behind the writer's strike, a little background: The Writer's Guild of America (WGA) is striking against the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (AMPTP), mostly over the amount they get paid for the distribution of their work via the Internet. Production companies, networks, and studios save up-front costs by paying "residuals", which are a percentage of the per-unit sale price of a movie or television show. Residuals are a significant part of the overall compensation writers earn for their work.

How much? Let's look at one film, Reign Over Me, which starred Don Cheadle and Adam Sandler. It's a good choice because it got good reviews, but wasn't a big box-office smash (it virtually disappeared from theatres in a month), having cost $20 million to make and earning around $21 million. For the week ending October 28th, that little film sold 55,872 copies on DVD, earning roughly $1.1 million. At the current rate of compensation, the writer received a residual check in the amount of $3,350.64, minus taxes.

One week.

This is not chump change.

Now, back in 1985, when VHS was new, the AMPTP put forth the position that the consumer market was changing and that the technology had not been proven, so they negotiated with the WGA to set a reduced percentage for residuals on the then-new technology, with the understanding that if it proved itself, the residuals would increase again. They reneged.

They did the same thing with DVDs, again claiming unproven marketability for new technology.

Incidentally, under the rate structure that existed before VHS, the screenwriter for Reign Over Me would have earned $16,753.22 that same week.

What's happening now is that new technology is reshaping the marketplace once again, and the AMPTP wants to cut the writers out of residuals entirely for this new technology. Internet streaming and downloads, cell phone downloads, things we didn't see as marketable three years ago are becoming commonplace. Miss your favorite TV show? Go to ABC.com and watch it! you'll be shown commercials, which the network is being paid for... But the writers of the show are not getting their residuals for the rebroadcast of the show. The AMPTP insists that the technology isn't yet proven to be marketable, but there it is, and the parallels with the introduction of VHS and DVD are clear.

Now, I'm not one to say that restitution should be made for the percentages the WGA negotiated away in the past, and in any case, that's not what they're asking for. They want in on the new technology because they wisely see the market headed in that direction, and they want a raise.

It's not an unfair position.

How does this relate to me?

The WGA's success or failure will undoubtedly affect the amount I get paid for my work as a writer.

Now, I am not a union guy. Far from it. But in this case, I agree with the WGA. Not because it will affect my paycheck, but because I sincerely believe they're right.

But will I be able to resist if someone offers me a quarter of a million dollars for my screenplay?

I don't know. I honestly don't know.

It would sure be nice to get the opportunity to find out, though.

Blowing Away Clouds Of Doubt

Aeons ago, before the fires, I wrote this post about pitching my screenplay. That was an exciting afternoon.

Not nearly as exciting as this one turned out to be.

I should begin by saying that I spent that week and a half working on what I thought would be a very good pitch. I read a book on selling your story in a minute. I wrote and rewrote my pitch, refining it until everyone I gave it to (read as: "subjected to it") responded with an honest, "Wow, I'd love to see that movie."

And then I got to the Screenwriting Expo and took a seminar on pitches. Round out my education, I thought. Oh, no...the seminar contradicted everything in the book.

Shit.

Okay, I'll take another seminar on pitching. Same thing.

Another seminar, another writer who disagrees with the book I read.

It turns out that sixty seconds is too long a pitch.

So last night, I sat down and rewrote my pitch from scratch, and by the time I went to bed, I still hadn't gotten it to the point of wow-I-would-love-to-see-that-movie. It didn't pop.

At 4 am, I woke up with the solution: There's a tragedy in the story... That's my pop.

So, here's how it goes:

Everything In Between is a multi-plot drama about how we all experience love the same way. When the lives of four very different couples cross at a gay wedding, they must face a tragedy that will ultimately change each of them -- for the better.

Spoken aloud, slowly and clearly, it takes about 20 seconds.

"I get it! It's Crash, with love! I love it!" said one agency executive. Exactly. I'm going to send her a thank you note.

