A Day in the Life of a Megalomaniacal Producer/Director

Write. Read. Critique. GWW

When I took classes at the Gotham Writers Workshop that's what they drilled into us as their "highly effective" means of teaching the craft.  Well, some of us were good at reading.  Less of that number were good at writing (posting pages online that is); but I tell you everyone, every last one of us was greater than great at critiquing.  Criticising is a sport enjoyed by all.  Even more by atheletes of the arts.

Just read Marc's pages on the blog under this one.  It  so reminded me of the GWW classes and how I dove headlong into these elaborate critiques of my peers' work.  I feel I have to assign a reason for typing this today because I don't think it's evident in what I wrote so far.  I set up this blog to network, read and be read by fellow writers of scripts.  Oh my god, I'm writing a disclaimer!  I want to tell you how I'm about to champion the good elements of Marc's pages so I could thrash the bad ones.  I'm looking for the OK.  That's why I'm writing this.  Well, well.  I guess someone here (whenlightningstrikes) cares whether or not he's liked by a group of faceless screenwriting hopefuls. 

I should have titled this entry, "Paving the road to hell".

Apology

Musings

This is the third fucking attempt to post this damn blog today.  1st the computer froze.  Fucking Dell.  2nd I hit "Add Entry" in the stupid blog task bar and erased my entry.  Fucking task bar.  And now I'm bitching about the first and second attempts.  Can we curse on this site? 

"Musings.  Take 3."  SNAP.

Got the end of ACT I down in shorthand yesterday.  I shut off the computer and used a spiral bound notebook and pen to more freely jot down the events.  It worked.  Now all I have to do is fold it into the actual script.  The way things are going on this blog I'm afraid my Final Draft software will explode when I load it into the disc drive.

Also, reading professional scripts is the biggest aid to improving writing.  Creative Screenwriting Magazine (CW) has 4 pages from "Click" in its latest issue.  It was very helpful.  Ironically, today on my homepage the same film got panned by critics.  But reading the 4 pages helpful.  Movie not.  Pages good.  Movie bad.  So it goes.

Barf bag

Yesterday the thought of working on the "Crooked..." rewrite almost brought me to vomit.  The best I did was read what I had so far.  Eh.  Even right now I feel I'm adding one more sour drop of whine to a keg of artistic whining & whimpering about the craft, our struggles, what we feel we HAVE to do, etc. 

While enjoying my morning constitutional in the solitude of the bathroom these thoughts were in my mind.  I landed on Robert McKee.  You know, the overzealous screenwriting guru from that movie, "Adaptation".  The "Fuck you and write." guy?  He really exists if you don't know.  I took his seminars.  He's thorough, passionate, giving.  He won a Bafta award for his work, "Je Accuse Citizen Kane".  It's not a movie.  No.  God forbid a guru have an actual piece of his own that stands alone as they pontificate how to do what they've proven they couldn't.  No, it's an assault, a deconstruction of the movie, Citizen Kane.  Good for him.  Why was this thought in my head on a toilet in a safe and solitary bathroom? 

Because he DIDN'T have a movie to his credit.  Maybe he wrote scripts.  Maybe even some were bought; even produced.  I don't of any if there are.  He didn't, doesn't, have a movie done and he now basks in a niche of the industry.  He's validated by paychecks and sold out lecture dates.  His success is the deodorant that keeps the puke smell of his not writing stories away from his finely groomed, old man nose hairs. 

Good for him, I guess.  Good for me too the day when I write enough of these blogs that I'm calculated by a Scriptologist.com algorithm as the most active, most recent, most whatever blogger in the virtual west.  Then I'll be relieved the nausea of writing and not writing.

Pressing onward

I don't know how interesting my blogs are, but I like the new routine.  Keeps me writing.  Yesterday was a bit more cut 'n paste from the old draft to the new than actual rewriting.  I guess that too is part of the process.  It's not that I'm trying to jam favorite scenes into the new, but they do the job story wise and they mesh into the new, dare I call it the final, draft. 

That will be tomorrow's entry: when to call a project finished.  I mean seriously, you could rewrite a thing to death, become trapped in an endless cycle of revisions.  Oh sure, the books tell you when your rewriting has been reduced to cutting and pasting scenes, truncating description and dialogue, and other minor touches that don't drastically affect the story; that's when you're done.  Until a story editor or contest reads your 'done' script and says, "It's good; but it could use this."  Or, "It would be better if..."  Or, "We like it, but could you change the main character to a volkswagon named Herbie?"  Then I guess you could go once more into the breech.

But for now I'm pressing onward to FADE TO BLACK on this draft, and will promptly move on to the next story.   

Getting past the milestones

Made my deadline for the 20/20 contest.  Feel good about what I submitted.  Having focused so long and so narrowly on that goal, and achieving it I'm now left the task of pressing onward in the story.  By myself.  Without the carrot of a deadline which is code for instant gratitfication I, all of us, have to persist.  So today I start the next leg of the tour de rewrite.

