Zang mostly rewrites

Cole Streaming On SundanceNow

2011-08-03T18:12:00.000-07:00

Cole is now streaming on the internet in the US!

Visit SundanceNow to watch the movie on your computer/television...

Halloween In Space, Vol 1 Num 1

2011-07-03T18:46:00.000-07:00

First issue is up at Kosmo Comiks!

Halloween In Spaaaace...

Halloween In Space

2011-07-03T14:52:00.001-07:00

Coming soon... Halloween In Space. A graphic melodrama about monsters on a space station.

"I thought I could escape my past in space..." --Frankenstein.

Mechanical Turk

2011-04-16T13:29:00.000-07:00

My recent foray on the Mechanical Turk website did not go well:
---------------------------------
Hi adamzang,

While the humor is appreciated, please make an honest attempt to help the person asking questions. We are approving this answer, but further submissions without an adequate answer will be rejected.
Thanks!
Conjecture Corporation
---------------------------------
Hi adamzang,

An answer you recently submitted did not sufficiently answer the question posed:

Our Question: Can you give me tips on playing Prince of Persia revelation on my PSP?

Your Answer: I think best thing you can do at this point is put the game down, eat a bowl of cornflakes, and then go out and meet some friends. One of these new friends will either know about Prince of Persia on PSP or have a friend or relative who does.

Unfortunately, your answer did not meet that requirement, but please feel free to try again.
Thanks,
The Conjecture Team
---------------------------------
Hi adamzang,

An answer you recently submitted did not sufficiently answer the question posed:

Our Question: What is metal ideology?

Your Answer: Metal ideology is the practice of dividing Heavy Metal bands from the 1980s into subcategories. For example, the band KISS is in the "Shitty" category.

Unfortunately, your answer did not meet that requirement, but please feel free to try again.
Thanks,
The Conjecture Team
---------------------------------
Hi adamzang,

An answer you recently submitted did not sufficiently answer the question posed:

Our Question: Are Interact gamepads worth the money?

Your Answer: I find that you can get cheap videogames on craigslist. However, you may also be kidnapped, so there is a risk there.

Unfortunately, your answer did not meet that requirement, but please feel free to try again.
Thanks,
The Conjecture Team
---------------------------------

I thought I was giving good advice, but I guess not.

Emancipation

2011-04-08T23:51:00.000-07:00

Genre: Horror
Subject: A Prodigy

Synopsis: A caretaker accepts an offer to look after a troubled young genius at his family’s home on Lake Erie’s northern shore. While encouraging the boy’s bizarre scientific pursuits, she becomes increasingly immersed in his grotesque experiments.

Emancipation

James Eaton was an imposing figure, his fiery ginger hair brushing against the saucepans dangling from the ceiling. He glared first at Daisy Clarke and then at his wife, sipping from a coffee mug and thumbing through Life magazine at the kitchen table. “I’m worried, Ms. Clarke,” he said. “That my boy has not been rightfully looked after.”
Daisy winced, the last copy of her reference letter crushed in Mr. Eaton’s paw. “I can assure you, sir, I am well versed in the methodology needed—”
“Our son is not normal,” Mr. Eaton said.
“He killed the dog,” Mrs. Eaton said, not looking up from her magazine.
“He needs supervision,” Mr. Eaton said, smoothing the reference letter on the counter. “He respects my presence when I am here, but when business draws me away…”
“We lived in New York for a short time,” Mrs. Eaton said.
Mr. Eaton took a deep breath. “The boy needs a guiding hand. As you may have noticed, our neighbors are few and far between. The schoolhouse is not an option at the moment.”
“The schoolhouse? He was enrolled at Columbia—” Daisy stopped short, knowing instantly that she had overstepped her bounds.
“If we wanted an analyst, we would have left Alexander at the goddamned sanatorium,” growled Mr. Eaton.
Daisy stood, flattening her skirt. “Mr. and Mrs. Eaton, as you know from my letter, I have cared for troubled boys—boys far more disturbed than Alexander. I believe my reputation precedes me, and if it has not, then shame on you. If I knew that I was going to be admonished like this, I do not think I would have endured the train ride.”
Mr. Eaton stared down at his shoes. “It was a tragedy, what happened to those boys, Ms. Clarke. You have my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“Can you cook?” Mrs. Eaton asked.
“I can,” Daisy said, exasperated.
Mr. Eaton took a bottle from the dumbwaiter, found it empty and opened another. “Stay the night, Ms. Clarke, and we will give you our decision in the morning.”
“Only if I can meet Alexander first,” Daisy replied.

She squinted into the afternoon gloom and saw the boy squatted over a fish carcass, probing at it with a geometry compass. Daisy hiked up her skirt and picked her way through the saw grass path toward the dunes, careful to make enough noise so as not to startle him.

“When I spoke out against the war, my parents placed me in a sanatorium,” Alexander said, scrubbing his hands raw with Tide Soap Flakes under the steady gush of well water.
“I heard it was because of the dog,” Daisy replied.
The boy locked the pump against the metal pole and stared out at Lake Erie. “Have you heard of eutrophication?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Take a look at my father’s forearm sometime. There’s a dent there the size of a jawbreaker.”
“Eutrophication is the causation of dents in forearms?” she playfully asked.
The boy smiled. “Sometimes.” He reached out for her hand, and she stepped back for a moment, startled by the adult gesture.
Alexander shrugged. “I just thought you might have trouble going uphill… in the sand… in those shoes.”
It seemed to her that the Alexander was imitating a theater show that he might have seen, or parroting a reproach his father would have given his mother. Charmed, she played along and took his hand. She was immediately grateful—the sharp heels of her boots counteracted gravity, and only the boy’s smooth palm prevented her from tumbling backward down the dunes.

Daisy was undressing when Mr. Eaton flung her door open and wobbled drunkenly in the doorway, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. She noticed the crater in his forearm, like someone had removed a potato and neglected to replace the earth. He smiled at her sheepishly. “The boy saved my life,” he said. “Insisting I go to that specialist.”
Mr. Eaton offered Daisy the job as Alexander’s caretaker on the slurred condition that she would care for the boy as she would one of her own. She dutifully accepted and had him sign the contract she had brought with her from Toronto in the event he did not recall the conversation in the morning.

Daisy woke up from her travel-induced slumber, her bladder full. She found the bathroom, careful to not make noise.
On her return, Daisy made a wrong turn, stumbling at the end of an unfamiliar hallway. A door was cracked open, and sounds of wet growling and hitched breathing escaped into the hallway.
Daisy glanced inside the room and saw two small twin girls sleeping fitfully on separate single beds, their sharp gray teeth biting at raw lips, lubricated with mucus and spittle. Their huge foreheads lolled from side to side, too heavy for their malnourished four year-old bodies. Only the cotton straps woven through the bed slats prevented the twins from crashing to the wood floor below.
One of the twins convulsed, rattling the glass bottles on the medicine table across the room. Her dead-fish eyes bulged, straining, before she relaxed and collapsed back into her discontented sleep.
“What are you doing?”
Daisy—startled—bit her tongue. With the taste of blood welling in her mouth, she turned and saw Alexander standing in the hallway, his flannel pajamas three sizes too large. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“My parents should have told you,” the boy said, leading Daisy back to her room. “The nursemaid had the night off and I’m sure it just slipped their mind.”

In the morning, Daisy attempted to make small talk with the nursemaid, but the large, sullen woman spoke only in grunts and muttered about dry toast.
Through the window, the clouds had not lifted and Daisy could barely make out Mr. Eaton in a rowboat on the lake. The dinghy traversed a circular pattern through the choppy waves, Mr. Eaton’s strong arm outpacing the weaker one.
Daisy was about to take a sip of water when Alexander banged into the kitchen from the outdoors, wearing yellow rubber gloves and carrying a wet canvas bag filled with green lake algae. “Don’t drink that,” he said, taking Daisy’s glass and dumping its contents into the sink.
Alexander grabbed Daisy’s hand with his slimy gloves and pulled her down the stairs into the poorly lit basement before she had time to protest. “The water isn’t safe,” Alexander said, tugging on two naked light bulbs. The boy yanked off his gloves and tossed them into a bucket in the corner. He reached into a crate marked Sparklett’s Bottled Water and came out with two glass bottles. He popped the caps with his teeth and handed one to Daisy. “If you’re going to be my au pair, I want you to stay alive at least a little while.”
Alexander drank deep while Daisy took a tentative sip. “I tried to get my father to invest in water purification,” he said. “But he’s more interested in real estate. I told him that he has to get out of the market by ‘28—1929 at the latest.”
“I read that you were quite the little economist,” Daisy said, exploring the cramped quarters, blanching when she caught scent of a tub of rancid algae.
“They wanted me to be, but I sort of sabotaged that by championing Socialism, railing against war, and expressing my concerns that there was no God to save us.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I want to be an explorer and botanist. Like Meriwether Lewis. Only in South America or along the Nile or something like that. I hated New York.”
“Tell me about your dog, Alexander.”
The boy rummaged through a milk crate and started setting beakers and flasks on the tin shelf attached to the crumbling basement wall. “Rufus had a tumor on his skull that you could see through his fur,” he said. “It was interesting to me. And if you want to think that I killed him, go ahead. You wouldn’t be the first.”
“I’m on your side,” Daisy said.
Alexander struck a match and lit a Bunsen burner. He handed Daisy a pair of aviator goggles. “Then put these on. We’re testing for phosphates.”

It was nearly dawn when Alexander shook Daisy awake. “One of the twins died,” he said. Mrs. Eaton and the nursemaid’s wails competed upstairs while Daisy boiled three bottles of Sparklett’s water for tea. Mr. Eaton sat at the table, playing with his cufflinks.
Alexander trundled down the stairs in a dark charcoal suit, and Daisy noticed Mr. Eaton’s face blush a deep red. “What is this now?” he barked at his son.
“I want to observe the autopsy,” Alexander said.
“Autopsy? There is no autopsy.”
“But we need to determine the cause of death.”
“She has suffered enough. I will not tolerate one more word—”
“Father—” Alexander crumpled to the floor, Mr. Eaton’s blow to his head so swift that it seemed to Daisy that it might not have even occurred.

After three days, Alexander broke his silence. “I was excited about having a younger sibling,” he said. “But then the twins just came out all wrong.”
Daisy and Alexander were reading in the attic, the rain pattering against the skylight. “I’m sorry about your sister,” Daisy said.
“She was in a lot of pain.”
Daisy nodded. “I read about eutrophication,” she said. “Phosphates from pollution causing mutations in the marine life.”
“No one believes me. They go fishing and cavorting in that goddamn lake all the time.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. “I believe you, Alexander.”
“You do?” The boy’s bruised eyes filled and then welled over.
Daisy let him sob into her frock, not minding the wet tears on her collarbone. She played with his hair until he was silent and exhausted. He exhumed himself from her grip, and she carefully wiped his swollen face with her handkerchief.
“Who knows,” he said. “My parents probably even had intercourse in there.”
Daisy laughed, unable to contain herself.

Mr. Eaton left on business with the nursemaid in tow, agreeing that she deserved a much-needed week with her sister in Oshawa. Daisy consented to make sure that the remaining twin was fed and given her medicine.
Alexander helped with the nursing duties, despite Daisy’s protests. He changed the toxic diapers, cleaning his sister with a love and care that Daisy could not even pretend to muster.
They settled into a comfortable routine, eating large breakfasts and playing badminton in the front yard when the wind died down in the evening. Mrs. Eaton, Daisy learned, kept the same schedule as the housecat, and slept more often than not.

The sun made an appearance and Daisy basked outside in its glow. Alexander sat next to her in the sand, restless.
“Tell me about the boys you took care of before me,” he said. “What were their names?”
Daisy propped herself up on her elbow, deep in thought.
“I read your reference letter. They were in a sanitorium. Like me.”
“Julian and Samuel. They were brothers.”
Alexander waited for her to continue.
“They had some bad things happen to them when they were little, and then they did some bad things to other children, but Julian and Samuel had kind souls. I don’t believe boys your age are capable of evil.”
“How come you’re not taking care of them anymore?”
“They decided to commit suicide, Alexander.”
“Oh.”
“I did my best to protect them, but everyone was just so… brutal. I did my best.”
“I believe you.”
“They deserved better.”
They sat there in the sun for a moment, and Daisy knew that Alexander had something to tell her. “You said that you were here to help me,” he said.
Daisy nodded and let him lead her into the house.

The twin’s body was rigid; her eyes open in frozen agony.
“How did this happen?” Daisy asked.
“That’s what I need to find out,” Alexander said.
He had cleared the medicine bottles off the table and laid out the set of kitchen knives, bottles of Sparklett’s water, two sets of yellow rubber gloves, and both pairs of aviator goggles.
“The first thing I need you to do is give my mother a sleeping pill,” the boy said.

Daisy sat next to Mrs. Eaton’s bed, her thoughts blank. She waited to make sure that Mrs. Eaton did not move, and then stood, flattening her skirt.

The boy was methodical. He began by turning the twin on her back, and made a jagged incision under the rib cage.
Daisy blinked behind her aviator goggles, the sound of muscle tissue tearing nearly causing her to retch. She imagined the glistening lung she helped Alexander extract was a jellyfish—the tumors lining the viscous flesh were hatchlings clinging to their mother’s tendrils. Daisy and Alexander were setting them free.
The second lung tore in half, the stench overwhelming Daisy, sending her hurtling down the stairs, through the kitchen and out onto the lawn. She rested her face on the cool grass, breathing deep into the clean, damp earth.

Daisy gathered herself. There was still a lot of work to be done and the boy needed her help.

Alexander brooded on the floor, the blood congealing on the sheets and seeping through the feathertick mattress. “I regret it,” he said, composure faltering. “I didn’t need to open her up for proof.”
Daisy knelt tenderly down next to him. “It’s okay, Alexander. We just need to clean up and everything will be right as rain.” She tried to hug the boy but he jerked away.
“I want my mother,” he said.
Hurt, Daisy watched him slump out of the room. She thought that she had understood him. She thought all he needed was a push in the right direction from an understanding adult, a conduit to help realize his genius. She had the best intentions for him, but it pained her to realize that he was still a boy who needed his mother.
She padded down the hall and heard the boy sobbing. Daisy grimaced and opened the door to Mrs. Eaton’s room.
Alexander looked up, cheeks streaked with tears. “I didn’t ask you to kill her, Daisy,” the boy said.
“Stop being such a child.”

Daisy could hear the automobile motors rumbling in the distance: the Port Dover fire engine, the ambulance, perhaps a hearse. She decided that she had gone for a long stroll along the lakeshore. When she returned, the twin’s room was a terrifying sight and Mrs. Eaton had been smothered in her sleep. Daisy had rushed outside in a panic and saw the boy’s body floating facedown in the Great Lake, his dead eyes staring down at the eutrophic algae below. It was a tragedy for a boy of such a young age to take his own life.
She would give it a proper amount of time before she allowed herself to ask Mr. Eaton for a reference letter.

Fredette's Sister

2011-02-16T22:14:00.000-08:00

Part of the nycmidnight.com short story contest. The assignment, write a story on a surprise genre and subject in one week under 2500 words.

Genre: Mystery

Subject: Begging

Title: Fredette's Sister

No one had killed, raped, or Shanghai’d her. Of that much, Fredette could be sure. Men were honest about those things, and too many had witnessed the porcupine-shaped birthmark on the back of her neck—deep purple against her pale skin—as she left town after town to think otherwise.

Despite the sightings, it worried Fredette that every man who tried to recall her face could only remember the face of their dead wives, their mothers, the girls they loved when they were too little to know any different. Fredette did not even have a photograph to reassure himself that these descriptions were false.

Sister where are you going to. Pleese wait.

As Fredette traveled, his suitcase grew lighter. The winter came along the way, and he wore his clothes instead of packing them. He picked up the telegrams he had wired ahead for Hannah, still unclaimed at each office, and used them to fill the empty suitcase. He distrusted its weight and opened it frequently to check to see that the telegrams were still there, the ribbons of curled paper tied at the middle with worn twine.

Rest there and we will travel together. I bought an ass to cart your belongings. I know what they mean to you.

Fredette received just one telegram. It was in Minneapolis, sent by way of Fargo. “Hg” was all that it had read. Fredette kept it in his breast pocket, thinking it might manufacture a dream she wanted him to see.

Stay there Hannah. What who is hg. Pleese reply.

Like others before him, the telegrapher in Fargo did not remember her face but could draw the birthmark from memory, the quills the same color as faded ink.

Fredette bought his second donkey there. The first had turned ornery and rheumy, worn out from hauling his sister’s heavy trunk on the two-wheeled cart. He wired ahead to the next town, the one after that, and the one after that. “What is another word for ‘beg?’” Fredette asked the telegrapher.

“Plead.”

“How do you spell that?” Fredette asked, dropping coins on the table.

I pleed of you just write me that you are fine.

He followed her sightings through the Great Plains, grew the first beard of his life, and slept in between two warring buffalo herds. The Indians, upon seeing Fredette—skin, clothes, horse, and ass all the same rusted color—allowed him to stumble through their country in peace.

I am in Dedwood til morning. A man here gave you food and a bed. He has done the same for me.

His sister’s footprints stopped at the Pacific Ocean. Fredette was at the end of the telegraph wire, almost out of money but filled with hope. He had studied the ship ledgers, accounting for every name and alias on the books, from Jimmer Aardsma to Y. Zovlov, and found no hint of Hannah Spalding. Either she was close or she had sprouted feathered wings and flown upwards, finding the place birds live when they leave the earth behind.

I saw a campfire miles away in the dark and it filled my heart to know I was not alone. Know you are not alone Hannah. I am with you always.

But the few souls trudging across the muddy avenues near the ocean did not like to raise their eyes. They did not like to witness the lost, and they did not want to talk to a man like Fredette.

You have disapointed me sister. If you do not wish for me to follow tell me now.

Fredette witnessed a trap-door walkway drop surprised drunks into a wet pit. The hotelier told Fredette that the drunks would be roped together and stuffed into a ship’s cargo hold, fed only water and rice until Shanghai. This had not been Hannah’s fate—Fredette checked the registers, this time finding descriptions instead of names: Male, Jew nose, strong; Female, small breasts, loud; Male, one hand, frightened. Records were kept for everything, Fredette learned, as if waiting for a man like him to scrutinize history.

The hotelier, needing no invitation, read the ledger over Fredette’s shoulder. “Most of them came through here at one time or the other. It is easy to remember when they are described so simply.”

This hotelier, unlike the others, had not seen Hannah. He could not tell Fredette which way she had traveled. “There is someone out past Rattlesnake Mountain,” the hotelier said. “I have heard he has been known to answer questions that cannot be found.”

“I am not interested in Indians or mystics,” Fredette said. “I need facts.”

“If your sister wants to talk to you, he may be able to help you listen.”