A drama is a hard sell. Look at the list of movies at your local theater... It's late in the year, so the awards season has begun, but that is the only explanation for movies like Michael Clayton and Things We Lost In The Fire. What's an easy sell? Horror. R-rated comedies. Male-driven romcoms. Seriously, Saw VI is actually being written. I'm absolutely certain that I don't want to know what body parts you can cut off after the fifth vivisected appendage. I mean, really, once you've cut off all four limbs, how much thrill can be left? Here's an idea for the tagline for Saw V: "You're going to need help for this one."

I am not going to say what responses I got or from whom; I'll just say that I did better than I hoped.

Apparently, I've got game.

Half An Hour's Jubilation Before The Doubt Rolls In

I was finally able to choose which companies I'll pitch to next week. It's not an unexciting list, including Brillstein Entertainment Partners, Creative Artists Agency, and Kennedy/Marshall.

For those of you who may not know, Brillstein represents people like Brad Pitt, Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox, and a host of others. There are some great screenwriters at Brillstein.

Creative Artists Agency is huge. The in-house networking that could happen here would almost certainly get my picture made.

Kennedy/Marshall. I guarantee you have seen a film produced by Kathleen Kennedy and Frank Marshall, because basically, if you've seen a Stephen Spielberg film since E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial, you've seen one of theirs. These are the people who produced Poltergeist, Indiana Jones, Back To The Future, The Color Purple, Jurrasic Park, Schindler's List, and The Sixth Sense.

You might, if you look with me towards the horizon, see the dark clouds of doubt roll in.

I am going to pitch to Kennedy/Marshall.

Next Saturday, I am going to pitch to Kennedy/Marshall.

I may not sleep for a week and a half.

Moving Ahead

As I sit down to write this, I'm struck by the feeling that posting about the process of writing and moving ahead with my screenplay just isn't all that compelling. Would it help if I mention that I'm considering getting new living room furniture?

I didn't think so.

On Friday, I registered my screenplay with the Writer's Guild. This was a big step, as it meant my screenplay was actually finished.

Or so I thought.

Last week, I discovered that there is a San Diego Screenwriters Meetup group. (Meetup.com is a great idea, by the way.) Last night, I went to my first meeting, and brought my screenplay. I'd printed out four copies of the first ten pages in case they were open to reading it, but I went without expectation. They turned out to be an interesting group, struggling with some of the same things I struggled with. They were a bit skeptical when I said I'd written my way from outline to completed rough draft in just 3 weeks, but they were hooked by my pitch. (I use Michael Hauge's idea of how to sell the story: instead of telling the story, I start with how I got the idea for the story, then move on to give a little teaser that describes the style of the story.) I got the question I wanted: "So, what happens?" They then went on to shred my first ten pages, nitpicking it to smithereens. Yes, smithereens.

I am learning that Improv training helps when you're presenting your writing to strangers. When someone offers a suggestion, it helps to embrace the suggestion, something that does not come naturally for a writer. (We tend to think, "Well, that's your opinion, but since I wrote it, might I suggest a few places where you can put your notes?")

I am also learning that when people give notes, there is a sort of wheat-from-chaff processing that's required. You can almost always get one really good kernal of a note from the deluge of it-would-be-better-ifs and I-would-have-done-it-this-ways. Last night, I got one of those.

It was a "crap! you're right!" kind of moment.

All of this leads, of course, to the conclusion that a screenplay is never actually finished.

As a case in point, Paul Haggis (Oscar-winning screenwriter of Crash, Million Dollar Baby, and the current In the Valley of Elah) tells the story of working with Clint Eastwood on Flags of Our Fathers and partway into the filming, becoming convinced that a rewrite was needed. In spite of Eastwood's assurances to the contrary, Paul went ahead and did the rewrite.

Eastwood continued filming.

With the original script.

The film is brilliant anyway.

The best part of my weekend came when my parents called on Sunday evening to tell me that they loved the rewritten story. I'd wrestled for days with their notes, and finally arrived at a solution that both tightened the fourth plot line and delivered satisfying resolutions for three of my main characters.

