Wordy Shell Game

Having a great time here in Rewrite. I’m luxuriating in the process of cutting out pages and pages of material and shifting things from one act to another. Unfortunately, there’s a point where it becomes a wordy shell game and if I don’t maintain precise concentration what started out as a light romantic comedy might accidentally reshift to become a snuff film. Or worse, if I’m not careful I could wind up with another Prairie Home Companion.

LaLaLaLa Late Bar

Last week I completed my first draft and managed to smooth out the chunky bits that were clogging the rest of the story. I am much, much happier with it as I embark on the first round of rewrites. (And in the immortal words of Bill Clinton, “It’s hard not to be happy after smoothing out chunky bits.”)

As I work I must be careful not to fall into the trap of futzing + tweaking at every detail – which has been a dangerous thing, not to mention Futzing and Tweaking was the name of my band in High School. I found myself staring at the pages, re- and re-re reading each line. After a while nothing made sense and I had to find solace in Alabama Slammas and Mr. Pimm’s. I am just now recovering from my weekend bender to crack my knuckles over the laptop and hit the keys like Mozart (Rudy Mozart… he was keyboardist in our band and boy, he could wail out some Duran Duran covers like nobody’s business.)

Heaving Animal Bladder

I set off to work on my script early this morning and just as soon as I finish clearing out my working space, completing client deadlines, writing lectures, paying bills, calling about billing errors, looking for missing insurance cards, emailing for work, submitting competition entries, blah, blah, and oh that’s right… blah, I’ll get to my writing. Morning has crept into night now and stopping the day-to-day stuff to be able to write is beginning to feel like a hopeless scheduling conflict. It’s not like I’m blowing off my 9 to 5 to drop out with my French valet in a Hong Kong opium den or sneaking off for a few rounds of wii (though I could happily spend hours fine-tuning my wii me character, but that aside). Writing feels like the dessert that I only get to enjoy after I’ve forced down the rancid fly-infested slop served to me by the unyielding lunch ladies I call the “to do list.”

I have to tell you that during today’s excruciating battle with life’s minutiae, a magical thing happened. The kid across the street suddenly began practicing his bagpipes and segued seamlessly from the Bonnie Hoose O’Airlie (or another tune equally funny in title) right into the theme to Star Wars. Yes! That Star Wars! Now… there ain’t nothing in my book quite like a heaving animal bladder bursting forth with an uplifting and jaunty tune from my childhood.

Helpful Pointers for Other Aspiring Writers

I’ve gotten to a point in my script where I eagerly look forward to getting back to it and writing. It’s a happy place where details form effortlessly, scenes make sense to me, and medication has no side effects. I think about my screenplay as I work, run errands, commute, announce tractor pulls, ice fish, and appear in court. I’m sure to carry a notebook with me everywhere. If I don’t have a notebook I’ll use any smooth surface within the extension of my arm, which brings me to my first point:

A stranger’s sleeve is a poor choice to write notes on. Aside from the possibility of the person frowning on your creative endeavor, he or she may be difficult to locate later if a proper contact address is not provided. And so there goes a great plot point for your story as it hops a train to Long Island and out of your life forever. Which then lends itself to this point (more handy advice than a point): Be sure to ask the proper protocol for scribbling notes while in the back of a paddy wagon… I found out the hard way.

Ideas just naturally flow if you are prepared to write them down. Even little tidbits of inspiration can be rewarding later when jotted down at the moment of inception. It’s writer Anne Lamott’s adage that if you always carry a pen, ideas will come to you. I’ve always said that myself (perhaps too loudly in front of Anne at a potluck, no doubt).

So the point there would be:
Say nothing funny, noteworthy, or remotely interesting around another creative. Or, if you slip out with some witty repartee, be sure to carry forms crediting you for all to sign. And it can’t hurt to always travel with a notary public. (Confession time… who also used to think that archaic phrase was “Note a Republic” when the dreaded repo man came a-callin’?)

Another similar point I certainly must stress is:
Never say anything funny around a crowd of people unless you say it LOUDLY. All too often yours truly has taken the demure approach where, after witnessing some event, I modestly make a witty observation into the ear of a nearby Judas. Time and time again that individual will laugh with me and a split second later will shout my brilliant banter to the room and reap the lion’s share of accolades. They can’t possibly feel good about themselves. I feel sorry for them. I find it common courtesy to just give proper recognition. They must realize the response is not genuine and the laughs are artificial. And stolen. And it must keep them awake at night as much as it does me with the searing pain of anger and the taste of bile that froths to my lips. They know what they’ve done… oh, they know.

Anyhoo… where was I? Right… I have found that if I have my paper and pen and I am open to write an idea or a witty line of dialogue it will channel right through me. It can become almost a stream-of-consciousness experience with magnificent swirls of Dadaist automatic writing. So that winds us down to our last point today.

Be sure to write clearly:
Hard to read scribbles will only complicate things as you try to decipher your inspirational notes. There’s the rumor in the biz that Mommie Dearest’s famous line, “No wire hangers ever” was accidentally scripted as “Now rehang the beaver” when Robert Getchell wrote with a particularly leaky pen. Titanic’s “I’m the king of the world!” might have been “I’m talking in the wind!” “Rosebud” could easily read as “Rosacea,” and a whole different clientele would be lining up to see When Harry Met Satan rather than… well, you know.

