Two years ago my husband and I went with family to the tulip festival. We were so inspired that we planted our own little festival of colors.
What do you think?
Okay, so maybe our tulips aren’t quite festival-worthy. But it’s a start!
The title for this book still eludes me. Maybe by the time I finish the rewrites something perfect will pop into my head.
This moment is the catalyst that sets everything in motion.
“Don’t you get it, Annabel?” Philip asked gloomily, “She didn’t give me a fighting chance. And she never will. She’s prejudiced against me. Just because of the way I look.”
Annabel took a step back and examined her husband from head to toe. When love began to cloud her eyes she shook her head and shoulders several times, assumed an arrogant stance with hands on hips and chin held high, and looked again. Her intention was to put herself into Dr. Morgan’s shoes so she could see Philip through her eyes. After a few moments of this she managed to see him as if for the first time, the way Dr. Morgan saw him, and she nodded her head thoughtfully.
“Does that mean…?” Philip began, but stopped short as the fragile bud of hope sprouting in his heart was drowned by a wave of gloom.
Annabel was studying her husband’s face and did not miss the wave of gloom that extinguished the flicker of hope so quickly and thoroughly. It pained her to see her husband like this, depressed and vulnerable.
Maybe she could help him, just this once. She’d made hundreds, maybe thousands of trips through time for the greater good. Philip was a good man. Wouldn’t helping him also be serving the greater good?
Annabel studied her husband’s face for a moment or two longer before she spoke. “I might,” she conceded warily, “be able to make a few careful adjustments.”
When I went to library school we were taught to cater to boys when we selected books for the juvenile section of our public libraries. We were told to stuff the shelves with books filled with male characters, male characters, and more male characters.
Here’s the logic:
Girls already love to read and need no further encouragement. Besides, they’re not picky and will read books with male protagonists, male villains, male supporting cast, etc.
Boys, on the other hand, don’t like to read. So to even the playing field we need to bend over backwards to encourage them. And since boys won’t read books with female protagonist, or too many female characters, we need fill the shelves with boy-appropriate books.
To make this logic more logical, we were also taught that the content of the library should reflect the interests of its patrons.
So a library situated in a hipster part of town should be loaded with hipster content. One near the beach should carry an abundance of books with a nautical theme.
But a public library situated next door to an all girl’s school still needed to focus on books with boys as the main characters. Just in case one of the poor little fellas wandered in off the street and accidentally managed to open a book and read a few words.
Why, if he saw a girl’s name on the page he might slam the book closed and run, screaming in terror, never to again open a book.
Sigh.
Come on, people, give boys some credit! They’re tougher than that, and more intelligent.
Unless the real goal is to teach boys, and girls, that the female half of the population isn’t important.
In that case, job well done!
I’m a writer now, but before I settled into writing I was a librarian, a job that required almost constant interaction with a multitude of people from all walks of life. And even though I’m an introvert at heart, I still loved meeting and talking with all those people, hearing their stories, and helping them to solve their problems.
But before that I was a budding anthropologist. I adored studying cultures from around the world and learning the mechanisms needed to keep each culture going.
Which is why when it comes to the stories I write, I’m all about the kind that could be labeled ‘family friendly’. (BTW, contrary to what some snobs think, family friendly does not mean boring, wimpy, or simplistic.)
You see, what we use as entertainment not only reflects our society, but it also forms it. This is especially true when it comes to younger viewers.
Children want to be normal, and normal is what they see most often. They’re hardwired to copy what they see, it’s the way they learn how to act in society. So if they watch shows where kids are rebellious drug addicts who hate their parents, they are likely to grow into rebellious drug addicts who hate their parents.
There’s already enough doom, gloom, and violence in the world. I want my stories to
show a different world, a world that may not be perfect, but is certainly worth living
in.
I guess you could say my plan is to write the world into a better place.
I should be writing this morning, but…
I write both screenplays and novels. They feel very different to write, and each has its own challenges and rewards when it comes to going from first idea to completed project.
But just how different are they?
I am obviously in avoidance mode this morning, because before I realized what I was doing I’d made a mathematical comparison.
First I opened two new Word documents with identical formatting. Then I copy/pasted a completed novel into one document, and a completed screenplay into the other.
I took out the ‘extra’ stuff, like title pages, etc.
Then I divided the number of words by the page count.
Which is how I now know that when it comes to density, the two types of writing are HUGELY different. Or at least the two I compared were, and it’s my guess that the same would hold true for most screenplay/novel comparisons.
Novel – 500 words per page
Screenplay – 160 words per page
So now I know.
And so do you.
You know how it is. You work, and work, and work some more.
But since there’s always more that needs to be done, you feel you’ve accomplished nothing.
I have a habit of looking forward at the huge list of things I want to write, which currently numbers about fifteen storylines.
I feel so sorry for the poor little things, sitting on the back burner, waiting their turn. Waiting for me.
And that doesn’t take into account the twelve or so picture books, some of which are practically written.
Or that oh-so-brilliant idea I had to turn every screenplay I write into a novel and every novel into a screenplay. (Nothing like doubling your own work!)
Is it any wonder I feel I never get anything done?
Then the other day, when I realized that nearly three and a half years has passed since I obtained my MFA, I nearly freaked. How could I let so much time zip by without accomplishing anything?
At first I tried to console myself by remembering that during that time we sold our house, moved to an apartment, bought another house, and moved in. Buying, selling, and moving houses is rather time consuming. I should cut myself some slack. Maybe I have been a little lazy-
“You idiot!” A little voice called out.
