Okay, so I’m going to write a screenplay. It’s my first one. I’ve read a small pile of books: SAVE THE CAT (and At The Movies) by the wonderful Blake Snyder: approachable, insightful, generous; HOW NOT TO WRITE A SCREENPLAY by Denny Flinn: amazing, direct, speaks to our good intelligence; SCREENWRITING FOR DUMMIES, which was a happy surprise. Laura Schellhardt covered a wide range of practical material, comprehensive on the ground floor stuff. Read Syd Field’s SCREENPLAY, aka: the Bible. There are a couple more I can’t see from here, and I also have Final Draft, the software I’ll need to use to write the screenplay when that time comes. I’ve done a full two hour tutorial so I know some of the finer details, fleshing in the physical context of the work.

Further, I’ve erected a couple huge bulletin boards in my hallway, across from my book shelves, that have been modified into resemble The Golden Key’s: the three act structure (in four equal rows), page numbered, and noted with structural needs for pacing and proportion.

My first job from here is to find (discover) my title and logline. Both elements should tell the whole story. The former in a few words, the latter in a few or fewer sentences. I’m starting here because it’s smart, and the best practical advice from minds far wiser than mine.

The title and the logline have to do a lot of heavy lifting. Together and apart they need to convey a lot of information to different types of people who need to know certain things about this story.

It should
• Provide a well described lead player, with a unique problem (act one),
• Carry a strong indication of the opposition with an implied struggle (a strong act two)
• Create a questionable outcome (act three) in the viewers mind
• Have potential for a full picture
• Suggest an interesting underlying question
• Imply the scope of materials and budget
• Suggest the genre/category and audience
• There must be irony

I have two titles and partial, rough loglines so far.

THE WIFE AND THE D.I.Y GUY
Tightly wound wife needs a second bathroom for her son’s backward wedding but she’s married to the adorable, non-pulsed D.I.Y guy, who hoards and slides backwards….

THE DISPATCHERS
In 2151, a MILF mom and home-schooled 12-year-old son kill bad guys to maintain world peace. Until one dashing bad guy fails to die, and steals the kid to boot. Mom will have to kill him or marry him to get the boy back.

From here I’m going to go into all my old notebooks, like 25 of them, and gather the bits and pieces and files and old ideas and see if I can’t create a bunch of good ideas for stories. I want the best ones to sing. They have to be funny, smart, make you laugh and cry, and that’s the goal from here.

New Venture

Okay, so I’m going to write a screenplay. It’s my first one. I’ve read a small pile of books: SAVE THE CAT (and At The Movies) by the wonderful Blake Snyder: approachable, insightful, generous; HOW NOT TO WRITE A SCREENPLAY by Denny Flinn: amazing, direct, speaks to our good intelligence; SCREENWRITING FOR DUMMIES, which was a happy surprise. Laura Schellhardt covered a wide range of practical material, comprehensive on the ground floor stuff. Read Syd Field’s SCREENPLAY, aka: the Bible. There are a couple more I can’t see from here, and I also have Final Draft, the software I’ll need to use to write the screenplay when that time comes. I’ve done a full two hour tutorial so I know some of the finer details, fleshing in the physical context of the work.

Further, I’ve erected a couple huge bulletin boards in my hallway, across from my book shelves, that have been modified to resemble The Golden Keys: the three act structure (in four equal rows), page numbered, and noted with structural needs for pacing and proportion. I have a handful of index cards and I'm not afraid to use them.

My first job from here is to find (discover) my title and logline. Both elements should tell the whole story. The former in a few words, the latter in a few or fewer sentences. I’m starting here because it’s smart, and the best practical advice from minds far wiser than mine.

The title and the logline have to do a lot of heavy lifting. Together and apart they need to convey a lot of information to different types of people who need to know certain things about this story.

It should

• Provide a well described lead player, with a unique problem (act one),
• Carry a strong indication of the opposition with an implied struggle (a strong act two)
• Create a questionable outcome (act three) in the viewers mind
• Have potential for a full picture
• Suggest an interesting underlying question
• Imply the scope of materials and budget
• Suggest the genre/category and audience
• There must be irony

I have two titles and partial, rough loglines so far.

