THE PEN THIEF

The meeting was at 11. I had sufficient time to grab my story notebook (which makes it seem like I might possibly take notes of some kind in the room). Beside it was my favorite dime store ball point pen (blue). We had been to many meetings together and it had never let me down.

With a few minutes to kill before going in, I sat in the car and jotted some quick thoughts to touch upon in the room while Death Cab for Cutie played on the radio -

And I do believe it’s true that there are roads left in both of our shoes, but if the silence takes you then I hope it takes me too.
So brown eyes I hold you near, ’cause you’re the only song I want to hear
A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere.

Nothing like a little Death Cab to get me in philosophically good spirits.

The pleasantries and standard banter flowed with the Evian water. Soon we delved into story thoughts. Like any meeting, the invariable, “This is a bad idea but let me just throw it out…” comments came out. But some of them weren’t bad.

One of them in particular about a new angle into the story seemed sensible. I looked at my notebook sitting on the coffee table. I was about to pick it up when I noticed the pen I had left on top of it the way I always do was not in its rightful place. At some point, the producer to my left had picked it up and was writing thoughts down in his notebook.

We continued to discuss arcs, themes, turning points, but all I could think of was that this fucker had lifted my fucking pen. Worse still, he had nicer handwriting.

I tried to put it out of my mind. It was just a cheap pen. No doubt, at any moment, the kleptomaniac would acknowledge that he had made a mistake. He’d make a lame, “Never take a writer’s pen” joke, and we’d all laugh while no one thought it was funny. But as the minutes continued and he closed his notebook, I noticed him slide the pen into the holding place inside the cover. He looked at me, smiling. I realized I had been asked a question. I had no idea what the question was.

“You don’t like it?”

I had no idea what the question might be. Perhaps something related to the lead character, or an alternative take on the ending…or how he had lifted my pen and was getting away with it because only a lunatic would ask for a pen back in this sort of situation. Yes, he was stealing my pen. We both knew it. There was no point in pretending anymore.

At some point, the meeting wound down. As we shook hands, I looked at the notebook, my pen nestled safely beneath his hand. I held his other hand for longer than a normal person might, giving him the opportunity to come clean. He did not. This was a criminal with no remorse.

When I got outside, considering the nature of injustice in the world, I thrust my hand dejectedly into pocket. There, to my surprise, I found my pen. The pen I had uncharacteristically stuffed there as I got out of the car.

As I turned it, I noticed something else – it had leaked.

Until later -

Burning Pictures

Giving Notes and Kicking Ass

“I really want to hear what you think. Good, bad, whatever…”

These are the words that are said before someone gives me a script to read. I have no doubt that in their minds, they actually mean it. They want to know where characters come off as clichéd or a plot point just a little too convenient. At least they think they do. Until they actually hear it.

This is why I don’t like giving notes. It’s fairly certain that giving me a script will crush someone’s spirit just a bit (assuming it’s good), and quite a lot (when it isn’t). A friend of mine gave a script a little while back and I should have put it down after ten pages because I didn’t like it at all. As a general I do this because if I don’t like the first ten, I’m not going to like whatever follows. But he was a friend and I wanted to give him something useful to go back to the drawing board with. There were so many problems throughout that I was at a loss about what to say.

This is always a difficult conversation because part of me is aware of the “Who the fuck are you to tell me my script isn’t good,” reaction that has to be on their minds.  I don’t like having black clouds over me when I sit down to give notes, but such, evidently, was to be my burden.

When we finally sat down, I began by saying this was going to be a rough discussion and if he didn’t want to hear the thoughts, I’d understand. He did. So I went into where all the problems were. He nodded politely, asking questions every now and again, explaining why certain choices were made. I could see it though. With each passing comment he hated me more and more. By the end of the conversation it had turned into an epic loathing.

I asked a fellow screenwriter what he does when someone asks for notes on a script he doesn’t like. His approach is to find the three best things in the script and talk about how they could be better. “Very few people want to hear how bad their script is. And you know what, it’s not my place to tell them.”

“But they’ve asked you to tell them,” I answer.

“They’ve asked me for thoughts. These are some of my thoughts. Not all of them. What’s the point in devastating them?”

