Found an Unfinished Screenplay

A couple of years ago, I started writing a script at Scripped.com and never got around to finishing it. I'm not sure what made me go hunt for it, but here it is: http://scripped.com/script/view/139870. Any ideas on where to go next with it?

If your goal is screenwriting, I urge you to check out Scripped. They offer user friendly web-based screenwriting software. It's free to use, but the Pro Monthly plan includes more perks for a low price of $9.95 per month. That's not too bad considering the high cost of Final Draft.

In the blink of an eye

One routine September day
Clear blue skies
Morning coffee runs
Shuttling kids to school

Then, in the blink of an eye
Lives shattered
Husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, children
Became the missing
A country scarred

In the blink of an eye
The world cried together
Candles flickered
Mourning

Life goes on today
Yet we never forget
How the world changed
In the blink of an eye

When Fan Passion Goes Awry...

It's great to have passion. Intense feelings drive people to set out on missions. Sometimes, those missions are a bit misguided. Take for example, the bat-lash, backlash from Ben Affleck landing the role of Batman. Starting a petition isn't going to change anything, nor should it. The man just won an Oscar for directing "Argo" and has the acting chops to pull off Bruce Wayne/Batman. Unconvinced? Just watch "To the Wonder". It's a beautiful film and he pulls off a whole range of complex emotions with very little dialogue. Besides, "Daredevil" was a long time ago and everyone deserves a second chance.

I still remember the cyber-response to Heath Ledger landing the role of the Joker. It was insane. Some people were terribly ugly about it. They didn't want to give him a chance, instead resorting to hopelessly uncreative insults like "Jokeback Mountain." Never mind the fact that he was hugely talented. Everyone had an opinion and most of them were nasty. As expected, his detractors were silenced by one of the best performances of the year, one that the Academy chose to honor with a tragically posthumous Oscar.

Although I understand the passion that drives movie fans to revolt at casting decisions, I do wonder how that passion could be channeled into something more productive. Is starting a petition really going to do any good? Couldn't that energy be harnessed into writing a book or a script? Go work in the movies if you want to be in control of the creative decisions. The point is, leave Ben Affleck alone. He's more qualified than most of us.

What Writers Can Learn From Diana Nyad

If there's one takeaway from the 64-year old's 110 mile swim from Cuba to Key West, it's never give up. She made several attempts over the years and came up short of her goal. A lot of people would have just quit. It's in our nature to want to succeed right away. Anything less than immediate victory and we're talking ourselves out of our dreams. Ms. Nyad's story is proof that with intense focus and a can-do attitude, the world is there for the taking. I sometimes wonder how many writers have quit over rejection by an agent or dismal book sales. Writing is tough and selling your work is beyond difficult, at least in the beginning. The ones who stick to their plans will be rewarded for their efforts.

Defending The Lone Ranger: Updated

Photo courtesy of IMP Awards

After seeing The Lone Ranger this weekend, I've come to the following conclusion: It got sacked for no reason other than its big budget and bad press. I'm not saying it's perfect. It's longer than it needs to be and the story gets a bit convoluted. However, that doesn't justify the universal mocking it received when it opened. In fact, I can think of three things that make the movie worthy of a viewing.

First, Armie Hammer deserves to be seen in this iconic role. His transition from bumfuzzled District Attorney to masked outlaw is believable on every level. Not only that, the chemistry between him and Johnny Depp is terrific.

Second, the film is not cluttered with CGI. Sure it's there, but it's not overpowering like it is with other big budget movies. It's more enhancement than anything else. I'll never look at my pet rabbit the same way again.

Third, William Fichtner. I pretty much adore him in everything he does. He's one of the best character actors out there. The brief time he shares with Heath Ledger in that opening sequence of The Dark Knight is one of my all time favorite scenes in any movie. His Butch Cavendish in TLR is every bit as terrifying and charismatic as the Joker.

That said, I think that history will be friendlier to The Lone Ranger than the critics were.

Update: Quentin Tarantino picked TLR as one of his top ten of 2013:

http://www.tarantino.info/2013/10/05/quentin-tarantinos-top-10-films-2013-far/

Broken Pumpkins

I decided to make the prologue of Miracle at Santa Anita a standalone short story. It's a snapshot of a day in the life of one of the lead characters. It's all backstory, so it could function as a prologue. However, taking it away has no effect on the overall story. I like the idea of publishing it as a self-contained story here. I also welcome feedback, so please let me know of any areas that can be improved (I'm sure there are many).

October 30, 1963

Hannah traced a figure eight in the dust with her black patent shoes as she sat in the swing. People filed in and out of the house, some with food and others with flowers and bottles of liquor. They gave her sympathetic looks from a distance. No one wanted to smother her. Like her mother Carolyn, she possessed a fierce independence. Unlike her mother, she could take a deep breath and pretend those people were stick figures.