PS Thank you to all of you who took the time to read my stuff.

The Crooked Old Man (2nd 10 pgs)

            INT. KITCHEN - COTTAGE - LATER

            Lily packs a satchel as Victor eats and glances out a window.

                                VICTOR
                      Some traveling sideshow on the far side
                      of the river.  Mind Maria better, hmm?

                                LILY
                      She’s an explorer like you. 

            Victor ignores the complement.

                                LILY
                      Where will you be?

                                VICTOR
                      Don’t know yet. 

                                LILY
                      Would you consider staying?  Not for me. 

            Victor shoots her a look.  She doesn’t look at him.

                                VICTOR
                      Your asking me to stay is selfish.  My
                      country needs me again.  Finally. 

                                LILY
                      Germany?  They need you to tell them how
                      they lost the war?  She needs you too.  

            Victor sees Maria outside gesturing and toasting to thin air.

                                VICTOR
                      Lily, PLEASE?!  You’re not... Sister,                                           
                      there’s a fault in the bedrock of our
                      nation.  Maybe you know how deep it goes.
                      I do and I’m terrified.  Since the war
                      people everywhere live in fear.  Of who
                      might come or of who might come out.
                      Know your enemy, the papers tell us.  I
                      wish we knew ourselves.  If this fear
                      continues we could lose our rights, our
                      country, maybe our whole identity.

            Lily weeps by her brother’s rare display of passion.

                                VICTOR
                      There’s only one hope of regaining our
                      national pride.  The Mirror Project.          
                      To be among Germany’s sharpest minds.
                      Collaborating for...for...

                                LILY
                      The security of a fractured nation?

                                VICTOR
                      Our nation.  And someday hers.  Who does
                      she talk to out there?

            EXT. COTTAGE - CONTINUOUS

            By herself Maria’s at high tea nodding to no one.

                                MARIA
                      Uncle says it’s colder when there’s no
                      snow.  The river is frozen.  I seen him
                      cross it.  I’ll follow him, tell him.
                      Let him see you for real before he goes.

            BACK TO SCENE

            E/I. BUCHENWALD - BUILDING IV - DAY

            A finger traces the lettering on the plaque.  A figure goes

            INSIDE

            and hears VOICES.  Follows the source upstairs.  Stops on a
            stair with a broken bannister spindle leaning against the
            rail.  Steps over it.  Gets to the top of the stairs.

                                VICTOR (O.S.)
                      I can remember when I was a little boy...

            An ear presses against a door to hear LAUGHING from inside.

                                VICTOR (O.S.)
                      Wunderbar!  More tea?

            The eavesdropper is Vaas.  His face is beat up and bandaged.
            He lifts a fist but doesn’t knock.  Checks the doorknob to
            see if the door is locked when it swings wide open on him.

            Victor, standing in the doorway, glares at Vaas.

                                VAAS
                      No!  Wait.  I send your letters.

                                VICTOR
                      You should not be here.

                                VAAS
                      You think different after I tell you what
                      happened to me.  Please, may I speak?

            INT. VICTOR’S ROOM

            Victor cleans tea cups off the only table.

                                VAAS
                      My name is Vaas.  Who were having tea
                      with?  I heard you talking to someone.

            Victor stops dead in his tracks.

                                VICTOR
                      I was working.  Why are you here?  What
                      happened to your face, hmm?

                                VAAS
                      Funny.  The answer to both questions is
                      the same.  There was a little girl.

            EXT. CARNIVAL CAMPGROUND - CONTINUOUS

            On the outskirts of the campground Josef dumps urine from two
            buckets.  The macaque pops out of his overalls.  Jumps down,
            CHIRPS.  Runs into the trees.

                                JOSEF
                      Find her, Himhim.

            The macaque runs up to

            INGRID

            sitting in the dirt tearing strips of cloth from a black
            velvet robe.  She pets the macaque.  Sees Josef.

                                INGRID
                      I told you.  It’s never good for anyone
                      to touch me when I’m doing it.  That’s
                      why I ran away.  No more now.  I mean it.

                                JOSEF
                      No more, I promise.  Why do you follow us
                      when you can go anywhere you want to?

                                INGRID
                      I told you.  I’m looking for a man.

                                JOSEF
                      To show him things?  Am I going to be a
                      clown?  Why won’t you show me?

                                INGRID
                      Josef, listen to me.  It’s not a trick.
                      When you see me like that it’s not me.
                      I’m like a telephone wire for talking to
                      God.  Do you understand?

                                JOSEF
                      You’re the Fatima girl then, right?  What
                      does He say?  He knows if I’ll ever be a
                      clown.  Can’t you let Him show me?

                                INGRID
                      It’s wrong for anyone to see what He
                      shows them.  They’re not supposed to
                      know.  Josef, I have to go see the man
                      you brought to me the other night.  

                                JOSEF
                      Because he touched you?  He didn’t
                      believe.  I made him believe.