“Maybe you’re helping by devastating them. Maybe that ass-kicking is what they need to get to a good draft.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but I just don’t want to hurt someone in that way.”

The obvious message was that I, of course, do.

On the last script I wrote, when I turned it in to the producer, I couldn’t have been more pleased. I had knocked it out of the park. Home run. Slam dunk. I had the tune “Walking on Sunshine” in my head all day.

Then I got the call. They didn’t like it. Not even a little. If I wanted to start over and rebuild it from the ground up…

What the fuck had gone wrong? Somewhere there was a massive disconnect, and clearly it was mine. I showed it to my agent and manager. My manager gently suggested moving on to something else. My agent stopped reading after thirty or so pages with the simple, “This doesn’t sell.”

This was mind-numbingly painful. The kind of pain that makes me climb into bed and hope that someone has the decency to inject me with an overdose of heroin to make all the pain go away forever.

Unfortunately, the heroin savior never arrived and eventually I had to get out of bed. Now I had a choice: I could just move on to another story, or go back to the beginning and figure out where I went wrong. I did the latter. It was a far longer journey than I ever anticipated. Months of work to really dig out the cavity and find the core of what I loved so much to begin with.

The story is world’s better now. Had I not gotten savagely beaten, I wouldn’t have understood what it really wanted to become.

Sometimes a good ol’ fashioned ass-kicking is exactly what you need.

Until later -

Burning Pictures

Shooting Stars

Moments. I think about life in terms of moments. In a particularly special one, I try to take in everything that goes with it. The colors, the people, whatever it is that will make that memory strong enough to echo in my senses years from that moment.

Tonight, I was out for a walk. I happened to pass a sub shop that had a pulled pork special sandwich. special pork? after ordering, I took a moment to watch the college game that was on the flatscreen next to the exotic soda display.

GT and Iowa were playing in the Orange Bowl. In the closeups, I could see the eyes of the players eyeing the field. And the thought struck me, for some of them, this would be the greatest night of their lives. Whatever else should happen, this was the pinnacle for some.

What would that be like, to look out a clock winding down on the greatest night of your life? Winning or losing you had sixty minutes to make your mark on history. 59…58…

When I walked out pondering that very thought, I saw a shooting star dropping down and then fading out.

This is what it is for our characters. They live entire lives with no cameras on before this moment. But then something happens. They’re set up for what is going to be the greatest moment in their lives. In any movie, doesn’t matter which, pick one. The camera starts shooting a little before this life changing moment, then turns off after the resolution. Then we never see them again. They fade in to the night sky.

How could we possibly deal with it if the moment has faded? The band RUSH tackled this one in the song “Losing It.”

The writer stares with glassy eyes
Defies the empty page
His beard is white, his face is lined

And streaked with tears of rage

Thirty years ago, how the words would flow
With passion and precision
But now his mind is dark and dulled
By sickness and indecision

And he stares out the kitchen door
Where the sun will rise no more…

What if that moment has passed you by and all you remembered of it was the time slipping away before it was done?

I’ve had moments that felt timeless. I did tonight. It was a hell of a sandwich.

Until later -

Burning Pictures.

Shattered

The shattered glass scattered like cockroaches running from the light. I looked at the tiny shards which seemed to have gone impossibly far from where the dropped pyrex container fell from the freezer in the garage. I tried to calculate how glass could fly so far from such a short fall from a low shelf. This equation work seemed much more interesting than the unpleasantness of having to actually clean the broken glass from the garage floor. It took much sweeping, followed by two rounds of vacuuming, but i eventually got the broken container and glass shards into a garbage bag.

I began the walk to the garbage. got two steps. then the bag broke. Seems the Glaad kitchen bag is no match for sharp glass. After doing this process for a second time, and double bagging it, the job was done.

This sucked on an epic level. Mostly it sucked because I’m envisioning that tiny piece which escaped the second time to eventually lodge on my naked foot when I sleepily go out to the garage on some sunday morning.

This is what we do to our heroes in stories. We start them off in a fairly content situation. Then have something bad happen. Then have that bad thing get worse. We’ll create the illusion he’s solved the problem (the garbage bag). Then we’ll have the situation take a turn once again (the bag breaks).