I was offended. How dare that little voice speak to me like that. Why, I had half a mind to-
“Stop all that inner babble and listen,” the voice continued. “In those three and a half years you rewrote and published a novel, wrote and published two picture books, adapted three of your novels into scripts, wrote three original feature-length screenplays, and wrote the first draft of an entirely new novel. Does that sound like laziness to you?”
That silenced the inner babble. I turned to the little voice to thank it, but there was nothing there. The voice had come from inside my own head. From the logical part of me that can stand back and look at the big picture.
“Thank you!” I whispered. But I got no response.
The logical little voice is obviously the quiet type.
Okay, I’ll admit it. I was sad, mad, and confused.
We had the movie making class last night. Four scripts were up for the vote. Two by the instructor and the other two by students.
Being the good little student that I am I took the time to carefully read all four scripts. I thought mine held up reasonably well, so I was confident that even if my script wasn’t chosen, it at least would not be delegated to last place.
As soon as the instructor started class it became apparent that few people had read the scripts. So each was read out loud. I was ecstatic when I heard laughter in the right places.
After they were read, slips of paper were passed around and everyone wrote out their vote. The instructor and one of the students left the room to count the votes.
They returned with the news that there was a three-way tie. We needed to revote to break the tie between every script-but mine.
I was horrified! I had worked so hard on that script, yet it was so bad that it had been the only one knocked out by the first vote.
It took three more votes to choose a script. The instructor announced that the chosen script would need a major rewrite.
Five different people in the class turned to me and suggested that I help with the rewrite. I declined politely, but was surprised when my inner dialogue used words that don’t normally come out of my mouth. (Funny, that was a theme in the chosen script.)
‘Nuff said about that.
On the way home I tried to concentrate on driving and pushed the whole script thing out of my head. So I was almost home before I ran the numbers.
The instructor said he was leaving it up to us, so that left twelve students to vote on four scripts.
I voted for my own script in that first round, so I know it got at least one vote. But eleven cannot be divided by three equally, so there could be no three-way tie.
If my script got two votes, that leaves ten. Ten cannot be divided by three equally, so again no three-way tie.
If my script got three votes that leaves nine. Nine divided by three is three, so there would be a four-way tie.
So the vote was rigged. My guess is that the instructor wanted to make that particular short. Which is fine, since he is the instructor.
I just wish he hadn’t had to break my heart in the process.
Now I know what the ‘Glutton For Punishment’ club is all about.
I’m taking a class on movie-making. I don’t particularly want to make movies myself, but I do want to know what goes on behind-the-scenes. The more I know, the better my screenwriting will become.
Besides, it looks like a fun class.
We had the first class Saturday, and were told that during the next class we’ll vote on which script we’ll use.
Anyone in the class can write a script to put up for the vote. So, with my newfound entry into the GFP (glutton for punishment) club, I decided to give it a try.
The guidelines:
7-10 pages in length
Primarily interior scenes
Can be shot in very specific locations
Can be shot in a very restricted timeframe
Must include parts for 4 women and 5 men
Must be flexible enough that 1 more woman and 3 more men can be actors if they wish
All props and costumes must be easy to come by
Must be submitted to the instructor by Wednesday at midnight
Sunday we had a family get-together, so it was night before I could think through a few plot ideas. Monday morning I sat down to write. As soon as I had defined the personalities of my characters I felt much better about the whole thing.
I had no idea I’d spend the next seven hours writing. I don’t know what got into me.
I couldn’t stop!
I was driven to finish the script.
The only real break I took was to walk the dog. It seems that puppy-dog eyes trump writing mania.
I was so exhausted by the end of it that my body tingled all over and my brain shut down. If anyone would have asked me what 2 + 2 was, I wouldn’t have been able to give an answer.
But I had a script that met all the guidelines.
Being new to the GFP I pushed myself even harder.
Tuesday I did a rewrite, a polish, and submitted it.
I haven’t a clue what my classmates will think about it. We only met once. I don’t really know them at all well.
So I’m rather nervous about the vote.
But who knows, it might get chosen to be made.
If I’m very, very lucky.
I’ve been told the proof is on the way!
I can’t wait to hold it in my hands and flip through the pages.
The cover has character, don’t you think?
2016
Just seeing it written is exciting.
I love fresh starts.
The last few years have been full of upheaval. It started when new neighbors moved in next door. To say they were weird would put them in a better light than they deserve.
Our house, which we had lived in for thirteen years, had no side yard or backyard. So when these neighbors took an immediate dislike to me and my family we found ourselves in a bad situation.
If you’ve ever lived next door to someone who is determined to make your life miserable you’ll know what I mean. Things were done that made us jumpy and uncomfortable. We quickly began to feel we needed to close our curtains and keep the doors locked at all times.
Which made sense, since we were under attack and we were being watched. A drop camera was positioned so that it would capture both the only entrance and the interior of my house (which explains the desire to close the curtains). I thought of calling the police about it, until I noticed that the camera disappeared whenever we had company.
We were ready to dig in and fight back. Then we noticed that our other neighbors had decided to turn a blind eye to the bad behavior, and there was a lot of it, and act like the newbies were their best buds.
It disgusted me. Where was that community feeling we had been building for over a dozen years? Were they scared they’d be next, or did they just not care about us?
We were under constant stress. So we sold our house and moved to a noisy apartment in Ballard. It had a lot of inconveniences, but it felt safe. After a while we got over our shell-shock.
Mostly, at least. I still shiver when I remember the many, many things that happened the last year in that house.
When our lease was up on the apartment we bought this house. It has a huge yard with plenty of buffer from the neighbors, just in case.
I’m ready for the fresh start.
To 2016, and a new beginning.