THE WIFE AND THE D.I.Y GUY

Tightly wound wife needs a second bathroom for her son’s backyard wedding but she’s married to the adorable, non-pulsed D.I.Y guy, who hoards and slides backwards…. (I don't know the bigger conflict yet)

THE DISPATCHERS

In 2151, a MILF mom and home-schooled 12-year-old son kill bad guys to maintain world peace. Until one dashing bad guy fails to die, and steals the kid to boot. Mom will have to kill him or marry him to get the boy back.

From here I'm going to go through my 24 notebooks and files and collections of writing and bits and pieces and see if I can't come up with more ideas. I want one to just sing. I want it to be funny and daring and smart and

Quitting

So I’m taking this anthropology class now: forensics. All about dead people and skeletons and horror incarnate. Of course, I like the science and can manage to be objective, and pull myself away from the dead thing and pretend I’m a detective or a scientist and see what a person can see in bone or chemistry or decomposition. It’s really cool, and terrifying, but that’s why I took it.

Along with the class comes studying and I’m a loyal student. I work hard and put other things aside so I have time to think, which isn’t always easy. This semester I decided to work less and learn more, so my paycheck stinks, but my brain is full of bones and putrefaction. I had my first real test last week, first one in probably 10 years. Keep in mind I’m an A student, carried a 3.89 GPA steadily for over 20 years. So I sit down to take the test and guess what. I got a 75.

An f*ing 75.

Six chapters and nine questions, short answer and simple essay, and I can’t pull it off. Right into the side of the mountain I go. I think there must be a mistake, certainly. But no. I’m a screw up.

On Wednesday we had another test, this one called a “quiz” so it wouldn’t shrink any wieners, twenty two questions labeling the facets and features of the skull. Now, I’ve had two skulls in my kitchen for years: a cat and a skunk. I have books and charts and posters and anatomy books. I’ve been looking at skeletons and human framework for a long time, dinking around, interested. Anyway, guess what I got on the quiz.

Yup, a 75.

I don’t know how that happened. I worry now that when it rains I’ll just look up into the sky with my mouth wide open and drown. Thank goodness I live where I do. But more than the “I’m so stupid” thing, it’s the surety I feel going in that’s scary. I approach the tests with alacrity, with a bow in my hair, sharp pencils and shiny shoes. I’m completely ready, been forming questions in my mind for days, rattling off parts and pieces. I know my stuff and yet, I don’t. And now I’m seven weeks into the class with another test on Wednesday covering the vertebrae. I swear to god, all I can see now is another shit poor grade and for what? To create one more area of insecurity where I’d thought I’d clearly excel? That seems an unwise practice. Not something I’d advise someone I love. But if I quit now I’m just a dipshit. But quit I probably will.

I have friends trying their hardest to quit things and I only wish I could give them my superhuman abilities to do so. I’d like to turn this all around and tell myself to quit failing, but there’s some kind of mobius twist in there and I’d wangle myself out, offer a hundred excuses, each perfectly valid: Why bother? Why take it? Why not just read the books?

No one would care. The whole thing is less than a speck in the larger picture. I’ve certainly good reason to knock that off my list of things to do. It’d make perfect sense. In fact, my family would probably rejoice, fearful as they are of my penchant for the dark side. But I know I’m letting someone down and it’s awful, this feeling. I can’t decide who it is, this person, but it’s real. I hang my head at the foot of the formless form I kneel to in my mind, the one in the Library who smiles at me like she would a child.

I hear her take a deep breath and try to clear her mindful palate, take some sorbet or a cracker to ready herself for my next deprecating act, to chronicle my lesser self, the incompetent, neural small change, the one who can’t light a spark in that head of hers.

Hugging Schneider

My friend Chris got us tickets to see Rob Schneider at the Tempe Improv. Chris is on a meteoric rise to fame and glory in Hollywood and he’s working with Rob Schneider, the comic movie star. He’s no small stir. The guy’s been in our living room a hundred times.