But not for me, because apparently, I still have some tweaking to do.

Next week, I'll be headed to the Screenwriting Expo in LA, and pitching the story to at least five agencies.

It's a start.

And I Was Naked

My brother-in-law called on Sunday with notes on my screenplay. His first comment? "Font's wrong, Dude. You've used 10 pitch and it needs to be 12 pitch."

Crap.

One note, and 109 pages (acceptable) becomes 139 pages (so long no one will ever look at it).

He had other notes, mostly formatting, sort of redirected from things he got about his own screenplay from his former room mate, who is an Oscar-nominated screenwriter.

So, I sat down with my laptop and mercilessly ripped through the rough draft. I followed William Shakespeare's lead and got rid of all the stage direction, except where it's essential to the story.

And then I went through it again.

And again.

By Sunday night, I'd shortened it by ten pages, and by Monday afternoon, another seven pages. Have I mentioned that I hate rewrites? My elegant descriptions and scene setups had been reduced to cursory shorthand designed to evoke a visual in as few words as possible. Nothing remained but what was essential to the story.

And at 122 pages, I was still 2 pages too long.

Another note regarding a villain who never gets his comeuppance. I shredded a scene to give him that comeuppance, and damned if it didn't make the whole screenplay better. The writing was tighter, so it got me down to 120 pages. Another scene rewrite and it's down to 118 pages.

118 pages.

And the news this morning is that Hollywood is hunkering down for the writers' strike. There's a hiring freeze, and few production companies are reading new work.

Yikes.

Here's The Wind Up

It's been a week since I finished the rough draft of my screenplay, sent it out to readers, and realized I hadn't read it myself.

I have now.

The morning after I wrote that post about sending my screenplay out for other people to read it, I printed it out, bound it with brads, and took it to Starbucks for a cup of coffee and a donut.

I brought along a pencil.

I wrote in the margins; feverishly scribbled, barely legible notations I would later struggle to decipher.

And I discovered that I like sitting in Starbucks alone, reading and people-watching. There is now a 'bucks within walking distance of my apartment, and I may have to take up spending my Saturday mornings there, reading and people-watching, people-watching and reading.

Had anyone asked what I was reading, I'd happily have pitched the story to them, doing what I could to get that all-important response: "Wow. I want to see that movie!"

Since 7:55 am on Saturday morning, the notes and comments have been dribbling in from my readers. The first came from a friend married to someone in the Industry, who called in tears and thanked me for making her cry on a Saturday morning. "Amazing," she said, "Wonderful!" It's become something of an inside joke that the "high concept" description of the screenplay is, "It's Crash, with love!" Her honest opinion was that it's better than Crash. She offered some tremendous insight, leading me to make a couple changes even before I printed the thing out for my trip to Starbucks.

On Sunday night, my parents called. I could tell from my dad's tone of voice that they were not looking forward to telling me what they thought. They didn't like it, and found some of it disturbing. There were parts they did like... The coffee shop was nice, and the dialogue was spot on... But they wouldn't go see it. They also offered some excellent observations, and I am still struggling with them. As difficult as their comments were to hear, they will undoubtedly help tighten the "weave" of the four plots.

On Tuesday, I heard from another reader, who called it "honest" and "profound".

Over the course of the week, I've gone back over it half a dozen times, and made quite a few minor changes. I've also made one or two major changes: added a scene that whimsically brings things full circle, and toned down the scene my parents thought was most troubling. I can feel the thing getting better, but it still needs work.

One of the most surprising things about the process is how low on the priority list this seems to be for people I'm counting on most for solid notes. A couple people I've sent it to haven't even acknowledged receipt.

Even as I work through the process of rewriting, I am shifting my focus to the other part of screenwriting: selling the script. I have three weeks to develop and refine my pitch. It isn't going to sell itself.

The pitch is the part that worries me. Albert Einstein failed his math exams twice. I could be sitting on a wonderfully written script with a brilliant story, and still blow the pitch.

I'll keep you posted.