The navy blue dress was not her choice. She wanted the cream colored dress her mother bought for her on their trip to Bloomingdales a month ago. The tags were still attached. Her aunt believed navy to be more appropriate for a funeral. She didn’t know how much Carolyn loved the new dress. She stiffened when she recalled her aunt Jane’s hostility.

“Why aren’t you crying?” Jane asked, dabbing her eyes between short sips of wine.

“I’m always crying, whether you can see it or not,” said Hannah.

Jane grabbed the entire bottle of wine and said, “There’s something really wrong with you” before retreating to the patio.

Hannah clenched teeth when she thought about her drunken aunt. A cab arrived and a dark-headed man wearing a suit and aviator sunglasses emerged. He corralled a little girl with auburn tresses over to Hannah. She climbed into the swing next to her. “Daddy, push me,” she pleaded. He pushed her until she was able to propel herself into the sky. Hannah yearned for that kind of innocence.

He looked at Hannah and said, “How are you doing sweetheart?”

It was really the first time that day someone addressed her. Maybe it was her standoffishness or her resemblance to the shattered woman in the casket. They hovered around her father like he was the child.  A speck of dust flew into Hannah’s eye at that moment. She pawed at it as if that would knock it out.

“Blink honey, just blink. It will come out.”

She followed his instructions and everything was fine. She wondered why everything couldn’t be that simple.  

“How long will you be here?” she asked.

He removed his sunglasses as his daughter Marty kept swinging, her auburn hair whipping around in the breeze. His eyes looked sunken in and rimmed with dark circles.

“I told your dad we’d stay for a week. How would you feel about going to Coney Island tomorrow with us?”

She craved normalcy, but she wasn’t sure an amusement park was what she needed.  The high-pitched neigh of a horse reminded her that she needed to tend to the stables. The chaos of the last four days had left them a little neglected and Hannah felt a pang of guilt for it.

“Thank you very much, but I need to stay here and help out. The stables need to be cleaned and I really need to ride Hershey. I haven’t been on her since this whole thing happened.”

Mark inspected his sunglasses and took a handkerchief out of his pocket to polished them until they glistened in the sunlight.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he said.

She hopped off the swing and said, “We can talk at the stables” and before he could object, she took off. Mark cursed to himself and collected his daughter.

Hannah stopped in front of Hershey’s stall. The mare stuck her head out of the stall when Hannah arrived and she lowered it so the girl could feed her the carrots she had in her pocket.  Mark and Marty arrived before the last carrot was gone. Mark steered Hannah over to a bale of hay while Marty made a beeline for the tack room with a coloring book and crayons in hand.

“You might want to sit down honey,” he said.

She knew him well enough to know that he had news and it wasn’t good. He was her godfather, and a good man. Sometimes she wished he was her father.

“Your dad is selling the farm. He just can’t take it. Your mom was the heartbeat of this place and without her. . .”

Hannah’s throat tightened and her numb heart took a shot of disbelief. She never thought he would sell so soon.

“He doesn’t want you to ride anymore.”

“What?” Now she felt nauseous. He couldn’t keep her from something that was integral to her existence. Riding was in her blood. She looked at her chocolate colored mare and it occurred to her that Hershey would be sold out from under her. The tears came and she leaned on Mark until her ducts were fully dried out.

“You’re welcome to ride anytime you come visit us. I offered to buy Hershey, but your dad said your neighbor already offered. Makes more geographical sense anyway. “

“When are you and Marty flying home?

“Probably tomorrow. The Coney Island trip was your father’s idea. You should take the day to spend here.”

Hannah and Marty sat in the swing on the front porch. Despite their three-year age difference, Hannah didn’t mind spending time with her. It was like having a little sister with no strings attached.  Mark joined them even though he should have been in bed. They watched the realtor put the For Sale sign by the road. Hannah shuddered when she thought of living anywhere else.

The flameless pumpkins saddened Hannah. Halloween was her mother’s favorite holiday and she put more effort into it than Christmas or any other holiday. No less than five jack-o-lanterns inhabited the open space of the porch, albeit minus the inner glow that made their features spooky. Halloween was her mother’s favorite holiday and those pumpkins were her masterpieces. She never did anything halfway. One was a witch and another was a pirate.  Even her Jack Kennedy bore enough of a resemblance to the commander-in-chief. A single un-carved pumpkin was for Hannah and her Cinderella obsession. Carolyn devoted hours to sewing the glittery blue gown. Hannah couldn’t look at it without crying, so it stayed in the closet with the Bloomingdales dress.