“A medium?” Fredette asked, still skeptical.

The hotelier shook his head. “A scientist. I cannot explain any more than that. He may or may not let you in. You have to qualify.”

“What does it mean to qualify?”

The hotelier shrugged his shoulders. “I only listen to conversations, mister, and I have told you all I heard.”

Do you ever dream of your son? Do you remember what you had?

Fredette readied to leave in the morning. He scrubbed his thin shirts with coarse soap, contemplating whether to leave his sister's trunk at the hotel or to cart it with him to the scientist's cabin in the mountains. For the first time since he packed it, Fredette decided to open the trunk—he had resisted until now, worried that the sight of her belongings would depress him.

He popped the latches, jiggered the lid loose, and lifted. Tears immediately welled in Fredette's eyes. The clothes, shoes, and hatboxes were coated in dirt and leaves. Most items were worn through, as if a miniature cyclone had ripped through them in a self-contained dustbowl.

He lifted the trunk with a whimper and found a small hole on the bottom, perhaps caused by a rock outside of Sioux Falls, a stump in Pierre...

Fredette chided himself. If only he had opened the trunk or noticed the damage early on—he could have prevented the destruction that followed.

I must rest for a few days sister. Sickness has rendered me to bed. Pray that I be well and I the same for you.

Fredette found the scientist outside of an A-frame cabin in the mountains, leveling a pine board in between two sawhorses—he looked more like a carpenter than a man who could find Fredette’s sister. “My name is George Fredette and I am searching for a woman named Hannah Spalding.”

The scientist took a nail from his mouth and hammered it into the board. “Why are you looking for her?” he asked.

Fredette thought about Hannah’s doll he secretly coveted when he was a child. He remembered walking with her on a busy street, her fingernails digging into his wrist, slightly telling him which why to turn, like a knee in a horse’s ribs. “She is my sister,” Fredette said.

When he saw that the scientist was expecting a more elaborate answer, Fredette worried that he was about to be turned away. "I have traveled from Chicago, and I will not rest until I see her home." His eyes filled too quickly to wipe away without the scientist noticing.

“I build things,” the scientist said. “As a means of communication. I am not a Christian and I cannot help you if you want to speak to the dead.”

“She is not dead,” Fredette said, suddenly angry. “She has a birthmark that people have seen as evidence.”

“Why is it again you wish to find her?”

“She knows not what she is doing.” Fredette studied the scientist and knew he still was not satisfied. “She always needed looking after.”

“Is she ill?”

“Yes. Yes, ill twice over. So ill she would abandon her child and take the money left from the child's father. She does not know herself.”

“Is her voice affected?”

“Pardon?”

“She speaks clearly?”

“It is not the sort of illness that affects speech, sir.”

“You know her voice out of a thousand voices?”

"What does her voice have to do with her disappearance?"

"Nothing, Mr. Fredette."

"Then why—"

"Leave now."

Fredette took a step back, as if shot with a small caliber rifle. The scientist shaved a corner off the board and blew it away. Fredette swallowed. "I will not, sir."

The scientist frowned at his woodwork. “Then please refrain from asking questions for which you will not understand the answers.”

Fredette bit the inside of his cheek and clenched his fists.

"Do you know her tone by rote?” the scientist asked. “If another woman spoke, you would know if it was a false voice?"

Fredette thought about the Lord’s Prayer, the shriek at the sight of a wolf spider, the yells of a woman beginning to find herself lost. “Yes,” he said. “A thousand times yes.”

The scientist lifted the board and carried it behind the cabin. Fredette followed, stopping short when he saw the wooden apparatus in the meadow beyond: a colossal bowl, twice the size of a theater stage, constructed from pine boards and nails. Strapped to the wood, metal tubes lined the interior of the bowl like flower petals.

The scientist knocked his board into a gap in the bowl, and turned to face Fredette. "I will need your help to finish this, and then I will return the favor and listen for your sister."

I know you are ashamed and confused. Running away does not cure it.

The scientist gave Fredette bread and cheese. Even though the scientist was a head taller, Fredette felt like a giant in the small cabin, unable to find a smart resting place for his elbows and knees. "Forgive me," Fredette said. "I may not understand the answer, but I still wish to know how you plan to locate my sister."

The scientist chewed for a moment before swallowing. "You are familiar with the telegraph wire?"

Fredette only nodded, the messages in his suitcase heavy in his mind.

“Imagine that you are sending a wire to your sister thirty miles away. Your message is transcribed into code, tapped out, and then rearranged at the other end. She reads the message and then tells the telegrapher her reply. My invention, Mr. Fredette, disseminates her voice into code, sends it to where you are standing thirty miles away—if you are lucky enough to have an apparatus such as the one behind this cabin—and transcribes her exact words into the room. “

"You were correct: I do not understand. Hannah is the smart one."

"Imagine a phonograph. It plays sound from a recording. Now imagine that your sister speaks in that room thirty miles away. I immediately turn her voice into a recording and play it through my phonograph."

"How—"

"Imagine, Mr. Fredette. No matter where she is, when she speaks it would be as if she is in this room with us. That is why when we do find a voice, you must be able to identify it as hers, otherwise we may be misled."

Fredette only comprehended the word "we," and after so much time traveling alone, decided to put his faith in the scientist.

I remember that you took care of me when father thought I would die from newmoania. You told me to be brave. Do you remember.

The blisters on Fredette's hands felt good and honest. He planed the logs and corded them into neat stacks. The scientist measured and leveled the boards, asking Fredette questions while they worked.

"Is she a soprano or contralto?"

"The one in between."

"Mezzo-soprano?"

Fredette nodded.

"Does her pitch rise or fall when she is angry?"

"It falls."

"And when she is happy?"

"I do not know."

"What if she tells you she does not want to be found?"

"I believe—I do believe that was her intent from the beginning."

"Then why pursue her across the continent?"

"Because there is still doubt in my mind, sir."

You have more to contributte to this world than me H. Let the demons take me and free you.

Wires were tangled at the base of the scientist's back wall, like worms emerging from the floorboards.

They had knocked the last plank into place earlier that day, and the scientist had busied himself untangling copper wire for the rest of the afternoon.

Fredette drank burnt coffee and waited.

As darkness fell, the scientist lit the lamp and beckoned Fredette over to the table, clamping one last wire from the wall to a dark mahogany box brimming with metal screws, coils, and gears.

A sound filled the room, like the box stole the outside air and trebled it. Fredette rubbed his ears, disoriented. The scientist detached a wire and fastened it to a bolt on the other end of the box. The room fell silent.

Suddenly, a voice.

Fredette leapt up from the table, frantically searching the shadows for an intruder. The voice continued, garbled, as if underwater. The scientist made another adjustment, and the voice gained focus: an old woman’s words, raspy with age—a muttered prayer for her husband.

The scientist looked to Fredette for affirmation. Fredette, pale, shook his head.

I am frightened that you will grow old and not know the mareacal of your childs smile.

“My calibrations were off,” the scientist explained. “In the morning, I will make an adjustment. Do not worry, Mr. Fredette. We are close.”

Preparing for bed, Fredette emptied his pockets and unfolded the telegram from Fargo. “What do you think ‘hg’ means?” he asked the scientist.

The scientist studied the slip of paper. “H is your sister’s first initial, correct?”

“That does not explain it.”

“No it does not.” The scientist left the cabin and relieved himself. When he returned, his eyes were bright. “Hg is the periodic symbol for mercury,” he said.

The scientist opened a kit and brought out a vial, shaking it under the lamp’s light. He poured a drop from the vial onto a piece of paper, the mercury an otherworldly silver globule on the white surface.

“It is poisonous, is it not?” asked Fredette.

The scientist nodded. “Beautiful though.”

“That does not explain the telegram.”

“No, Mr. Fredette, but what will?”

I do not understand why you left sister. But I will listen to your reasons.

Nightfall again, the trebling of sound, the silence.

Fredette took a deep breath, inhaling the charged air. He knew then that when he heard his sister’s voice, it would not sound as he remembered. It would carry a timbre unknown, a frightening dissonance between what he wished to hear and how the box on the table transcribed her words.

Fredette would close his eyes, his sister’s face finally clear in his mind, and attempt to prolong the moment for as long as he could. He would imagine his heart paused, his blood still, his sister’s voice frozen somewhere in the ether, and then Fredette would breathe again.

You are foregiven H. Love G Fredette.

New Things

2010-11-28T15:30:00.000-08:00

So, this writer now lives in Phoenix, Arizona. It is definitely better for sanity than Seattle.

A couple of movie ideas that have been floating around in my mind:

1. A zombie movie based loosely on Dante's Inferno
2. Something to do with my childhood. When I played baseball with my friends in the backyard, the oak tree was designated as first base, the rock was second base, and the pot plant was third base.
3. I think it would be great to write something about people who fall into a bundle of illegal money and have to figure out how to smuggle it out of the country. How would YOU do this? How do you get fake passports/make it work/survive without any experience or connections?

I Tweet

2010-10-22T21:52:00.000-07:00

I just signed up for this twitter thing @shouldvesaid. It's not really about screenwriting, but in the future, someone may say something about screenwriting... I don't know though-- they haven't not said it yet.

Cole Screens and Goes VOD

2010-09-07T14:21:00.000-07:00

From the press release:

COLE: Opens at Tinseltown, Vancouver, Friday September 17th, 2010.
Special screenings Saturday September 18th, 2010 with Director Carl Bessai and lead actor Richard de Klerk along with other cast in attendance.
Watch for screening times http://www.cinemaclock.com/bri/Vancouver-upcoming-movies.html

COLE will open in Edmonton, Friday, October 14^th, 2010 with Director – Carl Bessai and Richard de Klerk in attendance for evening screening Saturday, October 15^th, 2010

This Canadian theatrical release caps off COLE’s fantastic international festival run starting in September, 2009 with its World Premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival. It went on to play numerous festivals across Canada and Internationally in Pusan, Korea and the Moscow International Film Festival where it took a “Special mention by the Film Critics Jury.”

Rampart Films has been privileged to work with a great sales agent over the past year: Andrew Herwitz, President, The Film Sales Company, New York. As a result, COLE has been licensed to IFC’s Sundance Selects and will be available on VOD to over 50 million subscribers across the US, starting September 15^th, 2010.

http://www.sundanceselects.com/films/cole

Cole Has Laurels

2010-09-05T10:18:00.001-07:00

You know those fancy leaves movie poster get for film festival screenings? Well, to borrow from Vince Vaughn, our movie is all grows up, baby. Check out the laurels.

Read more about Cole's success on the Festival circuit here. Be sure to like Cole on Facebook to follow more updates.

A Great Moment in Mad Men (Re)Writing

2010-07-30T00:40:00.000-07:00

I've been out of the loop for the past couple of weeks working on a rewrite for Northbridge (a murder mystery set on Lake Superior). The biggest problem I was dealing with was how to connect the beginning of the script's climax--the point where the protagonist finally puts the pieces together--to fit the plot we have so intricately put together.

Our goal with the scene was to be able to tell it without overkill exposition ("You did it because you felt this way!"), and hopefully get the point across without any dialogue at all (the "ah ha!" where the lady next to you will say, "Oh, shit, didn't see that one coming.")

But I couldn't find a solution... until I re-read the script. A visual in one our first scenes is a metaphor for the secrets being kept in this small town, and I realized that this visual could be applied to the "ah-ha!" moment that leads us to the climax. It's a classic "call back" to what the audience has already seen, but adds another layer (hopefully) to the overall impact of the moment.

To get into specifics (which I've failed at so far), the first episode of Mad Men Season 4 does a brilliant job at this:

After her Sugarberry Ham PR stunt blows up, Peggy shows up at Don's door with her "finance" by her side. Peggy explains her predicament, Don scolds her, and then her "finance" interjects. Don puts him down, Peggy stands up for him, and Don says (paraphrasing), "You shouldn't have brought him if you didn't want to get him involved."

A great moment. A great Don Draper line.

Later in the episode, Don brings his kids back to Betty's (his) house and waits for her to come home with her new husband Henry. When she shows up an hour late, Don gives Betty the option of talking with him alone. She declines, and asks Henry to stay. And while none of the characters say it, this creates a corollary: Betty knows Don and knows she is getting Henry involved. Betty, like Peggy, will not take Don on by her lonesome.

My best guess is that this corollary came about during the Mad Men writers meetings. Matt Weiner is a great writer, but it is from my experience that these great moments (epiphanies!) are realized after the first draft is out there. Weiner has an excellent staff and I bet they helped fill in the beats-- connect as much as you can in your script-- what you have in the beginning will let you call back what you have already laid out.

But it could be he had everything planned out. Never underestimate a man with a contract.

Creating corollaries? Why is this good? Callbacks. Just like jokes, plot points that repeat themselves in different ways will hook your audience and remind them why they love your story.

The Black Hole in the Kitchen

2010-06-23T18:50:00.000-07:00

Here it is, the full short film version of "The Black Hole in the Kitchen." Kudos to Elliot for being such a fine director, and to the actors and crew-- it's always amazing to have talented folks make my words into something better than they have any right to become.

I hope you viewers enjoy the melodrama...

The Black Hole in the Kitchen from Elliot Eustis on Vimeo.

Mike McLaughlin talks about his greatness

2010-06-12T09:24:00.000-07:00

Check out this interview with Mike McLaughlin, superb director of two of my short films.

I have no doubt he will kill at the Much Music Awards. Watch his nominated video below. I like it.

Cole at the Leos

2010-06-12T09:14:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Chad Willett for picking up the Leo Award for Best Supporting Actor last Saturday. Read about the festivities here.

Also, big ups to Cole's 'b' camera operator Steven Deneault whose short film "The Gray Matter" won a whole boatload of awards.

Thank you to the whole Cole family for being so damn awesome.

Adventures with Zissou on my mind

2010-06-05T10:32:00.000-07:00

I have added a link to my email on the left hand side of this little blogspot. Please let me know if you know of any place in Seattle to get good chicken wings. I searched all of the restaurant reviews on the interweb and the top result was a resounding "none." You can also contact me if you have questions about screenwriting or anything else that might be on your mind.

Off to the Leo Awards tonight and then script meetings tomorrow... In the words of the great Steve Zissou, "This is an adventure."

Cole Nominated for 10 Leos

2010-05-05T19:36:00.000-07:00

The Leo Award (British Columbia's film and TV awards) have given Cole 10 nominations! Congratulations to Richard, Kandyse, Rebecca, Sonja, Chad, Carl, Mark, Clinton, Irene, Jason, Kimani & Dylan for your nominations... And congratulations to all of us for the Best Picture nomination. Woot!

Read list of Leo nominees here.

The Black Hole in the Kitchen

2010-05-01T23:12:00.000-07:00

Four years ago I wrote a short script called 'The Black Hole in the Kitchen" that was performed at the Cold Reading Series in Vancouver. It was the first time in my life that something I had written was performed by other people-- the rush of seeing it live made me realize that being a real writer might actually be possible.

Elliot Eustis, my friend since we were 8 years old (ask us about our first short we filmed when we were 14: "Huntin' City Folk"), just handed me the finished DVD for "The Black Hole in the Kitchen" and I couldn't be more proud. Look for it soon at a film festival near you.

Triggerstreet

2010-04-07T21:10:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to pass along a link to Triggerstreet.com in case any writers (screenwriters or otherwise) have not heard about it... for some reason, it's tough to find on a Google search when looking for peer reviews:

Triggerstreet.com is a fantastic site to post your screenplays and other writings. It's a peer review site where you review randomly selected scripts and in turn, your script is randomly reviewed. There are a few other sites like Triggerstreet out there, but if you're looking for a wide variety of honest feedback (for free) this is the site.

Happy writing (and reviewing).

Shawshank: A Scene of Hope

2010-03-05T18:56:00.000-08:00

So I'm trying something a little different tonight. I'm about halfway through a new feature script, about to start a spec short for the brilliant Mike McLaughlin, director of my short film "Sleepless," and felt like I was getting into a rut...

I needed hope. I needed some Johnny Cash and the Shawshank Redemption. I listened to Walk the Line and then remembered that I had written a script at VFS supposing that Shawshank needed another scene. The assignment? Hope and nothing but. I dug up the scene and that is posted below in the *hope* that inspiration springs eternal.

A disclaimer here that these pages are now four years old and that I was not really a co-writer on probably the best movie of the '90s.

Shaw Shank

Movies I Wish I Had Time to Write

2010-02-02T19:12:00.000-08:00

It took 3.8 years from writing the first page of Cole and to its took to premier in Toronto. I supposed that timeframe is pretty normal (unless you are Carl Bessai, who is a creative-talent-driven-filmmaking-maniac, which is the biggest compliment I can think of at the moment), and usually it takes even longer from idea conception to big screen showcase. Take Deathbed: The Bed Who Eats for example. It was shot in Detroit in 1973 and didn't have its official release until 2003...

Anyway, that being said, here is a brief list of movies I would love to write, but probably will never have the time to finish:

1. Something about astronauts.

NASA astronauts mainly just sit around the office, attend meeting after endless meeting, and give talks to local elementary schools. There's got to be a movie in there somewhere, maybe a Jarhead meets Bad Santa pic?

My favorite movie astronauts: Sam Rockwell in Moon, Dave in 2001, and the entire cast from Danny Boyle's Sunshine (which is an amazing film definitely worth Netflixing).

2. A movie about making movies.

I would love to try this, but don't know if I know enough about the process yet. I think a movie about a film school student or fresh out of film school director trying to make a (short) film about zombies would be great. Or... what about a movie the guy who does trailer voiceovers?

My favorites movies about making movies: Adaptation, State and Main, 8 1/2
My favorite trailers: A Serious Man (seriously, that thing is a masterpiece... the movie is pretty boss too), Where the Wild Things Are, Deathbed: The Bed Who Eats

3. A movie about a supervillain

So we've all seen Spiderman, Batman, and Superman, but what about a feature film dedicated to the rise and fall of Electro or Bizarro Superman? How interesting would their stories be, and how fun would it be to try and make the audience fall in love with an eventual supervillain?

My favorite supervillains: Can't beat Heath and/or Jack's Jokers.

Starting a New Script

2010-01-11T15:12:00.000-08:00

So I actually made the bold move of plotting out notecards on a corkboard today to outline a new script idea. Starting a new project is like embarking on a survival mission, a mssion that require a lot of puzzle pieces to fit into place. From my limited experience, here is what you need when you begin work on creating a screenplay:

A good idea.
A great story.
Better characters.

When you have those in order, you can go from the meta to the concrete:

A corkboard.
A stack of notecards.
Thumbtacks.
Pens of three different colors.
A pot of Silver Cup Coffee.
A six pack of a microbrew in the fridge.
An ipod with a playlist of about 300 background songs which will bring out some kind of empathy/emotion while you work (for me, a huge mix includes, but is not limited to, Chad Van Gaalen, Leonard Cohen, La Roux, Explosions in the Sky, and Al Green).
A copy of Blake Snyder's Save the Cat on hand.
An inspirational photo/poster on the wall (for me, Bo Jackson circa 1988 hitting a home run).
A quick link to the Hero's Journey wikipedia page.
Good luck.