Oh, Get Over It

Aboard my last ship one evening in June of 1998, at around ten minutes after eight, a group of young petty officers came knocking on the Chief's Mess door with a complaint and a demand: Ban the movie "Blazing Saddles", which was the feature being shown that night.

It seems they were deeply offended by the opening scene in which the redneck cowboys demand of the black members of the track laying gang, "Sing us a nigger work song." These young petty officers were, to a man, black. And they found the scene offensive because of the use of the word nigger.

Being the good leaders we were, the chiefs present listened to the complaint, restated it to ensure we understood it, then pointed out that the scene showed the rednecks making fools of themselves attempting to demonstrate what they wanted after the track gang feigned ignorance. That the point of the scene was to poke fun at racists was lost on these young men. It didn't matter that one of the screenwriters was Richard Pryor. All they saw was that a white actor had used the word "nigger", something for which there could be no justification.

Our command master chief called down to the ship's TV station and had the film banned. While he was on the phone, he asked our young petty officers what movie they'd like to have shown in its place. "Friday," they said.

Ten minutes later, the command master chief called down to the TV station and banned that movie, too. His rationale? If a word is so offensive that its utterance in a film is sufficient reason to ban the film, then all films in which the word is uttered are banned. Periodically, for a period of about two months, he'd call down in the middle of a movie and have it banned. Eventually, the group of young men had enough and came back to the Chief's Mess to retract their demand.

Personally, I don't think they ever got the lesson he was trying to teach, nor did they ever grasp the concept that one of the greatest powers of comedy is its ability to illuminate evil. I wish I could have sat those men down and shown them that scene over and over until they understood it. "Look, here...see this group of hard-working black men stroking their chins thoughtfully, pretending not to know the requested song, and refusing to behave in a stereotypical manner? Now, see this group of white cowboys, prancing around, kicking up dust, flapping their arms like chickens? Which group looks idiotic to you? And in the next scene, when their white leader considers a piece of equipment more valuable than the lives of two hard-working black men, doesn't he get thumped over the head for it?" Would have been wasted breath.

Flash forward: present day. The government of the Philippines is seeking an apology from the producers of "Desperate Housewives" for a racial slur. Apparently, during the season premiere, Teri Hatcher's character asked a medical professional, "can I check those diplomas, because I want to make they're not from some med school in the Philippines."

The government of the Philippines. The government.

This is not a group of young men taking on the mantle of disenfranchisement. This is a government. Presumably, these are people in power.

Now, I am not a fan of "Desperate Housewives", and have never seen even part of an episode. However, I have seen an occaisional advertisement for the show, so I know that it is a comedy-drama, and if the ads are any indication, the main characters in the show frequently deserve a comeuppance, and very often they get it.

I don't know Teri Hatcher's character, but I know the type. For the character to say something of that nature, it had to be a setup for a later, well-deserved slap.

This is one way that comedy works. We see a despicable character (a character we "love to hate") get their just desserts and it points to their behavior as inherently wrong. An object lesson is thus delivered to the audience.

You don't have to be an intellectual to grasp this concept, and yet, many smart people miss it entirely. They hear the words, but miss the point.

Worse, the mainstream media reports on such objections as though it's the correct point of view. Over time, many people have come to believe that the context in which something is said is immaterial, that a word uttered must naturally have been chosen for its most hateful definition.

As a writer, I am dismayed by this trend. It assumes the worst of the speaker (which in the case of television and film is the writer), who is often in agreement with the individual who claims offense.

In one widely acclaimed and Oscar-winning film addressing the subject of racism, a white, off-duty cop (a nice guy, by any standard, and who we think is color-blind until this scene) blows away a young black man who, it turns out, is unarmed after all. We see the white cop torch his own car to destroy the evidence of the murder he's committed, including the victim's body.

And no one points to it and says, "See? SEE? That's racist! I'm offended by that scene! The producers should apologize!"

Some advice for those who would cry foul over things like these: Stop. Listen. Think: What is the context of the "offensive" language?