Malcom and I drove to Tempe. I get nervous as a passenger so girded myself with a Xanax while I applied my makeup before leaving. I’d bought a new top for the occasion, it sparkled. So together with the blouse and the pharmaceuticals I was ready for the night ahead. By the time we arrived the lights inside were already low and the crowd had beat us there. We were seated up front, very VIP, right next to the stage. I looked up the nose of the emcee when he took the mic, a funny looking guy, skinny with wild hair, heavy black frame glasses and an Adam’s apple I’ll not soon forget. After him followed another funny man. Sitting that close almost made us family. I could smell his cologne and see the small tear in his jean’s front pocket and I wondered what kind of wages he made and if he had anyone in his life who might suggest a new pair of pants. When he was finished with us, the emcee bounced back up on stage and with wide arm gestures and a throaty howl, he introduced RoooOOob Schneiiiiiiiiider.

After a loud surge from the audience, he came up on stage: nice blue jacket and pants, prayer beads around his neck and sleepy blue eyes. He found his way to center stage and for an instant looked us over once and we did the same with him. “I know,” he lowers the mic stand, “you thought I’d be taller.”

There I sat in my chair, close enough to shine the guy’s shoes and I thought: you better wait one god damn second. I always say that when I greet my many fans. What the hell?

My seat sat lower than the stage itself, which was almost table height, so I’d been placed at a visual disadvantage for sizing him up any sooner, but once he got talking and the room settled down I heard my wee beacon go off. It signals when my people are near.

Right now in my life I live with all tall people. Even my kids are a foot taller than me, so hugs are done on tippy toes, with my cheek pressed tight against their chest. I’ve been hugging or kissing a tall man for almost 35 years, and for the most part it’s been Malcom. When I don’t stand on a chair to kiss him, I’m bent backward like a gymnast, like a comma, like a drunken close-parenthesis.

Rob Schneider went on and made me laugh, which added points so I forgave him for stealing my opening line. He was far more centered than I’d have thought. I didn’t note the frenetic energy expected. He was steady, smart, funny and even said the C word and totally got away with it. Everybody loved him.

Once the show finished Chris collected us along with a small huddle of people to spirit away and meet Rob. We climbed dark stairs with worn caution tape on the treads and made our way down a dark hall and wound up in a room high up, overlooking the seats and the stage. The room was black. Lights were recessed and dimmed, the dark carpet needed vacuuming. We huddled around, awkward. Had I taken three more Xanax I’d have been right at home.

Malcom sought the periphery and stood tall against the back wall, lighting it somehow, his quiet smile on low beams. We shook hands with Chris’s other friends and small talk had ensued when Rob joined our circle. He smiled humbly and greeted us in quiet tones. He shook the men’s hands and they nodded big, tight smiles. He leaned in to embrace Mrs. Valentino, Chris’s friend. She’s white haired and her form is nicely quilted. She stood about 5 foot 1 and knew this hugging business well, I could tell. They totally hugged it up. Now I’m thinking, isn’t this the coolest thing, a famous movie person risking croup and disease just to be nice. He’d finished his rounds when he leaned in toward me.

To ease things, I reached for the guy’s shoulders and tipped to the left so he’d know which way to bend. Seemed the least I could do. Then Rob Schneider hugged me too. We were a perfect fit. I mean it. The whole thing was great, I can’t lie. Nor can I remember hugging a grown man who fit me so well. I’m still stunned.

The hug lasted maybe three or four seconds and I found myself looking this guy right straight in the eye. My mind changed gears, my world context changed.

Everyone chatted about what I can’t say, most of us secretly awestruck and wondering why. In ten minutes the meet and greet wound down then came the big good bye, with still another show to go, and people shuffled about as Rob repeated the hand shakes and gave Mrs. Valentino one more good squeeze and a smooch on the cheek before he squared up for me.

I say wait, and step out of my shoes and drop three full inches. Barefoot, I’m now far shorter than our movie star and I hope it makes him happy. Short guys have it tough. So I go in for the hug, step right up and put my feet next to his, flat on the floor. This was a straight up ventral-ventral exchange. Our sternums searched for each other. My chin on his shoulder, I’m neither comma now nor inebriated parenthetical. He’s mine, nose to toes. I give him a bitty smack on the cheek and know I want to stay right there, but back away. A tiny snap I feel inside. A bookmark.

I wish we'd danced real slow.

Five

Five

I'm five feet tall
born one of five
wear size five clothes
Size five ring
Size five shoe

What's that mean?