Can Anyone Translate This?

2010-01-07T17:35:00.001-08:00

Worst Movie Idea Ever

2009-12-24T15:40:00.000-08:00

I always have a hard time falling asleep at night—a direct correlation to the fact that I keep working in my head on whatever writing project I have lined up while trying fall asleep. After another five hour night, I decided to try another tactic. If I have to work out my thoughts before I fall asleep, why not work on something less stressful? This is how I came about trying to come up with the Worst Movie Idea Ever. What is less stressful than trying to come up with a pitch for what you know (or hope to be) the worst movie ever? Writers are always trying in vain to reach perfection (all the while painfully self-aware that perfection can never be attained), so why not ease the burden?

I do have several criteria for coming up with this hypothetical Worst Movie Idea Ever:

It cannot be a recycled bad movie set in another place or with interchangeable characters. For (a bad) example: two tribes of warring Teddy Bears from a far off galaxy choose earth as their final battleground. So no transforming teddy bears allowed.
It has to be high concept, easily explainable in a paragraph.
It has to suck, but in such a sucky way that you could pause and think, “Hey, why hasn’t that been made into a movie yet?”

Okay, so with that prelude, here is my first attempt at the Worst Movie Idea Ever:

Cirque du Death

Circus performers all over America are turning up murdered. A clown in Topeka is found mutilated in the cotton candy mixer; a trapeze artist in Des Moines is found half-eaten in the lion’s cage; a bearded lady in El Paso is blown up in a clown car... The FBI knows that a circus serial killer is on the loose, but have no clue how to capture the culprit until a young agent convinces the FBI to stage their own circus, with crack performers from all over the world. The serial killer would have no choice but to take the bait… but the killer is more cunning than they could ever imagine. As circus performer after circus performer meets their doom, the young FBI agent—undercover as a lion tamer—must solve the crimes before the Big Top Killer preys on him.

Problem is, I think this is a little too good to be the Worst Movie Idea Ever (JLZ—formally JLG—even went as far as to say she couldn’t wait to see it in 3-D, and another friend said he would put money on it as the next big summer comedy…)… maybe I have to come up with something better (worse). Ideas (good and bad) are always appreciated.

Montreal Gives Cole Encouraging Review

2009-11-20T16:19:00.000-08:00

Arts and Opinion, a fine Montreal magazine, recently gave Cole a grand review. A glimpse at Robert J. Lewis' article:

Memorably caught in the cross hairs of Bessai’s relentlessly roving eye are the film’s many subplots that are neatly warped and woofed into a cohesive narrative. In a writing class, Cole meets Serafina (Kandyse McClure), who is Black and beautiful and wears gold. But contrary to expectation, their budding relationship will be forced to run not the race but the class gauntlet. Cole’s small-minded friends, who fear the written word, resent him for writing about what he knows best, but they don’t want to let him go. With a way out, Cole has to decide what kind of relationship he’s to have with Lytton and Serafina, and his sister who refuses to get tough on spousal abuse.

Cole is a film whose many parts are more than equal to the sum of life in the boondocks, whose agenda keeps on rolling long after the films credits have rolled by. One can only hope that the film’s marketers will do as good a job as the film’s makers and actors. Kudos to Carl Bessai and his talented team with a big time nod to the note-perfect, home-grown soundtrack.

Read the rest of the review here.

Makes me want to move to Montreal. Also, Lewis mentions the fine soundtrack, which I highly encourage you to check out here, and support these great indie artists through the website, itunes, and simply word of mouth.

What else? Rewriting!

2009-11-16T17:46:00.000-08:00

I haven't had a chance to mention this yet, but Cole is playing tomorrow as part of Canada Screens Vancouver. Check out the information for screening and dinner at the First Weekend Club website here. Richard and Carl will be there to answer questions and give high fives.

So besides spending my past month getting married (woot!), I've been busy re-writing Northbridge and acclimating myself to the rain in Seattle. More good news on the way soon... (I hope).

Bessai Talks Cole avec Nouveau Cinema Montreal

2009-10-13T19:58:00.000-07:00

Here's a nice little video of Carl Bessai talking about Cole on Skype to preview our film for the nouveau cinema fest in Montreal. The "young man from Michigan" he mentions is me (I hope).

Carl Bessai - Cole
Uploaded by nouveaucinema. - Full seasons and entire episodes online.

VIFF

2009-10-11T13:40:00.001-07:00

What a week!

Just got back to Seattle from Vancouver last night... Cole screened on Thursday to a sold out theater and then on Friday to a healthy matinee crowd at the huge Visa Screening Room. Even though this is a biased POV, it seemed that the audience received the film well.

The best part of the early weekend for me was the continuing generosity from the cast, crew and producers who welcomed me as part of the Cole family, allowing me to participate in the Q&As and making me feel like I belonged. I especially wanted express my gratitude to Rampart Films and Rampart Capital, whose unwavering generosity has made this whole unforgettable experience possible.

Not only has Cole won best Canadian Feature at the Atlantic Film Festival, but we received a five star review from the Edmonton Vue Weekly (read the review here).

These small achievements boost the self-esteem up a notch as I face an exciting Northbridge rewrite and the daunting task of writing wedding vows (Two weeks from today I get hitched to the beautiful JLG-- two weeks!).

Reviews

2009-09-20T08:12:00.000-07:00

Well, a couple of reviews are in for Cole. The two biggest so far come from the CBC and Variety. First, Eli Glasner's CBC review:

COLE ****

Cole is a big movie about a small town. Our eyes and ears are Cole, an aspiring writer struggling with multiple problems including a catatonic mother and his sister's useless drunk of a husband.

Then, life gets more complicated when Cole meets another aspiring writer played by Kandyse McClure (seen recently in Battlestar Galactica.)

The pedantic plot doesn't do justice to this extremely moving film.

Imagine a tone poem filled with summer skies, long drives and an absent mother's eyes. To quote Cole himself it's "definitely beautiful.

Not bad, right? We got a half a star more than the much anticipated movie The Road.

Now, a piece of John Anderson's Variety review:

Drama needs conflict, but what Bessai offers mostly is tension. One waits all through the movie for Cole to do something about Bobby (Willett is a convincingly nasty example of the Angry White Guy), whose behavior is beyond reprehensible, and it's significant that what pushes Cole over the edge isn't Bobby's treatment of his sister, but of her son. What Adam Zang's script is really about, although no one involved seems to know it, is domestic abuse: Just as the movie gives the issue secondary status, so do the people in the film.

Ehh... not so good. But! A brilliant movie fan posts this in the comments section of the review:

Dear Mr. Anderson,

I've never read a review by you until today. It's unfortunate you didn't see the true gem that "Cole" really is. It may not have "A" list actors. The story may be a simple one about a little family in a little town, but what makes "Cole" stand out from other films of this genre, is that you really care about EVERY CHARACTER in this film...good and bad. I haven't felt this compassionate about a simple little movie, since "The Good Girl", some seven years ago. In your opinion, the ending may not have ended like you so desired, but then, when does real life do that?
"Cole" deserves every accolade it will hopefully receive.

Thanks for coming to our defense, good sir.

TIFF Update

2009-09-17T18:59:00.000-07:00

Back in Seattle from beautiful Toronto. We all survived the premiere, a Q&A, and an afterparty. Exhausting, cathartic, and sweaty... pretty much the only words I have to describe it right now.

The audience and those we heard talking in Toronto seemed to enjoy, if not love, the film. The new review in Variety isn't as kind. I'll make sure to get a post up this weekend with more details and a running journal of sorts about what transpired over the last four days in Ontario...

To Celebrate Ernie Harwell

2009-09-04T23:40:00.000-07:00

There are thousands of reasons to love baseball, so many reasons that I find myself writing at least one baseball reference into pretty much anything I try to write (which always get edited out—because editors, in general, do not know baseball). And so it makes me extremely sad that Ernie Harwell is dying and not enough people know how great an impact he has had.

I’m not good with details, but I know Harwell was announcing baseball before I was born. I know that his was the first voice I heard describing the beauty of a Sweet Lou Whitaker and Alan Trammel double play. His was the voice I heard when I cried after Guillermo Hernandez blew the ’89 pennant for the Tigers. When my parents were fighting late into the night, his pipes filled my Walkman Sport headphones, assuring me that the Tigers were playing in Oakland and everything would be okay. I know I’m writing in the passive voice, but that’s how Harwell would like it… describing things slowly, announcing the score every couple of minutes just in case someone new tuned in.

Every time I see “a house by the side of the road” (google this phrase if you don’t know it, I implore you) I think of Harwell. Babe Ruth reminds me of Harwell (my father gave me Harwell’s book The Babe Signed My Shoe for Christmas in 1994). The Detroit Tigers remind me of Harwell, and I follow them every day…

Upon learning of his impending death, Harwell remarked that he was doing okay because he could eat ice cream again, like when he was a kid, and not gain weight. He still goes for walks with his wife, and holds her hand everywhere. There is something profoundly sad and uplifting about this. Ernie seems okay with where he is going, but I’m not. I wish he could still announce those games, that I could put them on my ipod and fall asleep to them—I don’t care if the Tigers lose every game like they used to—I just want Ernie to call them.

Ernie reminds me what it’s like to think hope springs eternal (listen to his first game of spring training broadcast and don’t tell me you won’t promise to be a better person), to love green grass and curveballs, and to never forget what kind of joy a ballgame can bring. I always thought that these things, like baseball, like Ernie Harwell, were immortal.

To be contrite and screenwriter-centric, Ernie has been my voiceover for these past 26 years. All I want to do is to not think about this, but I know that he would say differently: for you Mr. Harwell: I will not stand by the side of the road and watch this one go by.

www.colethemovie.com

2009-09-01T17:18:00.000-07:00

Cole's website has a brand new look-- including a behind the scenes making of documentary and a link to a Reel West Richard de Klerk behind the scenes diary. All worth checking out. I suggest you follow this link here for a chance to see what I look like as background wallpaper.

Thank you, JLG, for the photo.

TIFF Write Up

2009-08-21T20:45:00.000-07:00

The Toronto International Film Festival has published write-ups of all of this year's films on their website. Check out the nice little synopsis and critique they give Cole here.

A brief snippet:

Cole is an intense and insightful drama from director Carl Bessai and writer Adam Zang. Bessai turns his lens from his typical urban setting to more rural surroundings, and finds both beauty and pathos. Using the town of Lytton as a character itself, Bessai paints an authentic and honest portrait of small-town Canadian life. He also coaxes stirring performances from his cast: de Klerk and McClure anchor the film with their casual intimacy, while Forrester makes a strong debut as the young Rocket. But most searing is the go-for-broke performance by Willett, whose riveting and at times terrifying Bobby embodies the film's tension between hope and despair.

TIFF Update

2009-08-08T17:38:00.000-07:00

Vancouver Film School has done a brief profile about Cole and my plans for the Toronto International Film Festival here.

Here is a full synopsis of all the Canadian films at TIFF from their official website. Just let me say that I am proud, as an American, to be included in the Canadian lineup. No schedule released as of yet.

Also, here is a link to the Province, which has a nice blurb about Cole and a great picture of Verne Troyer (also a fellow Michigander!) with Terry Gilliam.

Things are busier than ever in Rewrite Land. Getting a Northbridge draft ready to send out to the Titlecard guys tomorrow, and shoring up the first draft of my heist spec with fellow (I've used "fellow" twice already in this post-- I need a break from writing) VFS grad Sean Minogue (who also happened to write the brilliant VFS profile).

Time to get back to it...

Cole to Premiere at Toronto

2009-08-04T20:33:00.001-07:00

Here we go... Cole has been officially selected to premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival in September. Woot!

From writing a first draft in the rain in Vancouver, to working on dialogue on a train to Michigan, to finishing up a final polish on the drive home to Seattle... I officially have a written by credit premiering at TIFF. Crazy.

You can read a brief synopsis of the official selections in Variety (Variety!) here, where Cole and Carl Bessai get a nice little mention. You can also read a full selection of the films here.

I will post more as a schedule is published and more news released, but in the meantime you can still watch the Cole trailer here.

The Not Knowing

2009-07-04T16:28:00.000-07:00

I am learning from screenwriting is that no matter how many projects you have, there will always be great amounts of waiting, big black holes of time that might drive a person crazy.

I currently have three screenplays in various stages of development.

1. Northbridge. This script I’ve been working since the summer of 2006 is undergoing a final polish before sending it out to actors. I have notes up until page 34 on the polish, which I have integrated into the script. I am waiting for the rest.

2. The End of the World (as she knows it). I completed a draft where I took out all of the wheelchairs and sent it out to the company from Hollywood who is showing interest. I’m waiting for it to be read again.

3. Cold War Portrait. A heist film set in the early 1960s I’m writing with Sean Minogue. We finished a draft we are finally happy with and sent it out to be story edited. I am waiting for notes to come back.

Should I start another screenplay while I wait? Maybe I’ll just throw some TNT Pop-Its! on the sidewalk and enjoy a cocktail on this 4th of July and try not to go crazy…

While you wait you can always watch the Cole trailer here. It’s a movie I wrote and we’re waiting to see what festivals it will play at this fall…

Things Changes

2009-06-07T21:39:00.000-07:00

Just finishing up another draft of The End of the World. I used the word "wheelchair" 13 times in my last draft; I now have 0 mentions of wheelchair in my new draft.

That's rewriting, my friends.

Carl Bessai's Projects

2009-05-19T21:07:00.000-07:00

Read about what Carl Bessai has been up to since directing Cole. The article mentions the movie I wrote while Carl splices film (can you splice digital footage?):

"Then I'm going to stop this nonsense," laughs Bessai, tearing himself away from 15 hard drives full of Fathers and Sons footage that need attention.

His choice of words seems strange, until he elaborates on why he needs to get back to doing more conventional films such as Cole, his upcoming drama, shot in Lytton last summer, about a young man seeking to escape his small-town roots.

10 Worst Netflix Movies

2009-05-11T21:45:00.000-07:00

As I finish writing about the end of the world (and hope that none of my movies will ever end up on a list like this) here is the follow up to my last post: the 10 worst movies I watched from Netflix this year. My criteria for this list was that 1. I had to have expectations for the movie (so Transformers and Good Luck Chuck are disqualified) and 2. this had to be my first viewing of the film.

On the titles, I have linked to their Netflix page, and have also updated my 10 best list likewise here.

10. First Snow

Guy Pearce knows he's going to die when it snows. Sounds cool, right? A movie with an incredible preview that never lived up to its potential.

9. Gia

This is the movie that made Angelina’s career, so I was interested in seeing her before the time she became the arch-nemesis of every woman in America. And you know what? I discovered that ‘90’s AIDS movies are awfully dated. Watch Philadelphia again and you’ll understand what I mean.

8. Body of Lies

Um, so Russell Crowe + Leonardo Dicaprio = awesomeness… right? Um… nuh-uh. How could this movie be so flat? It just proves actors do not write the scripts, I suppose.

7. Eagle Vs. Shark

Does the fact that this movie is so unfunny mean that Napoleon Dynamite is unfunny too? I know Jon Heder is unfunny. Normally I like it when people dress up like animals (I’m not ashamed to admit I actually enjoyed The Animal, a powerhouse Rob Schneider joint), but I had trouble watching this one all the way through.

6. Frozen River

This is the movie that inspired me to write this list. It won (or was nominated) for some independent spirit awards, Melissa Leo was nominated for best actress… and I don’t see it, I really don’t. The protagonist was not sympathetic (she shot her husband in the foot! She tossed a Pakistani baby out of her car!), which isn’t Melissa Leo’s fault, but the writer/director’s. The dialogue was stilted and there is perhaps the worst gunfight scene in the history of gunfights. If you have a low budget movie, you really need to make sure your characters and story are pitch perfect, and Frozen River missed on a lot of these things.
As an addendum, there are some scenes where Leo was in her underwear, and I think I remember hearing something about how brave it was of a middle-aged woman to showcase her vulnerability like that. Some other critics commented that it was “brave” of Kate Winslet to not shave her armpits in The Reader. Others thought Kathy Bates was brave for going hot tub naked in About Schmidt. Halle Barry was brave for doin’ it with Billy Bob in Monster’s Ball. Enough! You know who was brave? Lori Laughlin’s stunt double in RAD. You know who’s doublebrave? The dude who got chewed out by Christian Bale. I would’ve pooped myself if I had Batman/John Connor/MomBeater yelling at me like that.

5. The Tracey Fragments

I think Ellen Page is awesome, so I was excited about a Canadian indie film with her in it… after five minutes I had a splitting headache—normally solid director Bruce McDonald uses seemingly infinite split and intercut screens—and had to turn it off when McDonald cross cut Ellen Page running through her yard with a stallion running through a field.

4. The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Arguably the best title ever for a movie (or book), I was really looking forward to this film. Daniel Day Lewis, however, made me feel very very unclean. He was awesome in There Will Be Blood, but as a European womanizing doctor, he made me want to throw up a little.

3. Perfume: The Story of a Murderer

This. Movie. Stinks.

2. Serpico

There should be a Serpico drinking game where you have to do a shot every time he switches hats. I bet he wears at least 11 different hats in this movie, maybe 12.

1. The Invisible/Awake

Was this the same movie? I remember seeing the trailer for The Invisible and thinking it looked like a cool idea, so I had some expectations going into it. Arg. I will not get those 180 minutes of my life back that I spent watching Hayden Christenson and Justin Chatwick yell at people who couldn’t hear them. “Step making movies this horrible!! Why can’t you hear me??!! Stop! Just… stop…”

Top Ten Netflix Movies

2009-05-07T19:08:00.000-07:00

I’ve reached my one year anniversary with my Netflix subscription and thought it would interesting to do a retrospective of the ten (plus one) best and worst movies I’ve had mailed to my apartment. The criteria I set for this list is that it had to be a movie/show I hadn’t seen before and it had to have arrived in the mail in a little red envelope.

I’ll post the ten (plus one) best here and then get the ten worst up sometime soon.

10. Manderlay

What a great ending. If you felt like you could do anything and not be judged or held accountable for it, would you do it? Say you did, and then found out you had to be held accountable? Devastating.

9. Hot Rod

Are you allowed to be nostalgic for the days when you could ride a dirt bike (before they had motors) and wear a cyber glove while playing Duck Hunt? Watch this movie and allow yourself. Make sure to watch RAD, in which Lori Laughlin from Full House plays a champ BMX rider and has a stand-in who is a man, has creepy long hair and chest hair. Then stir and enjoy.

8. The Killing

The end of this film is like a bad dream. One of those dreams where your legs don’t work. Kubrick has impeccable pacing and is in full control the whole time.