Not everyone is out to get you.

'Bout Birfin'

Beginning about 6 pm last night, I started sending the completed rough draft of "Everything In Between" out to my readers.

I don't know why I was hoping for immediate feedback. First, no one can read 110 pages in a few minutes, assimilate the contents, and write a well-thought-out response with cogent notes in, oh, half an hour. And B) it was Friday night.

To paraphrase Butterfly McQueen, "I don't know nuffin 'bout birfin' no screenplays."

Still, I feel like an expectant father. As I was writing it, I maintained a relatively casual air about it ("Oh, yeah. I'm writing a screenplay. It's no big deal."), even as I wrote 4 - 5 pages per day, forsaking most things, including basic hygiene on weekends, to get it finished. Having written "CUT TO BLACK" at 5:30, I was ready for bed by 9:30, at least physically, if not mentally. I tossed and turned a while, wonderinghopingpraying, semisuccessfully suppressing the nagging thought that I, myself, have never read it end-to-end, so whatthehellwasIthinking?

I know it's a monster of a good idea for a movie.

But is my execution of the idea even remotely on the mark? I don't have the faintest fucking clue.

I remember, at age four, dancing around the living room with my grandmother, singing, "She had a baby girl! She had a baby girl!" in the seconds after the phone call came with news of my sister's birth. I also remember being conscious at the time of the fact that I had no idea what that meant in real terms.

In a way, I've been dancing around for the last month, singing, "I'm writing a screenplay", with no idea what it really meant. And here I am at 3 am the morning after finishing the rough draft, wondering if I've done this magnificent idea any justice at all.

This much, I do know: There are nuggets of truth in it. In the second-to-last scene, one of my characters says something so poignant that before I could type it, I started bawling and had to take a ten minute break before I could continue. The critic in my brain says, "Sure, but will the audience feel that way?"

So, here I sit. At 2:15 this morning, restless from anxiety and heartburn, I could stand being in bed no longer, and I got up only to discover that I have nothing to drink that isn't acidic...including the water.

I believe I shall, after all, print a copy of my script and read it at last from start to finish. I will try to ignore the errors I see, and look to the story.

And later, I'll probably take a nap.

She Had It Coming

I killed a woman Sunday night.

Granted, she was one of the characters in my screenplay, but it was still a gut-wrenching experience. In the end, I didn't actually show her death, since the conversation between the characters at her death-bed was the important part of the scene, but that didn't make it any easier.

In fact, not showing her death felt a little like I was holding something back. I don't pull my punches on the rest of the screenplay; it's not gritty or edgy, but its examination of some topical and sensitive issues will certainly draw criticism from the Religious Right and quite possibly from women's rights organizations. Some of it will be decidedly difficult to watch.

So, why did I hold back from showing her issuing that last, long sigh as she passed? As I wrote the scene, and the two characters at her bedside talk, it became apparent that I didn't need to. No matter how I tried to steer the scene in that direction, the characters' conversation wouldn't let me go there. The dialogue was good, powerful, meaningful stuff; it just didn't mesh with the moment of this woman's death. Suddenly, I was at the end of the scene, and she was still alive.

And I realized that I didn't need to show it. It may be more powerful because I don't show it. One moment on screen, she's alive but on life support. The next, her sister is putting her personal effects in a box.

I'm learning a great deal about story telling as I write this screenplay, and one of the most important lessons is that what you don't say, what you don't show, can be even more moving than what you do.

I had known all along, since the morning I first outlined this story, that this woman was going to die. Her death carries important lessons for all the other characters...lessons about how we connect with each other, lessons about hate and intolerance and ignorance, lessons about love.

From a purely storytelling standpoint, her passing came at the climax of the story, the point at which the film moves from the second act into the third. We're into the home stretch, now.

Still, when the moment came, it was painful, and I found myself grieving the loss. I sat in the dark for a while. I got up and poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir, then sat in the dark a while longer.