Hannah turned her eyes towards her pumpkin and wished it would turn into a carriage to take her to a world where a drunken driver hadn’t killed her mother. She closed her eyes as if she could will that to happen.  The creaky sound of the front door opening brought her back to Earth. Her father strode out with a nearly finished bottle of Jim Beam. He took in the remainder and flung the bottle off the side of the porch. His tear-stained face and bloodshot eyes frightened Hannah. She inched herself closer to Mark, who glared at his old friend with a ferocity she had never seen. Mike picked up one of the pumpkins and flung it into the yard.

“No goddamn trick or treaters coming here,” he muttered.

He proceeded to pitch every somber pumpkin off the porch before storming off inside and slamming the door shut.  Marty nudged her father.

“Daddy?”

“Yes honey?”

“What happened?”

“Mr. Mike is having a really hard time.”

Hannah blinked and tried to erase what she had seen. The tears fought their way out and she broke down in sobs. Her magical pumpkin lay in ruin about a foot away from the realtor’s sign. Mark hugged her like she was his own child and let her cry it out.  She took several deep breaths and wiped her eyes with the handkerchief he gave her.

“I think I will go with you all tomorrow. I don’t want to be here.”

Making friends with failure

Okay, technically it isn't failure until you give up. The point is that if one is to succeed with writing or anything, they must keep trying. Setbacks are common as we all figure out how to rise to the top of the self-publishing sea. As Dory from Finding Nemo would say, "Just keep swimming."

Since making the decision to publish a short story, I've received constructive feedback that will help me take it to a higher level. Maybe I'll flesh it out into a novella or maybe a full-length novel. Downloads have nothing to do with my decision. I just want to make it into a better piece of writing than it is. Rather than unpublish, I am making it available as a free download here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/340069

I welcome ideas from anyone who would like to help me craft a better version of this story and thank everyone in advance for their help.

Life is pretty great, even when everything isn't perfect...

Summer is winding down and I'm reflecting on what has been a hectic year so far. My son fell ill in January with a rare autoimmune disorder called HSP. By May, he cleared the hurdle with help from gluten-free eating. He doesn't have a wheat allergy, but it really helped get his system back on track. The photo below was taken in January.

Since recovery, he's been able to cross two important things off the list. One, he learned how to ride his bike. Secondly, he learned how to swim. Life was at a standstill for awhile, so it was easier to embrace even the things that scared him before getting ill. It reminds me that we all have to accept life's shortcomings in order to benefit from its miracles. The below photo is from last weekend's trip to Galveston. Hard to believe it's the same child.

Revisiting 80s slang...to the max

A recent Internet search of slang terms from the 80s yielded some pretty colorful linguistic gems. I think that anyone who writes historical fiction should pepper the prose with the verbiage of the time they write in. Having grown up in the 80s, some of these came rushing right back and others I didn't recall. I don't remember ever calling someone Pac-Man for having a huge appetite. Some terms refused to die out with acid-wash jeans and parachute pants. So here goes...

duh, bitchin, wicked, chill, airhead, amped, fricking, lame, scumbag, space cadet, veg out, bimbette, bogart, grody, dude, dufus, yello, dickweed

And the popular phrases of that day-glo period of time...

I'm so sure, cool your jets, damn skippy, way cool, what's your damage? (my personal fave), book it, to the max, like, Oh my God, and of course eat my shorts (long live The Breakfast Club)

Also, I think it's important not to stuff stories with slang unless it's appropriate for the character. You want some to add color, but not so much that your book is overstuffed with Dude, cool your jets and stop being such a dickweed. All I wanted was to veg out and you bogart all the breathable air in the room. What's your damage? Nothing??? Eat my shorts dufus.

Any others I'm missing? I'd love to get more feedback.

Words of wisdom from Taco Bell

I'll take one of these little packets of awesome over any desert-dry fortune cookie with some nonsensical saying that has no relevance to anything.

Overcoming social media anxiety

My poor puppy Max hates baths with a passion. He has an intense dislike of water and would clearly rather be outside rolling around in dirt, mud, and God only knows what else. His discomfort is not unlike how I felt toward social media six months ago. Twitter, Facebook, Myspace...I couldn't imagine using any of it. I don't really know why I felt this way. The whole concept just seemed alien to me. The closest I even cared to get to it was participating in an online community for the band Blue October. Once I decided to pursue freelance writing, a seasoned writer informed me that social media was a necessity. Every writer needed to be on Twitter. So like my dog, I immersed myself into the water, albeit the social media water and haven't looked back once. I can honestly say that it's been great and there are a lot of terrific and talented people out there to learn from. My dog still hates baths and probably always will, but I have conquered my fear of social media and I appreciate the role that is plays in supporting independent artists, writers, and musicians.