7. Storytelling

If a movie can make you feel uncomfortable, this one is it. This movie is best because of Paul Giamatti, but you also get to see Selma Blair get her comeuppance at the hands of an Autistic ex-boyfriend, which is just… kind of uncomfortable. In a good way.

6. sex, lies and videotape

I am a huge fan of Steven Soderberg and even though this was his first movie, it was the last movie of his that I had seen. Just… how do you make this story up? And how you you tell it like that?

5. Breaking the Waves

I can understand why Emily Watson is awesome after watching this film. When I watch movies, I usually ask myself if I could have thought of it, and the answer with this one is most definitely no. Lars von Trier thinks like no one else and that’s what makes this film great.

4. The Diving Bell & the Butterfly/The Sea Inside

Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. No film school teacher will ever say again that you cannot write a movie about a quadriplegic (which happened quite a bit to me). Buy both of these movies and enjoy them. It will make you thankful.

3. Let the Right One In

After watching this, I believed vampires could be real. Take that, Twilight.

2. Fitzcarraldo

I was just rereading some Bukowski and he mentions running into Werner Herzog at a screening in the ‘80’s and admits an admiration for a film director who can get in a pistol fight with his girlfriend. Fitzcarraldo is an amazing fit of insanity. Watch the Molly getting tugged up the mountain and don’t tell me you feel a rush. What a crazy and inspiring film.

1. Summer Heights High

Any time a writer can play the most popular girl in high school, a sexually ambiguous theater teacher, and a Polynesian kid who tags “(a picture of a penis)tation” (dicktation!) all over school deserves many many kudos.

0. This is England

The best coming of age movie I have ever seen, and this includes Stand by Me.

A new layout

2009-05-01T01:40:00.000-07:00

I've gone Western and I think it is a good move.

Some updates:

1. I'm mid-rewrite for THE END OF THE WORLD AS SHE KNOWS IT. Making changes that will make it awesome.... I hope.
2. "The Black Hole in the Kitchen" wrapped in Minneapolis a couple of weeks ago. Director Elliot Eustis promises awesomeness.
3. Enjoying free cable for the moment.

Good news

2009-04-07T23:01:00.001-07:00

So you know that story I just posted, this one? It won the short story contest. Pretty nice, eh. I get free copyrights for a year, so if anyone needs something copyrighted, I'm your guy. I'm more than happy to help out.

You can see the results for the nycmidnight.com short story challenge here.

Clockwise

2009-04-07T22:54:00.000-07:00

Here is a posting of my final round story for the nycmidnight.com short story challenge, written in 24 hours.

Subject: Neighbors
Genre: Science Fiction

CLOCKWISE

A short story

Synopsis: The moving island he lives on is barely big enough to hold twelve houses, but when a young man investigates the inner-workings of his neighbors, he realizes that there is a darker mechanism at work behind their methodical lives.

The Island
It is nine hundred and six yards by six hundred and fifty-seven yards. The soil goes as deep as Pedro’s forearm before it hits impenetrable rock. The tallest tree is almost five feet, which grows almost in the exact center of the island. As a sign of respect, the local government lets the oldest man on the island, Dr. Abdul, enjoy its limited shade. Dr. Abdul sits facing east in the morning and west in the afternoon. At midday, he goes for a swim—one oval lap, counterclockwise—the white line on his spine from the tree trunk flanked by his bronzed and weathered shoulder blades.

The People and Its History
Pedro is in love with Maybell, but he will be forever two houses away from her. There are thirteen people total and it has been stated, through the history books that are kept under Mr. Underhill’s seaweed mattress, that the island can only support this many. When Dr. Abdul dies, Tomas and Maybell will get married and have one child, and Madame Devereaux will get to enjoy the shade under the tree. After Madame Devereaux dies, Pedro will marry Ula, a short unpleasant girl whose parents are professors in charge of research and development in Houses Eight and Nine.
When Pedro asks Mr. Underhill to see the history books, Mr. Underhill tells him that when eight more people die, it will be his turn to see them, and then he will understand why it has to go in that order.

Their Houses
Twelve in all, they are built out of driftwood and layered kelp. When it rains, the island’s residents take down their roofs and suck at the fresh water fibers until they are dry again and ready to be re-hung like paper maché shingles. Pedro lives in House Three, moving in four months ago after Madame Burress died, her head slumped, her back raw from tree bark and bitten by ants.
There is a piece of paper on Pedro’s wall, framed by glass. In so many words, it tells him that he is now the provider for the island, that they now depend on him for kelp, the water in the spinal cords of sharks, the protein from red snapper filets. He has a thinning rope, coiled expertly next to the doorway, and fish bone hooks, mounted next to the glass frame in descending order.
For five years, he served as Tomas’ apprentice in House Two, the glass plaque on its wall promising respect and admiration when he mastered his understudy. He learned how to weave sturdy nets and how to bait a shark to chase him, leading the unsuspecting animal toward Tomas’ unyielding spear. It was a thrill as a twelve-year-old, to race against death, to be stung by jellyfish and laugh when he tried to urinate on himself to ease the pain, but now Ula is in his old house, and Tomas is Captain Expeditionist, one death away from marrying Maybell, getting to spend nine months in her house, in hibernation.
He is free to visit Ula in his old house, which he is not interested in, and the new infant in House One, a girl, who he feeds caviar from the wombs of Beluga Sturgeon while Madame Devereaux holds her, smiling and toothless.
Pedro is not allowed to visit anyone else, but they visit him, asking him about rations, debating when the next storm will come, the next cold spell. He asks about Tomas and Maybell, but the local government is mum on their activities. In the quiet of the night air he has heard whispers that Tomas is preparing to attack a whale, which Maybell has been tracking. The constant tick from the grandfather clock in House Five keeps time moving, helping Maybell chart their path.
Right before he falls asleep, his hands chafed, Pedro wishes Tomas will die in his hunt so that he can be Maybell’s neighbor and slay the killer whale, and then he can be a hero in the history books.

At Night, When the Moon Gives No Shadow
Pedro often sits under the tree, while Dr. Adbul sleeps next to him, in a ditch worn in the sand like a question mark. It is here that he realizes the reason why he loves Maybell: because she is disconnected from the rest of them and their consoling touches that do not mean a thing. She shrinks away from them and they laugh at her skittishness.

The Speed of Travel
Pedro has been increasing his lung capacity, diving down and picking mussels from the crevices in the hard black rock. He can feel the saltwater surge past his face as the island picks up speed or slows down. As he dives deeper, he can feel the rock narrow, like a cone, as the water gets colder, but he cannot see where it ends, not yet.
Some days, the island moves so fast that Dr. Abdul is left behind and Pedro has to fling out his rope, which the old man manages to always catch in his sinewy hands. Sometimes, Dr. Abdul likes to be dragged along, the water breaking around his thin body, smiling like a sea turtle.

A Miracle
Maybell sits under the tree, her shoulder blades touching his around the tree trunk. The only sounds on the island are Dr. Abdul’s rasping breaths and the sharks snorting next to the beach. She feels larger than Pedro imagined, a woman, perhaps thirty. He holds his breath for forty-five, fifty seconds, and then she sighs.
“The depths of the ocean are changing. The current is unpredictable,” she says. “Can you remember that?”
Pedro imagines what he could say, how his hands hurt, about how he dived down to a passing reef and saw an anemone and it reminded him of her, a dream he had, floating with her in the buoyant sea, on their way to another island…
He feels Maybell stand up and scratch a calf against the bark and then she pads off. He turns to see her entering her house, the freckles on her back descending like a tree branch, falling leaves on her rolling hips…

The Family Tree
Pedro is an orphan. How he came to be, he does not know, but he thinks it is noted in the history books. Deputy Mayor and Mayor de la Cruz begat the new baby and the Professors Vizquel and Mr. and Mrs. Underhill are Ula and Tomas’ proud parents, respectfully.
Maybell is also a mystery. While they were de-veining shrimp, Tomas told him that she was found in an innertube with a tin of sardines and a faded postcard that Dr. Abdul, then in charge of history, pasted in volume four of the history books. The story has some merit as a deflated innertube patches one of the Mayor’s walls, and a red Cresta Blanca tin adorns the entryway to Mrs. Underhill’s home, pounded flat so that it glints when the sun rises.

A Strange Encounter
Inside his house, Pedro meticulously manufactures a barbed hook out of a shark rib. It is a tedious process, but one that he enjoys, letting his mind wander toward Maybell, imagining that she would appreciate his diligence and skill, praising him with a secret touch on the wrist at a chance encounter on his way out to dive for food. A shadow interrupts his rhythm, and he looks up and sees Mrs. Underhill in the doorway, her chest badly sunburned, the underside of her breasts comically white.
“I seem to have fallen asleep on the beach,” she says, wringing her gray hair. “The breeze was so soothing, but now look at me.”
Pedro gives her a cask of fish oil, which she rubs into her skin. “Mr. Underhill is so preoccupied these days,” she says. “With his books.” She hands him the cask, which he corks. “There are ways to pass the time, Pedro, much more rewarding than making fishhooks. It’s not frowned upon.”
Pedro looks down at his feet, the hairs on his arches standing on end.
“It’s in the guidelines, it’s my right to do as I please.”
When he looks back up though, she’s gone.

The History Books
There are four volumes in all, of varying sizes. At town hall meetings Mr. Underhill sometimes references them, careful to lean over the pages, so no one can steal a glance. Out of respect, he offers them to Madame Devereaux, but she shakes her head sadly each time, her eyes rheumy and clouded, unable to see anything but the sun and doorways to the houses.

A Revelation
It has been raining for some time. His kelp roof is saturated, so Pedro crawls into the tunnel he has reinforced with fish paste and compost. The island rock next to his body is warm and soothing, like it’s heated from a distant molten core. He finds himself drifting off to sleep when Maybell crawls inside next to him. The first thing that happens is that he gets an erection, immediately. The second thing that happens is that he smells her breath, and it is like salty air moving over hot sand.
“I’m pregnant,” she says. “And there is no more room on this island.”

The Guidelines
Mr. Underhill has made sure to outline the rules clearly. If a person does his job well, he gets to move into a new house, and be rewarded for his hard work. There is always something to look forward to: fornication, increased responsibility, power, rest. These promises made Pedro hone his skills as Tomas’ apprentice, and Tomas will take the risk in a whale hunt in order to someday be Deputy Mayor and then Mayor of the island. Mr. Underhill will make sure these guidelines are followed so that he may someday relax under the tree and swim laps at midday.

A Suggestion
He watches Maybell stretch her toes out, the bottoms of her feet like leather moccasins.
“Who’s the father?” Pedro asks, his tongue thick in his mouth.
“I don’t know.”
She slides out of the trench and stands in Pedro’s house, hunched over, water dripping over her moist curly hair and down her eyebrows and over her full lips. “There’s something on the horizon, but I don’t know if there’s time. If you can, Pedro, remember your lessons.”
She leaves and Pedro lies still, paralyzed, wondering what she means. He can hear Tomas sharpening his tools next door.

When It Stops Raining
Pedro emerges from his house and takes down his roof. He sees the others on the island: Professor Vizquel cracking his back inside Maybell’s house, revealed when Mayor de la Cruz helps her remove the thatches; Mrs. Underhill wringing the water from her roof into a cistern, sunburn peeling; Dr. Abdul examining his pruned fingertips; Tomas laying out his tools, stealing a secret glance at Ula, her arms bruised and cut; the baby cries in Madame Devereaux’s arms, her gummy smile no cure for the bite marks on the infant’s cheeks.
Pedro feels uneasy when the island lurches forward, catching a current, and he spends the day being sick, holding his head inches above the rushing water.

Fishing
Weak and shaky, Pedro stands outside of Maybell’s house. “I’ll save you,” he whispers, the constant ticking coming from inside her walls.
With the island sleeping, he digs a shallow tunnel under Mr. Underhill’s house, finding the cubby under his mattress that contains the books. Pedro hooks the books, one by one and drags them out into the open. The first volume is a manual on how to tell time, with pictures of clock faces and the difference between a minute hand and an hour hand. The manual soon diverges into different forms of timekeeping, and Pedro quickly gets lost in the jargon, as if the author was dreaming while writing it. The second and third volumes are full of handwritten rules, the first one being, “You are entitled to add one additional rule when these volumes are in your possession.” Pedro scans the lines, some taking entire pages, others a single word.
“This is an expedition.”
“This is work and we will be diligent and true to our goals.
“This is a way to pass the time.”
“This is a game and there is no longer a need to keep records of our actions.”
“You are entitled to visit each house you have inhabited and do as you please to each inhabitant.”
“Haley’s comet can be seen every seventy- five to seventy-six years and its orbit is highly elliptical.”
“This is life.”
“Pedro shall never know how we found him.”
“Until he reads this book.”
“And he will write another guideline, as we have all done.”
“If the guidelines are broken, the consequences are fatal.”
In the fourth volume, there is only a photograph of a small boy, carrying a tin of sardines, floating in an innertube. The caption reads: “He came from somewhere, and so there is hope that someday, we will return there.”

The Guidelines Are Broken
Pedro quietly lets himself into Maybell’s house, where she sleeps on cattails.
“I remember learning about this now,” he says, not waking her.
He examines the grandfather clock’s face. It appears to be approaching midnight, but then Pedro looks closer and sees that the minute hand isn’t a minute hand and that the hour hand isn’t an hour hand.
The glass plaque on Maybell’s wall instructs her that she is the timekeeper and cartographer, that it is her responsibility to make sure the clock continues to run, and that the importance of this matter is grave, and that she will appreciate the significance of the endeavor in due time.
“They didn’t know how long the orbit took so they did this.”
Maybell sits up, rubbing her eyes.
“Before I was shipwrecked, I remember learning in school. An expedition was formed. Volunteers. Do you know how to read the clock?”
Maybell nods. “Somewhat.”
“How long?”
“Close to nine hundred years.”
“And how long have the men come to your house—?”
“Since I can remember.”
“Forever.”
She nods.
“Is leaving them here punishment enough?
“Take away their rules and make them start over without justification.”

The Current
Maybell and Pedro sit at the water’s edge. He takes the picture out of volume four and sets the book adrift in the current and it travels off, volume three, two and one follow the same path.
“We’re out of time,” she says. “When the sun comes up.”
“There’s a chance we’re close.”
“Or we could be one hundred years away.”
“Or more.”
“How do you know that there is anything out there?”
“I could have made it up in a dream.”
“You could have.”
“Is that worse than this?”
Just as the sky turns morning gray, they slide into the water, their bellies bobbing in the air, hands held tight, fingers interlocking, their shoulder blades like rudders guiding them along the current.

Chad Van Gaalen is a Rocker...

2009-04-07T22:50:00.000-07:00

Jessica and I had a chance to see Chad Van Gaalen at Chop Suey Friday night... Here's proof:

Chad has some songs on the Cole soundtrack, I movie that I wrote. It was pretty cool to see him live finally. All in all, a good night. Check out his music if you get a chance... itunes even has some samples, I believe.

Crazy Town...

2009-03-10T11:13:00.000-07:00

Again, things are snowballing and gaining momentum...

I'm halfway through a first half rewrite for Northbridge. Director Lynne came down from Vancouver and we met up in Seattle a couple of weeks ago to plot out the first half of the story. She's coming down in a another two weeks for notes on the second half. It'll be good, whatever it turns out to be. Lynne has a killer story editor brain and we'll for sure make it into something special.
The heist movie I'm writing with Sean is at page 77... a couple of more weeks and then we'll be ready to start rewriting. ("Writing is rewriting," Lynne reminded me.)
I've had a few phone conversations with a Hollywood exec about The End of the World (as she knows it) and I'm working with him on coming up with a new outline and then I get to tackle a rewrite. (!!!)
I came in first place for the first round heat in the nycmidnight.com short story contest. Proof is here. And in case you missed it, the story is posted here. The final round is Saturday... wish me luck.
Elliot found actors and a camera lens, so it looks like "The Black Hole in the Kitchen" will go into production sometime in the near future.
I spent three hours of my life watching Forrest Gump, err, Benjamin Button age backward.

The Docket

2009-02-08T22:32:00.000-08:00

So, this guy has been very busy lately. Here's a couple of things that are happening:

I reached another rewrite agreement with the guys at Titlecard Pictures, so director Lynne is driving down to Seattle on Thursday and we're spending two days at the Silver Cup Coffee offices working on a strategy for the next Northbridge draft.
My best pal Elliot is developing my short script "The Black Hole in the Kitchen" in Minneapolis. "Black Hole" is about what happens when a middle-age couple discovers a black hole in their kitchen (duh) and must come to terms with life, love and the unknown...
Spending much time on a very elaborate (zombie) Valentine for fiancee Jessica and loving every minute of it.
Working on a feature heist script with Sean Minogue, Canadian screenwriter extraordinaire and VFS classmate (the first time I've written with someone else), which is coming along swimmingly.

And then some.

14 easy steps to finding representation

2009-01-29T00:51:00.000-08:00

In late June or so, right after Cole wrapped I decided to make my first concerted effort to find a literary agent to represent me, firmly believing that I was ready to send my new scripts off the world at large.

I bought a Hollywood Creative Directory, circled 62 potential agents I could send queries to (crossing out agencies that only represent child actors and animators, underlining small boutique agencies), polished my writing resume and had a friend design a poster to go along with my one-sheet for my latest spec script.

I packaged the a query letter bragging about myself, a resume (resumes are brag sheets, always), and the one-sheet (which bragged about how great my new script was) with the poster on the other side (the poster is posted at the top of this page--thanks Laura Walker!). So here is what happened after I sent out my 62 query letters with SASEs.

Early July... I get my first return letter... it is from Creative Artists! I rip open the thick envelope... It contains a letter: "Sorry, our lawyers forbid us from opening unsolicited materials. We DID NOT READ your query." The envelope contains my envelope unopened. I save my unused SASE. Maybe for later.
Later early July. I receive my first hand-written response: "Sorry, we are not taking on new clients."
Later, later early July: "Sorry, your logline did not grab me."
Later, later later early July: More unread queries: "We PROMISE WE DID NOT READ YOUR QUERY LETTER." More SASEs and stamps to salvage.
A brief hand-written note, a glass of water in the middle of the desert: "Great idea. Give me a call when you have it registered." I call the agent's number. She informs me that she does not often get down to LA, but if I find a buyer for the script, she would be happy to make sure the contract is legit. Awesome.
Finally, a response that seems legitimate: "Dear Adam, Change of Fate seems interesting, please send a copy my way." This one is from an agent at a boutique, so I print out a copy, use my saved up stamps from the returned SASEs and send out the script. Three weeks later, the agent calls me. Here is a rough outline of what was said:

"Hi, Adam."
"Hi."
"I read Change of Fate."
"Thank you for taking the time to do that."
"I wasn't really grabbed by it."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm looking for something more like Wedding Crashers."
"Okay, but Change of Fate is a coming of age drama. Is there anything I could do to make it better, maybe more marketable?"
"I'm really looking for something like Wedding Crashers."
"Okay..."
"Do you have any other scripts?"
I pitch him the script I'd been working on, a post-apocalyptic romantic comedy.
"Okay, send it to me when you're done. Sounds promising"
"Okay."