I'll be finished with the first draft by Sunday at the latest. After that, it's out to my readers, then back for rewrites and adjustments. I won't see her in quite the same way I did when I was writing the first two thirds of this first draft, though. I'll know where she's going, how she ends up. Our relationship won't be as innocent as it was.

I guess that's to be expected. After all, I did kill her.

Even if she did have it coming.

Staring at a Blank Page

The work on my screenplay continues at a frenetic pace. Until last night, I had four pages written, but as I worked on the structure of the piece, it became apparent that I needed a new opening.

It's sort of a shame to have to lose my original opening, because it involved a car accident, and let's face it, any movie that begins by smashing a 7-series BMW is, by definition, very cool.

It's not entirely gone - I merely moved it back by a couple minutes in favor of a more subtle opening that provides a better place to state the film's theme. The new opening also provides a better visual counterpoint for the film's ending.

Moving the scene means that I'll have to rewrite it, of course. So basically, I'm back to blank pages.

In the past, I'd have worried about this. Now, however, I have a much better idea of how to structure a film's story, and I can see how this change in the outline improves the story.

Blank pages ain't so bad.

Two Days in the Valley

There is empowerment in hanging out with creative people. The form of creativity doesn't matter -- music, dance, visual arts, acting, writing -- as long as you can share in the creative process, contribute to it. The blocks you faced and found insurmountable when working alone seem to be shaped differently, when viewed through the eyes of another artist.

One of the gifts I received at Christmas was a two-day screenwriting seminar with Blake Snyder, author of one of the best books available on screenwriting, Save the Cat!, and that's how I spent my weekend. Eight of us came in with a seminal idea and left on Sunday with a completed story arc (or several arcs, in my case, since my screenplay involves four intersecting stories)...something I never would have thought possible.

This was the Real Deal. Of the eight, only two had never worked in the entertainment industry. Among us were a television producer, an industry accountant, an executive, a production assistant, a story board artist, an animator, a writer who's been with one of the longest-running shows in television history since its second season, and the director of a Disney animated feature. And me, retired Navy, occasional blogger.

We began by going around the room and pitching our ideas. Blake is an intensely upbeat guy, and he'd greet each new idea with enthusiastic approval or with an enthusiastic question intended to jog things a little and clarify things not just for him but for his student. Every idea was a good one, with both story telling and commercial possibilities. When I described my idea, Blake exclaimed, "Yes! I get it! It's Crash, with love! That's a script you can sell!"

As the weekend progressed, the possibilities before us expanded as everything threw ideas out for the benefit of all, and as we chose from among them, our stories began to take shape. I can't speak for any of the others, but I remain astonished at how rapidly my own story took shape. With each note, each change or tweak, it became apparent (at least to me) that I've tapped into something universal, that my story just might touch an essential Truth.

I see my characters now, and I can hear most of them. I know who they are, where they come from, how they think. I know their blind spots. I know their dysfunctions, both open and secret. I know what will change them forever.

In October, when my brother-in-law and I return to the Screenwriter's Expo, I'll pitch my screenplay to as many people as will listen. I know exactly what I'll say.

Precipice

I woke up this morning in the middle of a conversation with one of my characters. I savored the talk...I like the man...and when I got up, I was on fire to begin writing the first chapter of Tale of the Tiger.

I got up and got dressed, mulling over this first conversation in my mind.

I found my copy of The Bridge Across Forever, then rediscovered my twenty-five year old copy of A Gift of Wings, which I set out on my coffee table to read later.

I realized that I'll need to do laundry today, so I sorted some of the dirty clothes, and loaded the laundry basket.

It was still too early to start the washer, so I went to the Vons to get a cup of coffee and a bite to eat for breakfast.

When I got home, I checked e-mail, replied to a post in one of the flight simulation forums I frequent, and read a couple posts in another forum while I ate my breakfast.

I fired up the sim and did some flying, not for fun, but for the photo opportunity. I'll be making some title art for Tale of the Tiger, and I needed a few screen shots to work with. The flying part added another .7 hours to my log book.

And now, I am writing this post.