We do this all day long. Taking characters in perfectly happy lives then we find a way to ruin it for them. Story telling is pretty cruel when you come right down to it.

Is this why most writers are tormented in one way or another? Creating pain and frustration can have that effect. We try to make it up to our characters by the end. We make them better people, their lives are enhanced in some way. Maybe even with a new love interest. But then, we’ll just go and do it to someone else.

We’re black clouds.

I think there’s a piece of glass in my toe.

Giant Lizards

I had a conversation with my agent recently. He was responding to my new spec. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of writing an indie dramedy. It’s not based on a board game, a remake or a comic book…not even a cereal box character. It was doomed from the start.

“The writing is great.”

Oh?

“But I can’t sell it. No one buys a movie like this now.”

Oh…

“Give me something high concept. That I can sell…but not until next year since no one’s buying anything right now.”

So let me see if I’ve got this straight. You can’t sell this because it’s not high concept. But even if it were, you couldn’t sell it because no one’s buying anything right now anyway?

“Basically, but there are always exceptions.”

So couldn’t there be exceptions about my dramedy?

“No.”

Oh…

I should have added giant lizards,  set it on a space station and done it as a comic book first.

Welcome To The Machine

A few months ago I wrote a post about a moment that stayed with me. It wasn’t a moment that happened. Just one that I imagined should happen. How it should be the final moment of a feature script. It had rain (a must to create that melancholy mood). And there were two people, him and her. A bittersweet farewell between them. Our hero was leaving the girl he loved. Because she was right, but they were wrong. Leaving her in the rain as he drove away…a phantom already fading the farther he went.

It was all I had, but I knew I wanted it in the script. It had to be there. If nothing else in life was certain, that was the one thing I knew. The ending. The final shot.

Months later, I shockingly am finished with the screenplay. And the one moment that was my beacon through the darkness when I was writing and rewriting didn’t make the final draft. It actually got cut in the second draft.

This should probably teach me something. But alas, I’m quite determined to find the nearest wall and bang my head against it as if for the first time when I begin a new script.

I finished it yesterday after a long and challenging battle. Today is the day to breathe.

But Monday will come. And with it, the invariable question — what’s next? There is a machine. A loud, demanding, ravenous machine that screams to be fed. It rejects virtually everything put before it, but it insists that we come back with more. Because that is what screenwriters do. We come up with ideas. We write treatments, we create pitches again and again only to hear — “they passed” or “they want to go in a different direction.” Sometimes it’s softened with “But they loved you…” It’s nice to hear that your loved.  It’s insincere, but still nice. It softens the blow of the fact that you won’t be getting paid for the weeks of work you’ve done.

Back to Monday. My new script will go out soon. And it’ll sell or it won’t. That is the nature of the machine. But either way, I’ll have to create  something new. Otherwise, the machine that can be so cruel will forget about me altogether.

Don’t get me wrong, whatever it’s flaws, I love the machine. It’s capricious and brutal. But it’s also the dream factory. The place that can take the most incredible parts of imagination and bring them to life. That’s why we all fight and scrape and claw for those few coveted spots — to see the dream brought to life.

I talked to my manager this morning about what should be next. The response, “concept driven commercial feature.” But sensing what the machine wants at exactly the right moment…that’s the trick of the game. To sense it. To become one with the machine.

Welcome my son, welcome to the machine.
What did you dream?
It’s alright we told you what to dream.

If only it would…

Burning Embers

Once again, I took a bit of a hiatus from writing. If I were back in college, my fraternity brothers would be yelling out “slack!” This came to mind because I just found out something which sparked my desire to come back.

When I was back in college, I started a literary magazine in my fraternity called The Burning Ember. I had certain amount of resistance when the magazine began. Up until that point, the fraternity was mostly a drinking and drug house. The idea of doing any writing which wasn’t required was met with a certain skepticism. The first issue was roughly four pages. Getting people to write was challenging.

However, by the time I graduated, virtually everyone had contributed and the final issue was in the mid-50′s. Why the change? I don’t know. Maybe people liked the idea of having an outlet to express themselves. Maybe the desire to create burns in people even when they don’t know the spark is there to start with.