Second Act:

A month later, the agent I have sent my new script to, a post-apocalyptic romantic comedy, calls me. We have the same awkward intro conversation, and then he cuts to the chase: "Your script didn't really grab me. I'm really looking for something like Wedding Crashers, but original, and with depth." Awesome.
A couple of weeks later, I meet with Northbridge producers Dylan and Kimani and director Lynne. We have lasagne and then go hang out in a Chinatown nightclub and chat with Terry Chen, who played Ben Fong-Torres, the editor of Rolling Stone in Almost Famous. He expresses interest in seeing Cole. It was a goofy night.
The next morning Lynne and I go over notes for Northbridge. She mentions that her agent in Toronto has read my scripts and might want to talk to me about representation.
I turn in the re-write for Northbridge, Lynne says her agent is interested in talking with me. I make sure he isn't interested in only reading scripts like Wedding Crashers, but different.
I send Lynne's agent, Carl Liberman from Characters in Toronto, my post-apocalyptic romantic comedy.
He loves it. The characters grab him.
Carl calls and says he wants to represent me.
It's just that easy.

George, Louise ... Elsa

2009-01-26T22:46:00.000-08:00

It's another year and another nycmidnight.com short story contest... Here is my first round entry:

Genre: Historical Fiction
Subject: A Street Vendor

George, Louise ... Elsa

George sat in the aisle seat, his back stiff, afraid to move because he hated the sound the medals made on his lapel. The stewardess had continued to offer him cocktails and food throughout the flight from New York, because, she had reasoned, heroes deserved everything the airline could offer. He held up his hand in protest, the brief movement jangling the stars, like a church tower in his ears, painful as a migraine.
The boy sitting next to George kicked his legs into the seat in front of him as his mother smoked a cigarette and gazed out the window. The boy stared at George for a moment, the medals hanging in the air. “Have you been on an airplane before?” the boy asked.
“Yes,” said George.
“How come?”
“Because I had to.”
“Were you ever in an airplane that crashed?”
“No, but I have friends who were.”
“How come?”
“I suppose they didn’t have a choice.”
“No, I mean how come your plane didn’t crash?”
“I guess because I made sure that they were fixed.”
“If I was in the army, I would want to be the one who shot people from the back of the airplane.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Did you ever get a turn to do that?”
“…”
“Huh?”
“They asked me to fix things. That was it.”
“What’re those medals for then?”
“Nothing.” George unpinned the Bronze Star, the Silver Star, the Distinguished Service Cross, and the Distinguished Flying Cross. He handed the scrap metal to the boy and the boy’s mouth formed a little “o,” as he fingered the grooves and ridges in the bronze and silver. The boy’s hands trembled with excitement.
“I can have them?”
“You can have them.”
“!”
“…”
“Thank you, mister!”
“You bet.”

Louise and Elsa waited for George. Louise’s forearms were used to Elsa’s weight—she could hold her all day if she needed to. She almost forgot to breathe when she first saw him step off the plane, the pocket lapel on his shirt dark and naked, like a shadow. He kissed the daughter he had never seen, and then Louise, full, on the lips like he was supposed to, and she searched his mouth for those two brief seconds. Something about him tasted unfamiliar, and she touched his chest, trying to find what had not come back from the war.

George lay in bed and couldn’t remember if he had given Louise a kiss first or the baby girl he had never met except in pictures. He put his hand over Louise’s, which was flat and heavy on his abdomen, and tried to say something, but found that his words evaporated as soon as they formed in his lungs. He closed his eyes and when he woke up in the morning he couldn’t remember if they had made love or if they had just drifted off to sleep, their cheeks pressed against each other like flypaper.

In the morning, they discovered how to make breakfast together again—which of them filled the percolator and which of them grabbed the frying pan from the top shelf. They ate first and then fed Elsa, alternating spoons, quietly remembering the steps they took to get to where they were.

These were some of the steps:

George bought a sandwich and coffee from Louise’s cart outside the Ford plant for five straight days before he asked for a name on a Friday. She gave it to him on a Monday.
Louise knew he was something different when he paid full price for his egg salad sandwiches even after he had seen her undressed, the three freckles like Orion’s belt on her abdomen.
George started going to church because Louise made him believe there was a God. He sat next to her mother, holding her swollen hands, and his heart filled with something like helium.
Louise quit work as a sandwich girl when George finished night school and got a modest raise. She found a rust-colored brick house and a mailbox she loved, so they bought them.
George noticed that a kitten in a box was Louise’s spitting image from a picture taken of her in 1931—not the face so much, but the floppy white fur hat, the gray wool scarf and the patched plaid coat. He took the kitten home, rooted through an old shoebox, and then placed both kitten and picture in the fruit bowl on the table. When Louise saw what he had done, a little noise came from the place in the back of her throat that he knew only he could hear.
Louise’s mother died. George held her hand as men and women smelling of cabbage and beef in their dark suits touched her other hand, and she felt the warmth from his palm, the good intentions vibrating from his fingers to the pit of her stomach.
Bombs went off. Many boys went and most died, and then George’s name was called and he had to go.
...
Louise went back to work selling sandwiches, stashing Elsa in a small compartment under the cart, feeding her ice cubes in the summertime and packing her in with warm hot dog buns in the wintertime. Louise wrote letters in her head to George that she would never send—secret thoughts, darker than the compartment Elsa napped in—as she took nickels from the men who came back day after day from where George was stationed, fingers, arms, and ears missing.

The cat—the cat who had looked like Louise when she was a kitten—ran away the day after he came back. George frowned when Louise told him this, and couldn’t recall what the cat had looked like, even when Louise showed him the photograph of her from 1931. “That’s you,” George said, “but what does that have to do with our cat?”
“George…”
“…”

After his first day back at work, George came home, took off his shoes, put Elsa on his lap, and read the Detroit Free Press. He opened the obituary section and patiently scanned the lines even when Elsa batted the paper with newsprint stained fists. When Louise called them for dinner, George took Elsa to wash their hands in the bathroom sink, leaving charcoal fingerprints on the bar of soap.

It was the great Hank Greenberg’s first ballgame back from the war and Louise had never been to Tiger Stadium before—she was startled by the sheer greenness of the park, and the humidity that stuck her thighs to her garter and her garter to her dress. She held Elsa in her arms and studied George awkwardly interacting with other servicemen, all in uniform. His eyes, maybe it was something in his eyes that was missing, or was it his speech—he never seemed to finish a sentence, not since he had come home.
The crowd fell silent as Greenberg came to the plate, forearms bulging, his jaw twitching as he waited for the pitcher to contort and hurl the ball. The crack of his bat seemed to vacuum the air out of the ballpark and they all watched the ball sail out and out… Louise watched George watch the ball and she could see that he was not seeing what they all could see, that he was watching something else play out, something that she knew he could not talk about. The crowd roared as Greenberg trotted around the diamond and Louise cried hot tears.

The oscillating fan that no longer oscillated blew beads of sweat across George and Louise’s collarbones while Elsa slept quietly in her room. “Can’t you fix it?” Louise asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re an engineer.”
“Junior engineer.”
“Even so…”
“…”
“Why can’t you fix it?”
“It’s too much to think about, Louise.”
George’s fingernails dug crescents into his palms, slipping slightly in the humidity. He thought he might cry, but his tear-ducts felt fire-blasted.
Again, he woke up in the morning, and couldn’t remember if he had fallen asleep silently or told Louise he was scared because he couldn’t remember if he killed seven men or zero, or if he had friends who died in the war, or if the great Hank Greenberg had hit any home runs that summer. He wanted to ask her if she thought if he was still alive, if they had made love at least once since he got back, if Elsa looked like him—but when he went into the kitchen, he just grabbed the frying pan from the top shelf and she filled the percolator and they fed their daughter together, alternating spoons.

She saw him reading the obituary section every day. “Are you looking for your friends?” she wanted to ask.
“No,” she wanted him to say. “I’m looking for myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I died over there. Because, God, Louise, I killed seven men—boys—and with those odds, I bet one of them got me before I got them.”
She wanted him to start crying so she could hold him so tight that she dug into his shoulder and could feel its ball and socket, like one of the Fords he helped design that held onto the road on a sharp turn, the front wheels connected to the axle, his shoulder connected to his collarbone, his collarbone connected to the missing piece she could fix, that she could solder—a fix that would let her talk to him again, that would mend his torn soul, that would suck up the pieces he left airborne in Germany— like a magnet—and let her put them back together on an assembly line in Detroit.

He took Elsa door-to-door, asking about the cat, mixing up the cat’s name door-after-door until he had to sit down on the curb, his T-shirt soaked in sweat and covering his thin ribcage, like lines in the desert. He sat his daughter on his knees and looked into her eyes, trying to remember how she had came about.

This was how the idea of Elsa was conceived:

George was not religious in any sense of the word, Louise knew, but when he held her mother’s hand, she knew he was looking for God, even if God was between Orion’s belt and her garters.
George had been with one woman—a girl—his second cousin. She was three years older and told him, sort of, what he was supposed to be doing, but he didn’t do it so well, or so she told him afterward.
Louise had been with three men, and she was surprised to learn that none of that mattered when she met George. He was painfully self-conscious at the start, always holding doors and stealing little glances at her chest. They played many games of Parcheesi while drinking root beers and he always smiled when she beat him. He managed to flatter her in unexpected ways, and so six months and three days after she told him her name, she tugged down his pants and made him promise not to be so shy ever again. She giggled at his feet—the hair on his arches—and his concentrated effort to compliment her at least once before he fell asleep, fly-papered to her abdomen, her thigh, her cheek…
…And so Elsa became tangible in her mother’s womb, right before they bought the brick house and the damned mailbox that would soon deliver George’s summons to war.

Louise woke up from a nightmare she could not place, a fleeting sinking feeling in her stomach. She sat up in bed, her chin on her knees, the non-oscillating fan whirring in the corner. “Where did you go to, George?” she asked aloud, speaking into her kneecaps. “Come back come back come back come back…” she chanted under her breath. She turned to look at him, and his eyes were open. She stopped for a moment and then breathed again: “Come back come back come back…”
She whispered for what may have been hours, her words sometimes merging with the fan blades, coasting through their hair, the sheets, the gaps in their toes… and he looked at her, eyes dilated, as she prayed verses that only they could hear.

George found Elsa under the kitchen table, playing with two crayons, one in each smudged fist. He scooted under next to her and sat cross-legged, his head brushing the underside of the table. Elsa handed George one of the crayons, and he smiled at her expectant gaze. George sniffed the crayon and this made Elsa giggle. He took a deep breath, letting the small notes from her laugh sink into his eardrums. In small block letters, he printed a note on the wall, in the shadow behind the far table leg.

This was what the note said:

GEORGE AND ELSA ARE HERE.

Elsa had oatmeal on her chin, but she didn’t fuss because what was happening in the kitchen kept her attention. Her mother talked, words Elsa had never heard, her red lips moving in directions that Elsa did not know were possible. And then there was an unfamiliar sound, from her father, words that had beginnings and ends. He spoke for what seemed like forever, his voice clear and cloudless. Elsa looked away only when she heard a scratching on the kitchen window—and there was the cat, batting at the glass— waiting to be let back inside.

Ree-Right...

2009-01-02T17:09:00.000-08:00

So...

Q. Where have you been the past three weeks?
A. Shuttling between my new job in Redmond, dog sitting Watson the pee machine, and working on a page 1 re-write for Northbridge.

Q. Are you about to pass out from exhaustion?
A. Yes.

Q. How come colleges, universities, and high schools don't stress the importance of rewriting?
A. I don't know. Since I have been writing meaningful things I've learned that your first word will never last and the last word is never close to finished. Since writing Cole and now just finishing my first rewrite of Northbridge it is abundantly clear: from the very first draft of a script you complete to the last FADE OUT, you will not maintain but a couple of lines of dialogue or a few paragraphs of scene description when you finally reach the last draft before camera.

No one has ever taught me the art of re-writing--I have learned it on my own. The trick, I suppose, is to let go of every word you have written, which is difficult, because there are always those lines of dialogue that you want to keep--but if it doesn't serve the story, you have to be liberal and kick it the eff out.

Which brings me to my point: why doesn't anyone tell you that your first effort in writing (term papers, scripts, stories) will never be good enough? Is it because you need to meet deadlines and have tests, and midterms and finals? I think, after reflecting, that my senior thesis at Carleton was a piece of S, but it could have been better if we were given a trimester on just re-writing.

Q. Is Northbridge awesome now?
A. Yes. But I'm sure after a few more re-writes, not a single word will remain the same.

jasonkillshimself.com

2009-01-02T17:04:00.000-08:00

So I did a little project with Keith Rivers, co-founder of Seattle Cold Readers. Here is the resulting video:

If you visit Keith's page on youtube, he has a plethora of interesting videos to watch. jasonkillshimself.com has a couple of interesting comments, one of which I wanted to point out from fantasdick69er: "your a fag i hope u did kill yourself."

Thanks!!!

Sleepless available now...

2008-12-24T21:33:00.000-08:00

Here is a video of the first produced short script I ever wrote... now available on the internet, eh. enjoy.

Happy Holidays!

This is pretty funny...

2008-12-22T19:43:00.000-08:00

If you want to see a picture of me and a ringing endorsement of the Vancouver Film School, click here and scroll down to the bottom of the page.

Kudos to Jessica for taking the fantastic picture.

Snowed in...

2008-12-18T10:10:00.001-08:00

So Jessica and I were driving up to Vancouver yesterday in eager anticipation of Cole's big screen debut for cast and crew... and we hit a wall of snow about 40 miles into the trip. Cars on the side of the road, freeway indistinguishable from freeway ditch. So we didn't make it, which is a little frustrating.

Good news is though, Dylan and Kimani found a director for Northbridge: Lynne Stopkewich. She's known for her controversial and film festival darling indie films Kissed and Suspicious River, and her directing work on the TV show "The L Word."

Last Saturday, I met up with Lynne, Dylan and Kimani last weekend over dinner, and then spent all day Sunday with Lynne scouring over the script and planning a rewrite. Now I'm 20 pages into the rewrite and pooping-my-pants excited about how great this film is going to be.

At least all the snow is setting the tone for the rewrite...

Cole Article

2008-11-26T22:35:00.000-08:00

Just found this article written about Cole before production started in June. Funny how you find these things...

Also, check out Cole producer Jason James' website for his production company Resonance Films. Lots of great Cole stuff on there too.

Cole Trailer!

2008-11-11T17:29:00.000-08:00

The Cole trailer is up! You can watch it by going to the Cole the Movie website here.

Seattle Cold Readers... Success!

2008-10-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

We had a great turn out for our inaugural Seattle Cold Readers event at the Alibi Room--meaning our little room in the basement was steamy with actors and writers and drinks were flowing. Check out the pictures below for proof:

Spectators eagerly await the first read.

Actors finish up the night with Ron Ford's "Graverobbers."

Our next show is November 20th--hope to see you there.

Zombies...

2008-10-16T00:06:00.000-07:00

Recently, I may or may not have been asked if I have interest in pursuing a project about writing project zombies. Now, I believe my bread and butter writing begins and ends with realism—Cole is nothing but realistic, so much so that any time someone has read the script or seen the movie (did I mention that Cole is now a real movie?) they ask if it is autobiographical. Northbridge, my second script, is also a gritty realist piece, but given the circumstances of perhaps or perhaps not been asked to participate in a zombie project, I have been contemplating a couple of thoughts about the undead and given my current sleepless state, I figured I better get them down in writing.

So here we go:

Common Misconceptions about Zombies

They are unpatriotic
They do not dream
They are not concerned about personal hygiene
They do not appreciate the “finer things”
They do not fall in love

True Facts about Zombies

Zombies do not generally enjoy dessert after meals, but they do tip well if they have received adequate service.
Do not attempt to double cross a zombie—they will eat you.
They have pets, and, contrary to popular belief, a zombie will not eat his or her pet.
Zombies stay away from spas and bathhouses—they tend to fall apart when given a vigorous massage or spend too much time in a sauna.
Homosexual zombies are just like other zombies, except that they are homosexual. Contrary to popular belief, homosexual zombies do not spend their time in bathhouses—this would be suicide.

Favorite Words/Phrases in the Zombie Community

“How ya goin?” (brought into Zombie culture from the WAUU [West Aussie Undead United] rugby squad.)
“Errrrr…” (an oldie but a goodie)
“Catching a nook on the flipside,” (underdog hipster slang that means less than it says, unlikely to have much staying power.)
“Brains!!!” (social equivalent to “Nice shoes, wanna screw?”)
“Hella Cool.” (Sometimes timeless slang can translate to all cultures.)

Don't forget to come to Seattle Cold Readers tomorrow night!

Seattle Cold Readers

2008-10-13T20:57:00.000-07:00

We're premiering Seattle Cold Readers Thursday night at the Alibi Room. This is the first big event I've hosted (at least I've got big dawg Keith Rivers working me), so come out and support us if you're in the Seattle area. Go to www.seattlecoldreaders.com for more info, or email me questions.

Do you live in Canada?

2008-09-20T22:16:00.000-07:00

If you live in Canada you can watch "Sleepless" online here. If you don't live in Canada you can still listen to an interview with Mike McLaughlin, director of the film. So click on the link. Support Canada. Support my film.