Really, the things I will do to avoid sitting down to actually write.

Richard Bach wrote in his essay It is said that we have ten seconds, "...the only time I can write is when some idea is so scarlet-fierce that it grabs me by the neck and drags me thrashing and screaming to the typewriter. I leave heel marks on the floors and fingernail scratches in the walls every inch of the way."

This morning, I know exactly how that feels.

I love the creative process, the feel of writing, the way my fingers flow over the keys, the soft clickety-clack of the keyboard as my thoughts move from someplace other through my mind and out my fingers to become perceptible shapes on the screen.

It's the starting I hate.

What must a bird feel, standing on the edge of its nest, wings outstretched tentatively, with the unfamiliar beckoning touch of the wind ruffling its feathers?

I'll get there.

Of Words and Wings

I’ve had a couple ideas today…pretty good ones, if I do say so myself. The first involves embarking on a new writing project, one which I’ll share with you as it’s being written. I wasn’t quite ready for this one when NaNoWriMo started, or I’d have attempted to write it there. Thinking about it now, that’s probably a good thing. Even now, the story is still developing in my head.

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you know that I love airplanes. I always have – according to my mother, the first word I ever said was, “airplane”, though apparently the pointing (and undoubtedly the wild gesticulation) was necessary to understand the context of my toddler’s unskilled articulation.

I eventually became a pilot.

And then, after a couple near-mishaps caused by my own failure to account for the inattentiveness of others (or simply by that inattentiveness, depending on how you look at it), I took a break from flying. By the time I was ready to go back to it, the world – my world and the version of reality that I subscribe to most of the time – had changed and I could no longer afford to fly as often as I’d need to in order to be any good at it.

I never gave up my love of airplanes, though.

To keep my navigation skills sharp, I began practicing with computer-based flight simulators, and eventually made a virtual flight around the world.

Once in a while, someone with a similar love of aviation and a remarkable level of skill and patience will produce a simulation of a favorite airplane, and unintentionally (or intentionally, depending on how much credit you give the developer) inspire me. This has happened three times now: with the King Air I flew around the world, with the Spitfire I haven’t yet given up writing about, and this week with a 30’s vintage de Havilland biplane.

These airplanes capture my imagination and become the keys to a vivid, virtual world that extends beyond the limits of the simulation, beyond my time at the computer.

This time, I’m going to share the story that comes out of this world with you, right here.

If there’s one core truth to creativity, it’s that inspiration never comes from just one place. Just like the people who access creative thought, ideas are the sum of many experiences, many lessons.

Four of Richard Bach’s early books hold a special place in my heart. Biplane and Nothing By Chance were first-person accounts of two summers Richard spent barnstorming…flying his biplane around the mid-west, selling rides for $3. Those experiences helped him form the basis for his best-seller Illusions, a copy of which sits on my computer desk nearly all the time. Finally, A Gift of Wings is a collection of essays about flying, mostly non-fiction. It was reading A Gift of Wings that led me to finally seek out a flight instructor, and the day I flew solo was also the day I wrote Richard a thank you note for encouraging me to fly.

I’ve been asked a good many times over the years why I’ve never gone back to real-world flying. I have invariably given some bullshit answer about the cost of flying, just as I did earlier in this post (and just as I did when asked over lunch this afternoon), but the simplest truth is that I haven’t gone back because I don’t want to. There are other things that I hold more important at this point in my life, and for now, I’m perfectly happy to enjoy my flying from inside my head, while seated at my kitchen table.

You could see this as compromise if you want to, and perhaps it is. As Richard notes in The Bridge Across Forever, “The only thing that shatters dreams is compromise.” While I whole-heartedly agree, I refuse to accept that compromises must shatter dreams.

And that leads me to my second idea, which takes the form of a question: What dream have you set aside to make room for other things of equal importance, and have the compromises you’ve chosen shattered or merely postponed the realization of your dream?

While you’re thinking about that, I’m going to be writing about flying and other things in a new feature I’m calling Tale of the Tiger.