Opie Don’t Play That

Over the last few days I have been going over the edits for the first half (plus a few more pages) of my script. I’m just past my midpoint whammy and am closing in on my second – or double – whammy. Now, on the editing side, it simply amazes me that this software seems so accurate and reliable, yet when I am checking over the pages I’ve written they reveal a multitude of errors. I know that this was not the condition I left my project in when I wrapped up, so I can only imagine there's a glitch in the system! Or someone who has access to my laptop is cunningly playing a game with me and if I arrange all of the misspelled words it will reveal a secret message a’ la Da Vinci Code. I can only conclude that Ron Howard has access to my writing and I find that sort of prank unprofessional to say the least.

FYI:
Hey Chickpea Fan Club roll call member badges and super secret glowing decoder rings are back ordered in China. As a reminder, upon receipt of said items, do not lick them, ingest them, or carry them too close to your person. Do not throw or shake or taunt super glowing decoder rings (though that goes without saying).

Bucksflies

I happily spent the other day writing in the Starbucks. Once I had my decoy chai latte light water ½ pump chai, I prepared my writing lair. “Joe” the heavy set literaturazzi slash Bucksfly (as I like to refer to him after seeing him only once) was using the main outlet, but I found an enticing overstuffed chair in the corner with perfect access to the other outlet. (And I have to go back to Joe for a moment, as the staff referred to him as Joe because he must frequent the place and they all know him. But isn’t it an amazing coincidence that a guy named “Joe” would, in fact, frequent a coffee haus? I wonder if any Stanley Mugomud’s or Jorge Java’s drink there, too. But I digress…)

Anyhoo… so there I was…
I have my big chair and a tiny table (the size of a Necco wafer) in front of me. I’m ready to write. I plug in the cord, but just as I am about to put down the laptop I see the sticky crud all over the micro table. Simple wiping won’t clean it so I spread napkins all over to create a safe technology layer. I even ball up wads of napkins to act as feet to the laptop and keep air circulating. Ok, now I wait for the muse of scriptwriting to pull up with her half-double-decaf-halfcaf so we can roll.

Wait. I gotta set my drink down and I have learned the hard way that when liquid spills near a computer it actually multiplies in volume by 600%. It’s the well-documented Exponential Snapple Theory of 1995. Before I can write I need to find a safe haven for my beverage. That’s when I spy the small children’s table and set of three chairs nearby. My logic is that anyone would be crazy to drag a child into a Starbucks, so I snatch one of the little chairs and set it up in my inspiration space. As you might’ve guessed, within seconds a woman walks in with her three toddlers to splurge on double shot mocha espresso juice boxes at seven bucks a pop. I ignore them as they wander near the kiddie table and mutter under my breath,“Find your way back to the half-price Valentine tumblers where you belong, kids.” Aside from Joe and me, the place had been empty. As far as I’m concerned, I’m simply using a 3D child’s chair shaped coaster. Fortunately, the mom takes her kids and leaves. Probably off to a tire showroom or a utilities payment center – somewhere the kids would love to spend the rest of their day.

Back to work. Until the battle of the realtor wannabees invade the table in close proximity (they actually quiz each other on encroachment). But I dig my heels in and write. I ignore the interview between loud talking giggly gals and the “parallel to the floor guy” who splays himself out and dangles his extremities over the backs of chairs. I must applaud the Starbucks lady who breezes past me cleaning and, without missing a beat, handles the drive thru on her Janet Jackson (that’s a headset… if you’re nasty). Starbucks lady chirps loudly, "Hi and welcome to Starbucks. How may Brad and I help you today?” (Though we both know that deadbeat Brad is nowhere in sight.) (pause) “One banana mocha frappe...” (gathers trash off the nearby table) “Would you like a shot of espresso in that today?” (as she plucks napkins from the floor) (pause) “Very good.. we'll have that up for you in a moment.” (she breezes back to the front with the timing and finesse of a Mr. Bob Fosse – sans jazz hands).

But my whole point of sharing this with you is to tell you how much I enjoyed getting out and writing in my lair. (I can’t pretend that I didn’t think of screenwriter Diablo Cody of Juno fame who wrote the story in a Starbucks in Target. But she had an uphill battle there as the distracting “Customer in seasonal… who is responding?” blares over the intercom every thirty three seconds – no thank you!) I admit, I nursed my chai for three hours and no one said a word. Though, in their defense, it’s hard to remove someone who is having a bad case of caffeine shakes.

“Non…”

Ix-nay on the silent picture idea. Mel Brooks cornered the market on all that. This man, though brilliant, has also limited the playing field for monsters in tuxes, dizzy people, dripping newspapers, and great character names with umlauts. Break of a piece for the little people will ya, Mr. Brooks?

The good news is that they were able to partially reattach my gums after that little shiv incident. I’m thinking of suing the toothbrush manufacturer (as nowhere on the packaging does it warn you to avoid melting it down to accommodate an X-Acto blade).