That was a while back. Nearly 20 years ago. I just found out that the Burning Ember is still going strong. That was kind of astounding.

One of the reasons I’m so drawn to writing is the idea that something about me lives on when I’m gone. I don’t have deep fears about dying (although growing old is another story). But the thought of a legacy is so appealing.

But not just a legacy. I realized, it’s all about the fanfare and praise that go with that legacy. That I’ve left some seminal piece of writing aside that made a mark on people.

Some of you may know Joe Jackson. He has a song about this called The Man Who Wrote Danny Boy. It’s about a composer who’s ready to make a deal with the devil, but ultimately doesn’t when he realizes that the mark he wants to make isn’t with strangers, but with the people he loves. It’s a beautiful song. The last part of the lyrics are incredibly moving:

And the smell of the brimstone was turned into greasepaint
And the roar of the crowd like the furies of hell
And I hear the applause and I hear the bells ringing
And the sound of a woman’s voice from the next room

Saying, come to me now, come lay down beside me
Whatever you’re doing you’re too going to see
You can’t hold onto shadows, no more than to years
So be glad for the pleasures we’re young enough to enjoy

So maybe I’m drunk or maybe a liar
Or maybe we’re all living inside a dream
You can say what you like, when I’m gone then you’ll see
I’ll be down in the dark, down underground
With Shakespeare and Bach and the man who wrote Danny Boy.

And I suppose that’s really what it’s all about isn’t it. Enjoying the moments we have while we’re here. Which isn’t to say I don’t want to be talked about later. I do. But as my girl comes in to the bedroom and climbs in beside me (life imitating art), I know just what he’s talking about.

Until later -

Burning Pictures

The fear

I had a scare today.

After living with a pain just below the ribs on my left side, my girlfriend Sarah convinced that I needed to go to the hospital and get it checked out. Being a consummate ostrich who is most accomplished at keeping his head in the sand, i fought it tooth and nail. But eventually, the pain was such that I relented.

So we journeyed over to Kingston hospital. And it didn’t take long for the doctor to be prodding my abdomen and me saying, “ow, ow…OW) for them to admit me. Wasn’t long before i was hooked to an IV and in hospital gown. Then the terror set in.

For reasons that have no bearing in reality I had a deep seated fear that I had cancer. The tests were going to confirm it. Then I’d be dead within the next year. It was a fear that needs no rationale to function, in fact, it functions far better without it.

And during that panic, I thought about all the things I’d never have. Rather than my life flashing before my eyes, I thought about the life I’d never have. It’s a horribly sad feeling.

Turns out I have diverticulitis. basically, an inflammation in the intestine. antibiotics for the next 10 days and I should be fine. While there are certain things I need to be careful of (like never again eating seeds and nuts), looks like I’m actually pretty healthy. Anyone who knows me would be quite surprised by this. Imagine the shape I’d be in if I actually watched what I ate and exercised!

While I’ve been in the emergency room before, I’ve never been there for me. It’s a feeling of helplessness and very deep and powerful vulnerability of the like I’ve never experienced before.

I think every writer has or will create a character that’s sick or dying. I did it in my last script. Although I cut that element by the final draft. But I’ve never known that feeling before of waiting for blood work or ct scan results. I don’t know how it’ll change things in the future, but I know the next time a character of mine sits in a doctor’s office or lays in that hospital bed, it will be real.

Until later -

Burning Pictures

Telling Stories

This morning, I listened to “Telling Stories” by Drivin’ N Cryin’. It’s a song that captures the idyllic, timeless qualities of youth. Most of us have memories that have taken on an almost romantic like quality of childhood that stands out as the point in time when everything was almost perfect. A time before real life got in the way. There’s  almost a Dandelion Wine (Bradbury’s book) quality to it where the greatest elements of Summer have been captured in a bottle.

As adults, the taste of that Dandelion wine seems very far away…just a memory that fades a little more with each passing day.

Instead now, we get drunk, we get stoned, we get whatever as a way to recapture that fleeting feeling of happiness we once had. A feeling that seems so very far away during most of our days.