I saw Cole

2008-09-18T20:25:00.001-07:00

Jessica and I went up for a test screening for Cole on the 16th. I had butterflies in my stomach all day. Here's a quick recap of the events:

Noon. We pack up the White Shadow and head north.
Noon thirty. We stop at Panda Express. I can barely eat my orange chicken. I tell Jessica I'm nervous. It's a weird feeling, getting ready to see your first produced feature film with a crowd of Canadians who will be judging the film for its flaws.
3:30pm. We cross the border. The border guard warns us not to give away the Crown Royal we bought at Duty Free otherwise we will be subject to duty. Now you know.
4:30pm. We make it through Vancouver traffic and a confusing parking structure to meet up with Dylan and Kimani (Cole's producers at the Blenz coffee shop at Seymour and Richards. They fill me in on Cole (it's on its third cut, it looks great, they really want me to see it to get my feedback). They just got back from the Toronto Film Festival, having meetings about Cole and Northbridge, the other feature I optioned to them. They hope to wrap up the work on Cole by December and film Northbridge in the spring (if all goes well). We talk about my new script, A Change of Fate (they like it and give me a couple of notes for a rewrite), and a new script I've started. A girl at the coffee shop gets her purse stolen and asks to borrow Dylan's cell phone. Flustered, she realizes Dylan is acting agent (she is an aspiring actress), and stresses out between canceling her credit cards and pitching her talents to him.
6:00pm. We make it to the small theater at Vancouver Film School. A theater I routinely had classes at just two years ago. Sean Minogue, a former classmate, sets up the theater for us. People arrive. Irene Nelson (producer). Richard de Klerk (Cole Chambers). Kevin Eastwood (line producer). Jason James (producer). Carl Bessai (Director). about 20 test viewers. Hugs and handshakes all around. I barely recognize Richard with an attempt at a beard and slick-back hair. He says he wanted to come in disguise.
6:20pm. Carl introduces the movie and we're off. Everything sounds echoey. we realize that the theater sound is set to "Sci-Fi." Sound is fixed and we start over.
6:30pm. Unbelievable.
Around 7:00pm. I watch a scene and it hits me that I wrote this. The dialogue, the actions. Crazy. People are laughing when they're supposed to laugh, and not laughing when they're not supposed to laugh. I squeeze Jessica's hand.
7:30pm. I find myself wondering what comes next even though I know. The movie is surrounding me and I believe that it's real.
7:45pm. There I am! I made the cut (at least this one--at dinner, we all agree my scene needs to go. Oh, well, I had my 15 seconds.)
8:00pm. Black screen. The words, "End Credits." Lights come up. Amazingly, everyone claps. Crazy.
8:15pm. Irene asks me if I liked it, if it met my expectations. Everyone is smiling. They look like they just had a good time. They fill out their comment sheets and filter out. The movie needs another edit or two to fix sound and a few rough edges, but it's there. It's really there.
9:00pm. Dylan, Kimani, Jana (Kimani's wife and a bartender in the movie), Sean, Jessica and I all eat dinner at the Yaletown Brewery. We all are happy. We just saw a good movie. we rehash just about every scene, smiles on our faces. Jana asks me how I feel. All my words are gone.
11:30pm. We cross the border back to Seattle. The border guard asks me what the purpose of our visit was. "I'm a screenwriter," I say. "We saw a test screening for my movie." "How'd it go?" he asks. I pause. "Good. Really good."

Good Publicity for Maia & Jonah

2008-09-18T20:25:00.000-07:00

The Edmonton Journal interviews Mike McLaughlin, erstwhile director of "Maia and Jonah," a feature film I wrote that he turned into a short. Read about Mike's career and his thoughts on the film here.

In other news, the energy drink that I had before I got an appendectomy denies any correlation between the drink and my illness. So there.

A Monster Appendix

2008-08-29T17:03:00.000-07:00

The test screening for Cole is now slated for September 16th so that they can go to the Toronto IFF and do things filmies do.

In other news, I did have my appendix out early last Friday morning. Here is a brief e-mail exchange I had with an energy drink company regarding the situation:

Last week, my girlfriend and I moved into a new apartment and I was left to much of the heavy lifting. I have only had a handful of energy drinks in my life, but I was feeling zapped and thirsty and so I had a [x company's energy drink] both days of our move. This was my first time trying your product. The [x company's energy drink] gave me energy, no doubt, but the following day, I had an awful stomachache and 24 hours later I went to the emergency room and had to have my appendix taken out. [x company's energy drink] was the only new thing I introduced to my diet that week--so a part of me associates drinking [x company's energy drink] with getting an appendectomy. Is there anything you can do to ease my concerns? Thank you for your time. Feel free to call me on my cell phone number above.

Adam:

Thanks for visiting the [x company's energy drink] website.
Due to the technical nature of your question, I have forwarded you e-mail to Dr. [deleted name], Technical Director to the [x company's energy drink] Company. He will contact you direct to answer your question.
We appreciate your further patience and understanding in this matter.
Later,

[deleted name] @ [x company's energy drink]

***

I will be sure to update the status of my complaint as soon as I hear from Dr. [deleted name].

Appendix Free...

2008-08-25T21:04:00.000-07:00

I got my appendix out Thursday. I'm okay, and thankfully everything worked out okay (I plan on posting more on it in a couple of days)... on to industry news...

Check out this poster for A Change of Fate that the amazing Laura Walker mocked up for me:
While in surgery, I got another message from an agent responding to my query for A Change of Fate--two responses out of 56 isn't bad, is it? Anyway, I just finished my rewrite about a half hour ago and plan on sending out the script tomorrow... fingers crossed.
They are tentatively planning on having a test screening for Cole this Thursday! I'll go up to Vancouver to see it. I'm a little nervous, but I guess it's out of my hands at this point, right?

Catching up...

2008-08-05T20:58:00.000-07:00

So it's been a couple of weeks since I posted, so bullet points are always the best way to update things:

My name is on the New York Times website! Check it out here.
I have been working like crazy on a new script- I had a draft done a couple of weeks ago and then I got contact from an agent in California saying that she was interesting, so I spent the past two days writing and writing and writing... My brain is fried but I think I'm on to something pretty good. Here is the logline for the new script (I'd love to hear thoughts and or questions): A psychic teenage boy knows the exact time and date and of his death, an event he expects and welcomes. However, when he discovers that there are things in the world worth living for, he struggles to change his fate.
Keith Rivers, who helped direct and produce "Nowhere Man," and I are working on getting a Cold Reading Series started up in Seattle. Writers submit scripts, actors read the scripts live, cold, in front of an audience. We have a meeting tomorrow for a location- hopefully we can bring some more film community excitement to Seattle.

Nowhere Man

2008-07-19T13:01:00.000-07:00

Here is our short film "Nowhere Man," for the Seattle 48 Hour Film Project. Once again, we had to include a nail file in a suspense/thriller, have a paparazzi character named Mike Jordache, and have a line of dialogue be "What time do you get off?" This is what we came up with:

Seattle 48 Hour Film Project

2008-07-13T16:21:00.000-07:00

Keith Rivers, who I met at the Diesel Film Racing Tour, contacted me last week and asked me to write for their group for the Seattle 48 Hour Film Project this weekend.

We got our assignment Friday night (Genre: Suspense/Thriller, Prop: Nail File, Character: Mike or Meg Jordache member of the paparazzi, and line of dialogue: "What time do you get off?")

I basically stayed up all night Friday writing the script and turned it over to the crew Saturday morning. I just saw a rough cut over at the Microsoft editing studios and it looks pretty good. Our composer is putting together a pretty ridiculous score that should make the film something unique.

If you're in Seattle, "Nowhere Man" is screening this Tuesday (7/15) at 6:30pm at the Neptune Theater on 45th. Click here for directions and more info about the 48 Hour Film Project.

I'll post more when the film is available online.

Going Hollywood(.com)

2008-06-29T10:00:00.000-07:00

I have a Hollywood.com page now! You can see it by clicking here. See the Cole the movie Hollywood.com page here. It seems like Hollywood.com is imdb.com's illegitimate third cousin, but it's still pretty cool.

I've been in Phoenix for the past couple of days visiting Jessica's family and friends. When I get back, I have a spec feature that needs to be finished (I can probably get it done in about 4 weeks), and a TV series pitch to put together. I'm also going up to Vancouver in a couple of weeks to see a rough cut of Cole. I may have to do some voiceover rewrites, but other than that, I'm told it looks great. While I'm up there, there will also be a Northbridge meeting. Dylan is very excited about the prospective cast, which is coming together swimmingly.

All in all, things are pretty good.

Pictures from Lytton

2008-06-19T21:12:00.000-07:00

Here are a couple of pictures from the time we spent on set in Lytton, BC. There are 350 in the town and you can't drink the water because of high turbidity. The wind was consistently about 35-40mph the whole time and it was pretty effing cold. Richard de Klerk, aka Cole, the star of the movie, thinks that this film will feature the hardest nipples since Batman Forever.

View from the production office. The Fraser River and Thompson rivers meet here and create the two different colors. Maybe this causes the turbidity.

Your humble screenwriter riding the best prop of the film.

Daniel Bolieau, aka George the Lawnmower Man, shows his badassness. Funny story, I was talking with Daniel after this scene and then went back to my motel room to watch some basketball/nap. A Canadian Tire commercial awoke me from sleep: where none other than Daniel Bolieau as the Canadian Tire Man told everyone how awesome his power tools were. I thought I was dreaming. Let me tell you: it was no dream.

Michael Eisner, aka Frogger, gets his hands taped for an Edward 40hands scene. Michael is amazing as Cole's best friend. Script Supervisor Joecy told me about a scene where Carl Bessai asked Michael to look at the camera like it was Cole, his best friend. Joecy said that Michael's eyes almost made her cry. He'll win some Juno awards for sure.

Director Carl Bessai does his best to blend in with nature.

Golfing by the river. Chad Willett, aka Bobby tees off while John Stewart in the blue shirt (Deebo), Michael Eisner and Daniel Bolieau look on. Chad was in Alive, so I had to ask (during lunch no less) what they used on set when they ate people in the movie. The answer? Turkey jerky. I love movies.

Wrapped!

2008-06-16T11:50:00.000-07:00

Cole wrapped on Saturday! Jessica and I had a chance to visit the set in Lytton from Wednesday to Friday and even though the wind was gusting, the experience was wonderful. I'll put up pictures soon, and guess what? I have a cameo. I'm no Alfred Hitchcock--I just tried my best not to look at the camera. Pictures are coming soon...

The Vancouver Province ran an article about Cole this weekend. Click here to read it.

Also, I have an update on my imdb.com page. Click here to see what my next project is. Exciting times!

Cole & Rampart

2008-06-08T20:40:00.000-07:00

Cole is everywhere! (sort of). Check out the website for Rampart Films. Rampart is co-producing Cole with Titlecard. You can check out trailers featuring Richard de Klerk, star of Cole. Have I mentioned Cole is a real movie? I feel like Max Fischer right now.

Here is a poster for the film:

Did I mention I wrote this? Awesome.

2008-06-05T16:20:00.000-07:00

Here are some cool pictures from the first two days of filming. You can also visit the movie's official website here.

Carl Bessai, director extraordinaire, sets up for his first shot of the film. "May the critics not pan us," were his first words before saying "action."

Steven E. Miller (Professor Jackson) and Richard De Klerk (Cole) rehearse for their scene.

Richard and Kandyse McClure (Serafina) stroll through campus. The green pick-up is Cole's car for the film.

Carl, Kandyse, Richard and Jack Forrester (Rocket) rehearse.

Rehearsal comes to life. (Notice the color change in the blanket--they had to switch because their wardrobe didn't fit with a blue blanket. It looked like they had no legs and I did not write a movie about the legless.)

Richard and I listen to script supervisor Joecy tell a story about Tim Allen. Producer Jason James texts someone (but probably not about Tim Allen).

Richard and Kandyse kiss for the first time.

In Focus Interview

2008-06-03T10:28:00.001-07:00

Click here to read the feature that Vancouver Film School wrote about me and Cole (Pictures are included!).

Movies and Interviews

2008-05-28T14:09:00.000-07:00

!!!!

Exclamation points seem to be the only fitting way to explain my life right now. Normally, I can't stand them(!) but now... I can't think of anything else to say. I will try to cover life in bullet points to make things easier:

Cole is currently in its third day of production(!). I was fortunate enough to be on set at the University of British Columbia. On Monday, we shot 7 3/8 pages of classroom scenes and on Tuesday, we shot 8 pages of exteriors on the beautiful campus. Samantha, who is in charge of filming the behind the scenes doc, came up to me yesterday and said I looked very happy. It's true, I couldn't stop smiling all day. And I got a sunburn. I will post some pictures and more about the experience soon... You can see the cast on the imdb.com page here, and check out the Cole the Movie page here.

My interview about my prize winning story, "Raising Awareness," is now posted on the NYC Midnight website here.

"Sleepless," is playing at the Seattle True Independant Film Festival on June 10th. I will be doing a short Q&A after the screening, so for those of you in Seattle, it would be awesome to have your support. You can buy tickets here.

Very Exciting Times...

2008-05-16T11:23:00.000-07:00

The official shooting schedule for Cole is set! We start filming in Vancouver May 26th, shoot for a week and then move out to Lytton for the remainder. The scheduled wrap is June 14th. I plan on being there for about half the shoot and will see if I can post some pictures from the set.

As Dylan says, this is very exciting times.

In other very exciting news, NYC Midnight presented me with my grand prize check at the Seattle Film Race at the Egyptian Theater on Wednesday. I also had cornflake chocolate and a Sprite. I met some cool guys from Microsoft too.

"Sleepless" is playing at the Seattle True Independent Film Festival June 10th at 6:15pm. I am told I will be doing a Q&A after the screening, so I will escape from Lytton and drive down to Seattle for that.

Very Exciting Times.

Four More Weeks...?

2008-04-30T13:32:00.001-07:00

I turned in that final polish and then went into hibernation for a couple of days. Shoulder surgery combined with final draft combined with pain killers equals fuzziness for sure. At any rate, my work is pretty much done on the script until we go to film, the tentative shooting schedule is May 26-June 14. One week in Vancouver, then two weeks in Lytton, which is a small BC town.

I've been invited to be on set for the shoot, which is nice. I'm looking forward to seeing the whole process once it gets going. Can't wait! Hopefully I'll have time to work on another spec sometime soon.

A wall hits...

2008-04-19T16:01:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've been run over by a wall. I don't like to delve into too many personal things in this blog (mainly because they're just not interesting), but I had shoulder surgery on Monday to clean out some debris from my old high school baseball days. On top of that, I just got notes on Friday for a polish for Ashcroft. I enjoy zonking out on pain meds as much as the next person, but wanting to have a clear head to write as well to to be able to use my arm for everyday things again has put me in a little bit of a bad mood.

I did get a chance to watch Teen Wolf last night with Jessica and that helped.

Anyway, the polish so far has been a struggle. I'm at page 50, but the biggest changes are ahead.

Progress...

2008-04-15T22:19:00.000-07:00

I turned in the official second draft for the feature script now formally known as Cole. The new working title is Ashcroft which is a small BC town in the interior that they are planning to film in.

The coolest thing about this draft was that I knew what the characters met and spoke like since I got to meet most of the actors at the table read. I struggled with that a little bit at first--there definitely was an intimidation factor involved--but in the end, it turned out to be a big help and an even bigger motivator (I felt like I owed these people great dialogue, if that makes any sense at all).

I do hope we can go back to the original title for the film, which was This Is What We Call Home. Doesn't Ashcroft first and foremost bring John Ashcroft to mind? Anyway, for the small amount of readers that this blog gets, I'd love to hear your thoughts on title thoughts and suggestions.

As a refresher, here is the official synopsis for the film:

When a talented high school graduate get the chance to escape from his small hometown, he must choose between helping his dysfunctional family and the promising future that lies for him beyond.

A winner...

2008-04-04T10:22:00.000-07:00

Hey! My story Raising Awareness just won the nycmidnight short story challenge. Pretty cool, eh? You can view the results here: http://www.nycmidnight.com/2008/SSC/challenge.htm

I'm now a week into my rewrite for Cole which is now tentatively titled Ashcroft which will most likely change 8 or 9 times in the coming months. They are going to film in Ashcroft, BC--which is a nifty little town in the interior (as Canadians say). I hit page 65 on the rewrite last night and things are moving along pretty smoothly. Hopefully I'll have it ready to turn in sometime next week. The notes were informative, so no complaints there. The hardest thing to do is to make sure there are not too many speaking roles because of our miniscule budget... pay for actors goes up when they have more than three lines.

2008-03-25T18:30:00.000-07:00

The movie will be made!

The plan is to start shooting at the end of May, early June. I'm getting final notes for the re-write today and will have a couple of weeks to get that done. Most likely, I'll start posting more frequently too! Sweet.

Raising Awareness

2008-03-15T21:59:00.000-07:00

For the nycmidnight.com Final Round.
Genre: Ghost Story
Subject: Salesman or Saleswoman

Gordie hasn’t been to school in two weeks. He is in first grade, so this is really an eternity. He stares at the snow-covered pond in front of him, a small dark spot in the middle of it where it isn’t entirely frozen. He wiggles his toes to make sure that they are still inside his boots, which they are. Gordie’s father always tells him to wiggle his toes so that they stay warm when it’s cold outside. Gordie has learned all about frostbite—his father read him a story by Jack London before bed one night. Gordie always carries matches with him and knows not to build a campfire under a snowy pine tree. “If you go numb, make sure you jump up and down,” his father says. “Going numb is bad news.” Gordie stomps his feet and thinks about the fish hibernating in the mud beneath the ice.

Now that it’s wintertime, Gordie’s father never comes home before dark. Even though he just had a week off, Gordie’s father always seems tired when he comes home now. When Gordie asks to play, “Raising Awareness,” a game his father invented, Gordie’s father takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. Both his father and mother wear thick glasses. “Not tonight, kiddo,” his father says. “I’ve got a lot on my plate.” Gordie smiles and runs into the kitchen, returning with a dinner plate. The plate has a child’s acrylic painting on it: a flower and a bubbly heart and a bright yellow sun. “Hello, how are you today?” Gordie asks his father. “This will just take a second of your time. My name is Gordie and I’m with… the Plate Foundation. We raise awareness about plates. I’m sure you’re aware of the plate situation in Michigan, right?” Gordie’s father nods. “Great!” Gordie says. “So you know how important it is to keep children painting plates in this great State. And that’s why I’m out here today, raising money to help keep children painting plates. With a small contribution of—” Gordie’s father turns away, rubbing his eyes. Gordie looks at the plate in his hands, searching his mind for where he went wrong.

Gordie’s father once told him he could sell anything if he believed in it enough. “Even if you don’t believe it,” his father said, “You can make someone else believe it if you follow the script.”

Gordie’s mother makes him grilled cheese, but she forgets to cut it in half. Gordie knows that he needs to help out more around the house, so he cuts a jagged strip across the bread. He does the same for his mother’s uneaten sandwich. He goes to the fridge but he can’t reach the ketchup. He wonders if he should ask his mother to get it for him. These days, she does some things, but not others. The last time he asked her to make a smiley face with the pancake batter, she looked past him, like he hadn’t said anything at all. Gordie wishes someone would help him figure out how to get the ketchup. “Two minds are better than one,” he says aloud.

In their house, there is a whole wall of pictures and drawings. Gordie likes to look at this wall. These days, there are some pictures missing. There are empty spots on the wall where they used to be. Gordie likes to look at pictures of himself when he was little. “Who is that kid?” he says in a talk show voice. “Does anyone know who that kid is?”
There are framed pictures carefully taken from coloring books on the wall too. Gordie recognizes the ones of the blue racecars and brown dinosaurs—he drew those—but he wonders where the ones of the intricate ferns and rainbow colored fish scales came from. Gordie wishes someone would take his drawings down. They look ugly next to those others.

Gordie plays in the snow with his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He picks up a pine needle and pretends to smoke it, breathing out great white puffs of warm air. Playing alone isn’t so bad, but it isn’t so great either. He rubs Michelangelo’s plastic toes as a precautionary measure.