Then again, it would be difficult for it to be otherwise with the responsibilities we deal with in on an ongoing basis. And having children, maybe that’s a way of giving the gift of that sweet taste of Summer for just a little while to someone else we love.

Last night, I went to the planetarium. I sat looking out on the sea of flowing stars. For just a little while, I was that kid at camp laying on the ground looking up at the heavens, imagining the constellations in their mythic form. Imagining what if it were true and the gods and monsters were out there. Eventually, the show ends. The gods and monsters fade with the light. But for a moment, they were there. They were real and I floated with them.

There are a lot of stories about characters who have lost touch with their childhood joy in life. The best is City Slickers…Billy Crystal trying to find his smile. I love stories like this. Stories about characters who find their way back to that moment, that first sip of summer despite the insanity of real life which swirls unrelentingly just outside that sphere of contentment.

As i sit looking out the window, I’m still trying to find a way back to a fleeting feeling that’s just a little too rare.

Until later -

Burning Pictures

The Tourist

For reasons I couldn’t begin to explain, years ago I thought my shoe size was 9. I was actually a 10.I wish I could say this happened as a teenager, alas, I was an adult in my 30′s.

Every pair of shoes I owned was hopelessly too small. I felt fairly convinced that each of them were mislabeled in some way…that I was the victim of some cruel shoe joke. It sadly never occurred to me to check if I was simply mistaken each time I asked for a 9. 

On one particular evening, New Years Eve actually, a friend of mine was getting married. A black tie affair. I needed a pair of tux shoes. Stat. The store I went to didn’t have any 9′s, but they did have 8 1/2′s…you can imagine how fantastic that felt. 

Despite the ache of wearing stiff shoes a size and a half too small, I went to the wedding. My plan was to stay until midnight or so then catch the last train to a friend’s place in Westchester from Grand Central.

Well, the wedding was delightful…charming guests, pleasant conversation…and I even danced. By the time I made my way to Grand Central, it was about 1:45 AM. Turns out, unknown to me, they lock up Grand Central after the last train (1:30 AM). I stood there, drunk, my feet aching, staring into the lit station wondering how the fuck I could have fucked up so badly. This couldn’t be, and yet…

I had family and friends in the City. But the idea of calling any of them at 2 AM and saying I had missed the last train and I needed to be out for one of the first morning trains just didn’t feel right. So I though, fuck it — I’ll walk around the Apple for a while, stop in a bar, whatever, it’s just 5 more hours. It was cold as hell, but if I kept moving, shouldn’t be too bad.

Around 230, I stopped into a bar. My feet were killing me. But I couldn’t take my shoes off. Everyone was loud, boisterous, music jamming…and I was completely exhausted. All I wanted was a bed. 

I needed a little quiet time. I shuffled nearby to a diner. Had a cup of coffee, read the paper…looking around at all the random people hanging out there at 3 Am…who were these people? They were wondering who’s this Tux dude in tiny shoes?

By 5 AM I had walked up and down for miles. My body was chilled to the bone. My knees felt like they had been hit by stones and my feet felt a pain that was so indescribable it was almost obscene. I felt an anger that verged on epic. 

By 5 30, I wasn’t sure I’d make it without calling someone. 

Then I passed a couple homeless guys. One stood there freezing, the other was in a wheelchair. And one of them said something that hit me to the core of my being — “Tell you what I miss, I miss my fuckin’ leg.” Then I saw that he was an amputee.

The pain didn’t fade for me, but it took on a very different feel from that point on.

I made it back to Grand Central for the first train on New Years Day. I collapsed into a chair, gleeful at the pleasure of taking my shoes off. Better than sex, it was a joy I thought I might never know. Exquisite. 

Slowly the train filled up with revelers from the night before. Two different couples sat on either of the train car across from me. They didn’t know each other.

Both were in their late 20′s early 30′s. the nearer couple nuzzled together. A sort of post celebration bliss lingering on them. The other couple sat staring ahead, not speaking to one another, couldn’t have been farther apart emotionally. Whatever went down, their night had sucked.

The first couple was a little portly. Not terribly attractive. The second were Barbie and Ken.

And for the entire ride, I watched one side in love and another side disintegrate… When it was over I walked out into the morning sun. A new day. 

Until Later -

Burning Pictures