Gordie hides behind the ottoman and watches his mother look at the picture wall. His mother just stands there. Her lips move. Gordie wonders who she’s talking to.

Gordie and his father lie on the bottom bunk of Gordie’s bunk bed. His father falls asleep in the middle of a story and Gordie takes his father’s glasses and puts them on. Gordie squints up at the bunk above him and swears someone is sleeping up there. His father wakes up and gently takes his glasses back. Gordie looks back at the top bunk and everything is normal again.

Gordie practices while he waits for his father to get home. “Hello, my name is Gordie. I’m with the Ghost Glasses Group. We’re out here today working to get all poor children a pair of Ghost Glasses. I’m sure you’re aware of the problem of the all the poor children who can’t see ghosts, right? Of course you are…”

When they eat dinner now, there are four chairs at the table. Gordie picks one food a night to not eat just to see if his parents will notice. Sometimes he wonders if they are having a conversation he cannot hear.

Gordie stares at the mattress above him and wonders why he never sleeps in the top bunk. He tries to imagine someone sleeping in the top bunk. He tries to see a lump in the bottom of the mattress, a shape in the shadows. He closes his eyes and hopes to hear a creaking in the bed frame, a shifting of weight. But there’s nothing. Gordie stares up at the empty bed above him and screams for his father.
Gordie’s father rushes in, pushing his glasses on his nose. In soothing tones, he asks what the dream was about. “I wasn’t dreaming,” Gordie says.
“What’s the matter?” his father asks.
“Do you see anyone in the top bunk?”
Gordie’s father looks upwards, his eyes blinking behind the thick frames of his glasses. “Would you like a glass of water, kiddo?”
“No,” Gordie says.

Gordie stares into the mirror and his eyes stare back at him. He shuts his eyes tight. “Bloodymary bloodymary bloodymary bloodymary bloodymary bloodymary bloodymary bloodymary bloodymary bloodymary bloodymary bloodymary bloodymary!” Gordie opens his eyes and looks into the mirror.
He is all alone.

Gordie sits cross-legged on the carpet, Michelangelo gripped in his hands in front of him. He whispers through clenched teeth so only the doll can hear him. “Just a few dollars will do the trick. Your contribution will go a long way in helping kids get the glasses they need. Boys and girls all over America need these glasses…”

Gordie glares at the pond, concentrating on the dark wet spot in the middle. He has been glaring at the pond for a long time. “Where are you?” he finally shouts. His toes are numb but he doesn’t care about that.

There are four chairs at the table and three plates. Gordie’s parents chew slowly, like horses. Gordie chews slowly too. “Do you see anyone sitting there?” Gordie asks. His parents stop chewing. Gordie pushes out his chair, runs into the kitchen and returns with the dinner plate painted with a flower, a bubbly heart and a bright yellow sun. “Who painted this?” Gordie asks, his voice quavering. “Who did?” His father slowly rises out of his chair and gently takes the plate from Gordie’s shaking hands.

Gordie wakes up in the middle of the night, his teeth chattering. He is freezing cold. He opens the door to his parents’ room. “The water is cold,” he says. “Am I going to get frostbite?”
In the morning, when the smell of coffee wakes him up, Gordie does not remember how he ended up in his parents’ bed.

These days, Gordie feels like crying, but he can’t do it for some reason. There is a peach pit in his stomach and it sucks up all of his tears. His mother watches cartoons with him but she doesn’t laugh at the jokes, so he doesn’t either. When she gets up from a commercial, she brings back three juice boxes. “One for you,” she says. “One for me, and one for—” She puts her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Gordie,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Gordie likes it when his mother tucks him into bed so tight that he feels like a mummy. These days, she doesn’t always remember to do this, so when she does remember, it makes him extra happy. When his mother leaves, his father comes in, carrying the painted plate with him. “My name is Dad,” his father says. “I’m with the Plate Foundation. I’m sure you’re aware of the issue with painted plates in Michigan, right?” Gordie nods his head. “We’re out here tonight so that everyone knows about all the hard work big sisters put into painting these plates. It’s very important that we recognize the artistic talent…” Gordie’s father trails off for a moment. He fixes his glasses and then smiles at Gordie. “It’s important to know that only big sisters can paint beautiful plates like this, don’t you agree?” Gordie tries to move his arms, but they’re trapped snug beneath the covers. “Would you like to contribute to the Plate Foundation to help raise awareness about the artistic talents of big sisters?”
Gordie shakes his head. “No.”
“It would only take a small contribution,” his father says.
Gordie drags his arms free from the blankets, rips the plate from his father’s hands and hurls it against the wall. It takes a chip out of the drywall and thuds softly on the carpet, completely intact.
“Okay,” his father says. “Maybe next time, then.”

The missing pictures are back on the wall. Gordie examines them with a magnifying glass. “Who is this girl?” he says in a talk show voice. “Where did she come from?”

The snowman Gordie built has a crooked head. “Moms and Dads all have Ghost Glasses,” Gordie tells the snowman. “Wouldn’t you like to make a contribution so kids can have them too?” Gordie punches the snowman’s head, smashing it into smithereens.

When Gordie’s father comes home from work, he has a small package wrapped in brown paper. He kneels down next to Gordie, who has been looking for things in the carpet with his magnifying glass. “Hey, kiddo,” his father says. “I was at my job today, working on a big commission, when the President of the Ghost Glasses Group paid me a visit. He said that you were dong a great job raising awareness about children who don’t have glasses. He said you did such a good job, that now every kid in the region has a pair of Ghost Glasses. He wanted me to deliver this to you personally.” He hands Gordie the brown package and Gordie unwraps it slowly. There is a pair of large black-rimmed glasses with thick lenses inside the box.
“How do they work?” Gordie asks.
“You just put them on,” says his father. “It might take a couple of days for you to get used to them, but that’s normal. The nice thing about Ghost Glasses is that you only have to wear them when you want to see ghosts.”
“But you wear your glasses all the time,” Gordie says.
“Some dads need to do that sometimes,” his father says.

Gordie waits until his is alone to put the glasses on. He stumbles over to the picture wall. Everything is blurry and colorful. He doesn’t see any ghosts yet, but that’s normal.

Gordie wears the glasses for three days straight. He even wears them in the bathtub. Sometimes he catches sight of something out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes he knows a ghost is watching him play with his Ninja Turtles. He acts normal, so he doesn’t scare her.

Gordie stomps his feet in the snow. The pond is completely frozen over now, no black wet spot in the middle anymore. Gordie sits down next to the headless snowman and begins to roll a snowball for a replacement head. Gordie hears something and he looks up, squinting behind the thick windowpanes of his glasses.
“Hey,” Gordie says. “Are you hungry? Mom’s making soup. We should go inside so we don’t catch frostbite.”

The peach pit in Gordie’s stomach is gone. His mother comes into his room and asks him what’s wrong, but he can’t answer because he’s crying so hard. He takes off his glasses and buries his head in his mother’s lap.
Even though it isn’t dark outside, Gordie’s father comes home and the three of them just lie in the bottom bunk bed without their glasses on. They lie there for a long time like that, not moving or saying anything.

Where No One Belongs

2008-03-15T21:54:00.000-07:00

For the nycmidnight contest.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Subject: Sewing

Rioko pets old Mr. Ryu’s dog. The internees call the dog many names. Most of the names are about hope and that is a good thing. The dog wanders away toward the fence, maybe chasing the shadow of a jackrabbit or a fat horned toad. Rioko looks up and Mr. Ryu is chasing after the dog, calling one of its names. The sentry guard in the tower yells something and Mr. Ryu still calls after the dog, another name this time. Mr. Ryu is at the fence now and then there is a loud clap, a rifle shot. Rioko sees the dog licking Mr. Ryu’s hand but she can’t see Mr. Ryu’s face. Rioko is seventeen and she has just seen someone die. She is cold; she is sweating. She looks down at her shoes, her right foot throbbing in time with her heartbeat.

Dr. Jonas David Mendelssohn has one hand. He sewed up his wrist on a Japanese island and now he sews up the seams of torn skin of these prisoners in Topaz, Utah. He prescribes aspirin and water and morphine. In makeshift barracks, he diagnoses bronchitis and sprained ankles. The internee doctors send the ones with cuts his way even though he only has one hand. They call him Dr. Mender.

Rioko is sick. She is sick in her heart and in her foot. She has a fever and no water. Rioko lays in a small cot under an itchy green blanket with her little sister, Cola. Cola says Rioko stinks. Cola says that maybe she won’t sleep with Rioko anymore if she keeps farting. Cola shifts, sticking her butt out, and immediately falls back asleep.
“Sorry,” Rioko thinks she says. She thinks about how her shoes are the same color as the Utah desert. They used to be bright white but now they are burnt like the earth. She always wears them to bed. She is scared. She is sick.

Dr. Mender stares out into the empty Utah desert. He drinks coffee and tries not to think about old Mr. Ryu and the gaping hole in his face, and Paul, the sentry guard standing stupidly and arrogantly over the dead body, believing he has done no wrong, ready to shoot again. Dr. Mender tries to think about the day ahead and not the days and lives and limbs that are behind him.

Rioko does not want to wake up for breakfast. Cola shakes and shakes and shakes her sister’s body. Rioko can see her sister as if through a peephole in a door, disproportionably comic. Rioko is thirsty. Cola rips the covers away, a crowd growing around Rioko’s bed. Some noses wrinkle at the stink. A hand brushes across her foot and Rioko would scream if she didn’t feel so far away. Rioko is in the middle of the desert and so is everyone else. They are where no one belongs.

Dr. Mender contemplates the girl’s shoes. The left shoe is burnt orange and dry, the shoelace carefully double knotted. The right shoe is dark red, wet and swollen.
Dr. Mender does not scare easily but he is frightened for the girl. He has given her morphine and she has fallen asleep. Her face is narrow. She has chapped lips and her chin has an upward tilt. Her name is Rioko and this is the name he whispers soothingly as he cuts the canvas of her right shoe with a pair of stainless steel scissors. Her name slides out of his throat like cool water. Rioko Rioko Rioko… The seams break easily, and the shoe falls away like a soggy husk.
Her sock is an amalgamation of desert dust turned mud, blood, puss and cotton. There is a small hole in bottom the sock, directly in the middle of the sole of Rioko’s foot. Dr. Mender starts the cut at the hole, gently moving the scissors up her ankle, the stump of his left hand holding the girl’s leg steady. Rioko Rioko Rioko…

Rioko wakes up and she does not scream. Maybe it is because she has morphine coursing through her veins. Maybe it is because she has been locked in this prison for seven months. Maybe it is because she hears her name softly echoing off the white washed walls of this cinder block infirmary. Rioko Rioko Rioko…
She stares at the man holding her foot, his fingers wrapped around her ankle, the stump of his left wrist gingerly tamping the arch of her foot, her big toe, the sole of her ankle. She cannot feel him do this. Her foot, she thinks, has been invaded by the Utah desert. It does not belong to her anymore. She wants to tell this white man, his name is Dr. Mender—he once gave Cola some anti-septic after she was stung by a bee—she wants to tell Dr. Mender that she is sorry, but this isn’t her foot any longer. Nothing escapes her throat except dust. She is thirsty.
Dr. Mender looks up at her and smiles. Through the lenses of his glasses, Rioko sees that his eyes are far away, like her. She imagines he sees this place through a telescope like she does. He sets down the foot and helps her take a sip of water. “I’m glad you’re awake,” he says, catching a rivulet of water on her chin with a handkerchief. “I was getting a little lonely.”

Dr. Mender tells the girl that her foot will have to come off. She tells him to give it to the desert, to bury it and to sew up her leg so that the desert cannot take that too. “They are trying to take it all,” she says. “Everything we had we no longer have.”
Dr. Mender tries to make a joke, something about how she can tell her children that she lost her toes in Topaz. He feels stupid after saying this. She gives him a forgiving look, allowing him to try again. “How did this happen?” he asks.
“Suddenly,” she says.

Cola says that she is sorry for calling Rioko stinky. Cola cries and cries and cries… This makes Rioko want to cry but her tear ducts have been fire blasted, wiped bone dry.
Dr. Mender stands at the foot of the bed, his chin resting on his stump. “How is your bee sting, Cola?” Dr. Mender asks.
“F-fine,” says Cola.
“I really like your name,” says Dr. Mender.
Rioko watches Cola gather her composure and she is proud. She is proud of Cola’s long straight black hair and the way she blinks her eyes, not ashamed of the tears on her red cheeks. “Thanks,” says Cola. “I made it up myself.”

“Will this make me feel better?” Rioko asks.
“It should,” says Dr. Mender.
“What if it doesn’t?”
“My job is to make sure you get better and I promise I will.”

A nurse asks Dr. Mender if he would like her to thread the needle, but he insists on doing it himself. He holds the needle against his chin with the stump of his wrist and pushes the thread through the needle’s empty eye with his good hand. He is cross-eyed and his tongue sticks out of his mouth when he does this. It is a funny sight, this one-handed doctor threading a needle, but the nurse does not laugh even though Dr. Mender wishes she would.
Rioko’s leg stares back at him. The bright red of her calf muscle, the glaring white of her tibia, the dainty circle of her fibula—it is perfect. It is all how it should be. He has already stitched the blood vessels and now he and the nurse fold the flaps of Rioko’s skin like wrapping paper, evenly and with care. Dr. Mender removes the needle from his lips and sews the seams with delicate and precise movements. He hopes, in time, that Rioko will not be able to see her scar, that she can fool herself into thinking this is how she has always been.

Rioko wakes up. A nurse brings her water. Rioko drinks it down. Her throat is scratchy. She drinks more water. She is still thirsty. No matter how much she drinks, it is not enough. Her leg, wrapped in a fist of white gauze, throbs in time with her heartbeat.

There are families of Japanese in the northern states now, Dr. Mender knows. They are finding new homes, but they are not really home. Dr. Mender is the color of the desert. He is up to his shoulders in a hole he has dug with a military shovel. The cactus above him provides no shade. It is difficult to dig with one hand, but he manages. He remembers the trenches he helped dig on a Japanese beach, taking breaks to remind captains to remind soldiers to keep hydrated. He used two hands then. He wanted to save lives, not bury them. They swam in the ocean and waited to get bombed.

“Can I touch it?” Cola asks.
Rioko shakes her head. No.
“Why not?” Cola asks.
“You might get infected.”
Cola’s face clouds over, the blood slowly percolating under her skin. She takes a tiny step back. Rioko knows that she has given Cola a horrible thought that she might never forget.

Dr. Mender redresses Rioko’s leg. “It is healing beautifully. The stitches can come out Tuesday,” he says. “Pretty soon, we’ll be able to get you out of this bed and send you back—” Dr. Mender stops immediately. Out of old habit, he was going to say home. He checks Rioko’s face to see if she has caught his slip. She has.
“How did you lose your hand, Dr. Mender?” she asks.
It is two in the morning. He stabs a morphine needle in Private Kramer’s forearm and dry heaves when he sees most of Private Kramer’s guts spilled out onto the beach. Bullets, shrapnel and sand fly around his ears like a hive of angry bees, slicing, diving and howling. He reaches back to his med pack for another syringe but something is wrong. He roots his hand into the bag, but he can’t move his fingers—he can’t feel his fingers. There is a bright flash of a flare and he pulls his hand out and he sees that he has no hand. He calls Private Kramer’s name, but Private Kramer is dead and he realizes that he has not saved anyone, not one person. He thinks this is some kind of joke, maybe even some kind of cruel dream. And then the pain comes and it is no dream.
“Suddenly,” Dr. Mender says.

Rioko is sick. She is sick in her heart. She is thirsty even though she has had as much water as she can drink.
Dr. Mender carefully takes out the thread from her leg. A nurse holds a mirror so that Rioko can see. Dr. Mender undoes what he has done, stitch by stitch. There is a bright red zigzag across the stump. It reminds Rioko of the sunset here, the image that crosses her field of vision after she clamps her eyes shut as hard as she can.
Dr. Mender shows her how to use her crutches, to let them walk ahead of her. She trips. She falls. Dr. Mender holds out his wrist for her to take and she breaks. She feels the flood pouring out of her and forgets all of the lessons she was ever taught. Respect your elders. Children should be seen and not heard. Don’t raise your voice in anger.
“You lost your stupid hand and because of that, you got to go home! I gave my leg to you and you still won’t let me go! You got to go home! Why can’t we? You didn’t make me better! Why can’t—” She stops as abruptly as she started, her lungs and belly as empty as a barren well waiting to be filled in with silt and dust.

Dr. Mender drinks his coffee and calls all of the friends he knows. He tells them his story.

Rioko eats liver at the mess hall. She asks Cola to sleep in her bed but Cola is too scared. Rioko uses the open-stalled bathroom, not caring anymore if anyone can see her and her abbreviated leg not quite touching the floor. She dreams about Dr. Mender sewing her eyelids shut but this still doesn’t keep out the dust, her vision a permanent zigzag of scarred sunsets. She wakes up and asks Cola to sleep in her bed, but she will not. Rioko lets her crutches walk ahead of her. She eats hearts and kidneys at the mess hall. Rioko’s stomach fills up with sand, like an hourglass. She thinks that Dr. Mender sealed the desert up inside of her and the invasion will never end. She calls old Mr. Ryu’s orphan dog many names of hope and he will not come to her.

Dr. Mender has a picture and a letter. These are good people, he knows. They live in the cold weather, but they are warm and caring and want to help.

Rioko stares at her shoe. She sits in the dust. The adults gather in the shade, talking quietly. Cola plays with the fish in the cement fish pool with the other kids, screeching and laughing. Rioko takes off her shoe and wiggles her toes. She struggles upright and lets the crutches walk her to the fence. Squinting against the sun, she glares up at the sentry tower and hurls her shoe over the fence as far as she can. It lands next to a rock and settles. She glares at the sentry tower. Everything is silent. She can feel their eyes on her. She tests the strength of the fence and contemplates the barbed wire overhead. She jams her good foot in a hole and starts to climb, awkwardly and ferociously. She sees herself through a telescope in an overhead view, an awkward tripod scaling a wall in the middle of nowhere. She wants her shoe back. She wants them to shoot her so she can bleed out all of the sand in her guts. She weighs a million pounds, but still she climbs skyward.
“Where’s Minnesota?” Cola asks. Rioko looks over her shoulder and sees her sister with an envelope and a picture. Dr. Mender stands about ten feet behind Cola and stares at the sentry tower.
“Someone wants us to live in their home,” Cola yells. “Do you want to go?”
Rioko does not move.

Dr. Mender catches the glint of gunmetal in the sentry tower and then turns back to the scene in front of him. In another world, this one-footed girl stuck on a fence in Topaz, Utah is a funny sight. Dr. Mender wishes someone would laugh, but no one does.

Pipeline...

2008-03-15T21:39:00.000-07:00

So a lot of great stuff has been happening lately, and strangely, my least priority has been to blog about it. So here's a quick run down:

1. It actually looks like Cole is going to be made! I'm headed up to Vancouver Easter weekend to meet with the director and actors for a table read. I don't want to give out the names yet, but as far as Canadian celebrity goes, everyone involved is pretty big time.

2. I'm currently involved in this great short story writing contest run by nycmidnight.com. The initial contest was that you got a genre and a subject assigned to you and then had a week to write a 2500 word story. There were about 550 total entries divided into thirty heats, and I was assigned Genre: Historical Fiction, Subject: Sewing. My story won first place (there were something like 46 total finalists) and got to move on to the final round. We received our assignment last night (Genre: Ghost Story, Subject: Salesman or saleswoman) and were given 24 hours to write another 2500 word story, which I just turned in 2 hours ago. The winners are announced in two weeks? Three weeks? I don't know. All pertinent info is on nycmidnight.com.

So, the next two posts will be the stories I wrote for the contest. I hope they are easy reads.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

The स्ट्राइक...

2007-12-02T11:09:00.000-08:00

Here's an email I got from Collingwood (the producer who bought my script, Cole):

"Things are trucking along but it's a little scary out there with the writers strike. I just came back from L.A. and we have some good leads with 'Cole'. I'm hoping someone will nab cause with the strike it's going to be hard to renew it for another year. The film/tv industry in Vancouver and L.A. has come to a slamming halt which means Kimani and I are now shuffling cause of course that's where we make our money."

Cole is up for renewal at the end of December. I guess the writers' strike even affects us in Seattle, eh? Hopefully, things will work out for the best.

Maia and Jonah go to Canada

2007-11-01T19:59:00.000-07:00

Been awhile since I posted--working a 9-5 and trying to write in my spare time is wearing me down... but good news! Mike, very talented director of my short film "Sleepless," wants to work with me to get a Canadian grant for my feature script Maia and Jonah--a love story about a disappearing boy and an exploding girl.

This means a couple of things: 1. A rewrite is needed to clarify some confusing plot points and 2.) a rewrite is needed to change the settings all to Canada.

The two major settings are Michigan and Haiti--Michigan is easy, but Haiti? There aren't many tropical beaches in Canada, not to mention Haitians.

Mike and I are passing thoughts back and forth. The rewrite needs to be done by December to get the grant--everything will be all right... I hope.

Now a Professional Writer...

2007-08-29T22:10:00.000-07:00

Holy moley, a lot of things have happened over the past couple of weeks. From my experience, the best way to handle this sort of situation is to create a bulleted list. So here goes:

1. "Sleepless," the ten minute short film I wrote got accepted into the Edmonton International Film Festival. Congratulations are due to director/prodigy Mike McLaughlin for making it happen.

2. My big sister got married! I spent a week in Michigan and was even an usher in the wedding. I did a little bit of ushering and a lot of wedding cake eating. This is big sister and husband:

3. I moved into a new place with my girlfriend. We can see the Space Needle from our window.

This is her:

Yes, I do live in a cartoon world.

4. I optioned Northbridge to Collingwood. Which means I am now considered a professional screenwriter (due to monetary funds agreed upon and furnished in contracts). So Title Card Pictures is taking Cole and Northbridge to the Toronto International Film Festival for script meetings.

Again, Neil Every helped me immensely with this script and he helped make it what it is. Unfortunately, we couldn't find a buyer on our own for it. I owe Neil for everything he's done to get the script to this point and hopefully Title Card will make it into the picture it deserves to be.

5. Time for bed.

Northbridge Update...

2007-08-09T22:03:00.000-07:00

So Infinity finally read Northbridge thanks to Neil's efforts. Unfortunately, they passed. They liked the premise, they liked the characters, they liked the dialogue, they liked everything and had nothing bad to say at all... and they passed. So there you go, no one wants to say anything bad about anybody--even in Canada.

So right now I'm exploring other options for the script. I'm tired of waiting and there are people who want it. So I sent the most current draft to them today and should be getting an offer in by Monday--they want to take it to the Toronto IFF and find some backers there. "They"--of course--need to remain confidential until we have a contract signed.

Slow Going...

2007-07-18T21:00:00.000-07:00

Beaumont, my college roommate, recently asked me why I hadn't posted a blog in a while. Quite simply, not much has happened in a while. Looks like Cole is going to be pushed back to next May when it stops snowing in Alberta. This means the producers will most likely pick up the option to renew in January (the original contract was for one year with an option to renew for another). I'm confident in the renewal, not only because they've already invested some thousands in the development of the script, but also because they are nice people and genuinely seem to want to get this movie made.

Infinity (the producers of Capote) promised to read Northbridge but Neil and I have yet to hear back from them. It's all about the waiting, really. Waiting, waiting, waiting...

But if you want some really interesting blog insights on the Chicago Bulls, definitely visit Beaumont's site at http://312chill.wordpress.com All of your questions about Thebo Sefolosha will be answered.

A New Screenplay and Robert Benton...

2007-06-15T17:33:00.000-07:00

The polish for Cole went well. By well, I guess I mean I haven't heard any unkind words from the producers. Every time I turn in a new draft, I expect them to say, "What the hell, kid? You're sure you're a writer?" Nope, not sure at all.

I finished a new screenplay and have sent it out to my Canadian friends for a story edit--thanks Peter and Elaine!--it's 98 pages and that's about all I feel comfortable with mentioning at the moment.

I also got a chance to see Robert Benton speak at the Seattle International Film Festival. The man's got a lot of depth to him. It was in a theater with about 50 other people and I got to sit 20 feet away from him and was pretty much transfixed the whole time (not in a creepy Kathy Bates in Misery way either). He showed us some clips from his upcoming movie Feast of Love and explained how combining Charles Baxter (the author and a character in the novel) and Saul, a Jewish professor, into Morgan Freeman's character was the best move he'd ever made Interesting stuff.

A polish...

2007-05-26T21:48:00.000-07:00

After hoping to have a relaxing long weekend, I got an email this afternoon that I needed to have a "polish" on Cole done by Tuesday. I was planning on going to see Werner Herzog's new film at the Seattle International Film Festival, but I'm not complaining. This urgency means something good is about to happen, and maybe gives us a chance to start shooting by the end of the summer.

Here are my instructions for the polish:

1. We've reworked the dinner scene and need you to add some dialogue ending it with
the great VO about his family but now said out loud.
2. We want to amp the frogger/kenny scene after the **** a la good will hunting.
Frogger helps him start to realize he can leave.
3. We've done a lot of rearranging at the end and we've pulled all the voice over to
the bottom. Can you tighten everything up and alter the vo to fit the new order
and/or reinsert the stuff at the bottom. Basically a cleaning is needed.

And that's it. Back to work...

Miranda July...

2007-05-20T21:12:00.000-07:00

I went to Miranda July's book reading/dance party at Neumo's in Seattle on Thursday. July wrote, directed, and starred in one of my favorite movies, Me and You and Everyone We Know. She seemed incrediably nervous the whole time. She read a hilarious story from her new book of short stories but her voice was shaky, almost unsure.

I bought a book and had her sign it. She had this overwhelmed look in her eyes, like she'd rather be anywhere but there... like maybe Idaho or Scotland. I couldn't figure out why and it seemed a little strange at the time.

After reading half of the book, I think I understand why she was so overwhelmed... she absolutely bares her entire being in these stories. It's like the stories are naked, and not only are they naked, but you can look at the nakedness with triple magnification. Now everyone that reads these stories can see her insides and maybe that's why she looked so uneasy at the reading--because she was anticipating the inevitable fact that everyone would soon know these things about her.

Anyway, the book is great. It's called No one belongs here more than you. Check it out sometime.

Sleepless...

2007-05-10T21:58:00.000-07:00

I just saw a rough cut of "Sleepless"--a short film I wrote while at VFS. It's a romantic comedy about a guy who believes that when he falls in love, he will finally be able to fall asleep. My buddy Mike liked the script, took with him to the frozen tundra of Edmonton and filmed it in February.

I'm pretty happy with the way things turned out. Mike definitely put a lot of time and effort into it, and it's his vision the whole way. The kid is a talented filmmaker--even though he doesn't know how to make fish tacos.

I'll post when a final cut gets uploaded to You Tube.

Sorry for the delay...

2007-05-07T20:44:00.000-07:00

I'm still here! Been super busy in the past month with a new rewrite. With this new found prospective on things and after enjoying a beautiful 75 degree Seattle day, I have decided to abandon past journal posts and just focus on the here and now. Which leads us to... now.

I turned in my second official rewrite for Cole last Saturday. I even got paid! I ate some wild boar with the producers and played poker until 5am. I sat next to a lady who was a casting agent/model. The most brilliant thing I said all night was, "So... modeling... is it good?" And then I folded.

They're optimistic about getting this thing off the ground by the end of the summer. They're trying to attach Jeff Daniels to it now--the script is set in a small town in Michigan, Jeff Daniels is from a small town in Michigan... etc.

So yeah, the script has legs. Skinny legs, but legs all the same. The budget is small, but so are the settings, and it should look like a decent little indie flick when it's all said and done.

Questions? Concerns? Feel free to ask and I will reply to the best of my ability. Thank you all and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Signing the contract...

2007-03-26T20:20:00.000-07:00

From December 19th, 2006:

The lawyer looked at the contract. Everything checked out, except for a couple of small details.

(At this point I detailed some points in the contract I wanted changed, Dylan countered with an offer, and I accepted. Can't include the exact e-mail exchange here because I don't want to get in a legal mess... that and I don't want people to know how much I was hosed. Just kidding... maybe).

I’m moving out to Seattle after New Year’s to be closer to Vancouver and get out of Michigan. Lamont found a place that has a swimming pool and a hot tub and a pool table. Yee-haw. I can’t seem to finish Northbridge. Stuck on the ending. I’m frustrated. It’ll come… It’ll come…

December 26th, 2006

Merry Christmas! I signed the new option contract and the check is in the mail.

I bought a used car, a 94 Escort Wagon. I call her the “White Shadow.” She should be able to get me out to Seattle. I’m staying with friends in Chicago and Minneapolis on my way out. Don’t know anyone in Montana or Wyoming so I might have to drive that one straight through.

Time to finish Northbridge. I’m inspired. More later.

On the Greyhound from Cincinnati to Detroit...

2007-03-23T21:27:00.000-07:00

Before I head out for the night, here's an entry from a bus:

December 9th, 2006

Got the option contract from Collingwood. It looks okay except for this whole “GRANT OF RIGHTS” section. It basically gives them complete and ultimate control of every single character, medium, and brain imagination somewhat related to This is What We Call Home. This stipulation includes radio plays, commercials, sequels, and toothpaste endorsements. I’m having a lawyer look at the contract and plan on telling Collingwood to cut out the “GRANT OF RIGHTS” section.

I turn 24 tomorrow. The big two dozen. Not sure how I feel about that. I’m not bald or grey. I’m in relatively good shape. I’m close to becoming a professional writer. I’m going to take a nap and think about where the next month is going to take me.

Neil met Peter Krause in Whistler and he’s interested in reading Northbridge. I’ll have to check out some episodes of Six Feet Under. I think Northbridge is going to be pretty kick ass once I get done with this next draft. I would love to get Jeff Daniels in on it. I think I’ll send his agent a query letter and see if he’ll read it.

Everyone should listen to Jackson Browne and Tribalistas. At the same time.

A trailer...

2007-03-21T18:28:00.000-07:00

Here's a trailer for "Sleepless," a short film I wrote. It's directed by Mike McLaughlin. He's from Edmonton, found funding and filmed it all there. The full short should be available in a couple of weeks. I'll post it when it comes out.

Here's a journal entry from December:

December 3rd, 2006

Collingwood says the contract is being sent tomorrow. At least I’ll get something in the bank and I can move back out west. I need a piece of shit car and a place to live. I’ll probably end up working for a non-profit in Seattle—Greenpeace or Washington Citizen Action—more hippies! Maybe I can get work doing script coverage for somebody in Vancouver. It’s tough being an American working in the Canadian film industry.

I’ve been procrastinating on “The Untitled Project About a Brother and Sister.” I’ve written a treatment for the first act and can’t get myself together to move on. I’ve been watching episodes of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and dodging cats instead.

My awesome negotiating skills...

2007-03-19T19:27:00.000-07:00

Here's a great example of my fantastic negotiating skills. I found out later how pointless it was to ask for Wirter's Guild of Canada Scale on future rewrites. You'll see why in future posts. So yeah, like the previous two posts, this takes place back in November. I'll continue to post past journal entries until we get caught up to the present.

11/24/06

Here’s the latest e-mail exchange with Collingwood beginning with yesterday morning and ending today:

Hey Adam,

Had a meeting tonight about "This is What We Call Home" and we're still interested in moving forward. Unfortunately we have to stick with our initial offer. It's definitely a good deal for a first time script option. In good faith I can assure you we would like to have a long term relationship with you that spans over several features.

If we are going to do this I'd love to move forward with it immediately. There's a lot of prep we can get done on it before the New Year. Ideally we would start shooting as soon as June.

Let me know your thoughts.

Best,

Dylan

UP.SO.: If thing with "Northbridge" don't work out please let me know as we love that one too!!

***

Hi Dylan,

Today is Thanksgiving so I'm a little busy with turkey, relatives and mashed potatoes. I'll get back to you tomorrow for sure.

Thanks,

Adam

***

No worries.
Happy Thanksgiving!!

Dylan

***

Okay, Dylan. Let's get this done. I just have two requests for the option contract:

1. That you give me the opportunity to do a dvd commentary.

2. That for any additional rewrites and scene rewrites beyond the one rewrite agreed to in the contract, I get paid WGC scale.

That's it. I look forward to hearing back from you. My phone is in working order now so feel free to give me a call. E-mails work too.

Adam

***

Excellent!!! We're very excited to be on board.

Your two requests are not a problem. Give me a few days to have my lawyer draw something up and we'll chat next week.

Have a great weekend and let's make a movie!!!

d

So that’s how it works, eh? So now I’m sitting back and relaxing. watching the Pistons game. In other news, Neil sent me 23 pages of notes on Northbridge. Good Jesus. I’m actually looking forward to the rewrite on that one though.

I’ve been re-reading Bukowski recently. Just finished Ham on Rye and want to finish Post Office before I leave for the Nati. I think it will help me with Northbridge. Northbridge is all about hiding, covering up who you really are. Bukowski never hides from who he is, and that’s what I have to have the characters become in the climax. Tracy has to become Chinaski…

On the name...

2007-03-17T10:17:00.000-07:00

The reason why I chose "Adventures in Screenwriting" for this blog is simple: I think my dad rented Adventures in Babysitting about 27 times from the local video store when I was kid. He still gets a kick out of the Babysittin' Blues scene. Needless to say, this was the movie I was raised on.

Back to the past:

11/23/06

Today is Thanksgiving. My stomach is full of tryptophan, cheap wine and pumpkin pie.

I talked with Collingwood last Friday on my drive down to Chicago. He mentioned a couple of directors he had in mind. A Brit and a Canadian. I can’t remember their names, but he’s picturing an art house flick. As far as lead actors to play Kenny, a couple of Canadians were mentioned and so was Chad Michael Murray. Yowza. It’s hard for me to picture anyone playing Kenny now. I think I would like it to be an unknown actor surrounded by strong supporting actors. I would love Brian Cox to play Walter, but I’m not sure how realistic that would be. At any rate, Collingwood said the film could be made for anywhere between two million and eight million depending on the actors and the financial backers. I said I’d appreciate it if my purchase fee could slide with the budget—the higher the budget, the higher the purchase price. He finally e-mailed me back today saying that he’d have to stick with the initial option offer. I’m going to send him an e-mail tomorrow asking for some extras—dvd commentary, fair wages on any scene rewrites beyond the one rewrite in the option offer, maybe some Snapple and Krispy Kremes. Hey, throw everything against the wall and see what sticks right?

I go to Cincinnati on Sunday for three weeks for work. I hear they have good chili.

Like a pair of new socks...

2007-03-16T20:18:00.000-07:00

I’m starting this blog from my rented room in Seattle, WA, overlooking Ravenna Park in Seattle’s U-District. Who am I and why am I writing this blog? I am Adam Zang (no, I’m not Asian, although that question does come up once or twice a week) and I am a screenwriter. Actually, a freshman screenwriter whose decided to chronicle the ups and downs of optioning his first script to a Canadian production company.

After graduating Carleton College in the June of 2005, I enrolled in the Vancouver Film School’s Writing for TV & Film program. After spending a year in Vancouver, in August 2006 I went back home to Michigan burnt out and broke. I had written about a thousand script pages while at VFS, and while I had grown as a writer, I felt frustrated with my situation, namely because I was living jobless in my dad’s house and in student loan debt hell.

And then came an e-mail from Dylan Thomas Collingwood of Collingwood Management.

Dylan had read a script I wrote at film school called Northbridge, a murder mystery set in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Dylan repped Neil Every, one of my instructors at VFS, and Neil had given him the script because Neil was looking for a film to direct and he liked my script (notice the past tense “repped”—Neil and Dylan have since parted ways).

In his e-mail, Dylan said he was impressed by my writing and requested more writing samples. I sent him off This is What We Call Home, a low-budget coming of age drama, the first feature script I wrote at film school. Three days later, Dylan asked me if I would option him both scripts. He wanted Northbridge more than This is What We Call Home—Northbridge is easily the stronger of the two—but I couldn’t give up the rights to Northbridge because I had told Neil I wanted to work with him on it. Neil had helped me immensely in the early drafts and I felt (and still feel) that I owed him the chance to direct. Dylan didn’t think he could find funding if Neil was attached as a first-time director. And so we began negotiations on This is What We Call Home.

I started a pseudo-journal after I agreed to Dylan’s offer. I will post these entries until we’re caught up to present day. At the time of the first entry, I was working a non-profit job in Ann Arbor, living in a spare room at my dad’s house, and battling through my first full winter in Michigan in five years.

I will keep this blog as closely related to the screenwriting business side of things as I can. Occasionally, personal issues will surface—it is only human that they do—but I pledge not include anything that I would not like to read if I were not writing a blog. I hope that makes sense. I cannot include specific dollar amounts (due to contractual agreements) and will include updates on the state of the Detroit Tigers baseball club—the future 2007 World Series Champions.

On to November 13th, 2006:

I decided that I’m going to option This is What We Call Home to Collingwood. His offer is low. I’m hoping to negotiate a slightly better deal, but I really have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. I have no agent and no experience. I’ll probably end up blowing it and getting less than what he originally offered. I at least want to get on the dvd commentary and explain all the deep symbolism and metaphor in the script. Riight. I would love to get this movie made and be paid to write for a living. That’s the ice cream dream, man.