            INT. VICTOR’S ROOM - LATER

            Vaas implores Victor to believe, but Victor’s not buying it.

                                VAAS
                      I’m telling you.  I wouldn’t believe it
                      either, but I saw her.  I saw...

            Vaas punches his thigh trying to stay focused.

                                VICTOR
                      Herr Vaas, you’re not making sense.  You
                      broke cover to tell me a girl who walks
                      backwards showed you things?

                                VAAS
                      You think this is funny?  Let me ask you,
                      what would happen if the letters stopped?
                      From me to you to your mirror, and so on.
                      What would you do then?

                                VICTOR
                      Ist sedition!  Security rests with us
                      fulfilling our duty.  The letters have to
                      keep flowing.

                                VAAS
                      You don’t know.  I’m telling you.  I know
                      all the answers to all the questions a
                      mind could ever wonder to ask.  Think.

                                VICTOR
                      I think, Herr Vaas, the strain has gotten
                      to you.  I think I will write a letter
                      stating you be relieved, debriefed, and
                      then committed.  You are not well.

                                VAAS
                      I’ll show you.  The carnival is not far
                      from my post.  I dare you.  My post is--

                                VICTOR
                      DON’T tell me that.  GET OUT!

                                VAAS
                      Five, zero, three Marbuffplatz,
                      Mauthausen.  Five, zero, three--

            Smirking Vaas taunts him repeating the address.  Leaves.

            Victor SLAMS his door.  Tries to compose himself by cleaning.

                                VAAS (O.S.)
                      I heard you before.  Trying to distract
                      yourself from what you don’t know.  She
                      showed me!  She can show you what the
                      devil knows about you!  See for yourself.

                                VICTOR
                      Letters must keep flowing.  Go away. 

            Silence.  Victor sits.  Starts a letter, but stops. He
            writes: “503 MARBUFFPLATZ.  MAUTHAUSEN.”

            EXT. MAIN STREET - BUCHENWALD - NIGHT

            The only person out Victor sneaks peeks at lighted windows.
            MUMBLES responses to the conversation in his mind. 

                                VICTOR
                      Don’t feel I...no.  I have to know.  You. 

            His mumbles turn into an inner diatribe.  His body language
            becomes a fit of shrugs and finger pointing.  He gets to a

            BEER HALL

            whose lights and LAUGHTER contrast the desolation outside.
            Victor contemplates entering.  Startled, he pivots.

                                VICTOR
                      What do you want?

            WERNER, nestled in an alcove across the street, watches.

                                WERNER
                      Just to talk, that’s all.

                                VICTOR
                      Oh.  Well for just to talk you go in
                      there, hmm?

                                WERNER
                      You didn’t go in because you’re better
                      than them.  You have an obligation.  Men
                      with obligations can’t waste their time.

            Looking past Werner, Victor notices children into mischief
            down an alley.  His attention is drawn to a girl among them.

                                WERNER
                      Like you I have no wife, no children.  No
                      distractions from my obligation, not that
                      there is any in this miserable
                      Buchenwald.  Men like us, we--

            Werner turns to see what Victor is looking at.

                                WERNER
                      You there?  Get away!  Go before I...   

            As the Children bolt Victor shudders as if reliving a
            terrible accident.  Leaves Werner talking to himself.

                                WERNER
                      Herr Barchas?  If I may say--

                                VICTOR
                      You have no choice but to say.

                                WERNER
                      You’re an important man.  You don’t care
                      what others think. Me too, I’m OK with
                      that.  But what I want to know is this.
                      How long before the acknowledgement?

                                VICTOR
                      The question then is how long, hmm?

            Victor blots his forehead.  Removes his glasses.

                                VICTOR
                      You think that loneliness merits
                      acknowledgement?  That it is some great
                      virtue to be single-minded of duty?  That
                      all the splendors of life and youth are
                      distractions from some nobler calling?
                      You absolute idiot.

            With the focus and power of a tightly coiled snake Victor
            spits his answer to the slack-jawed Werner.

                                VICTOR
                      How long?  When that nobler calling
                      forgets you, and there is no one left to
                      talk to but only your single mind, and
                      the painful certainty of duty makes you
                      gasp as if you were being dragged under
                      by a thousand drowning men THEN, and only
                      then, can you ask how long.

            Crushed, Werner shrinks away from Victor who calms.  Victor
            puts on his glasses and does a double take at

            THE GIRL

            from the side street standing under a street light staring
            right at him.  She turns and runs away.

            All alone and frightened, Victor hurries into Building IV.

            INT. VICTOR’S ROOM - LATER

            Steam rises from the tea kettle on the table.  The colored
            string from the map is curled around the light cord.

            Victor comes in wearing a newspaper hat.  Unwraps two
            beautiful demitasse.  Pours tea into them and sits.  

                                VICTOR
                      Happy birthday.  Older we get the smaller
                      the cups they ask us to drink from, hmm?

            Victor sips from his cup.  Admires his meager surroundings.

                                VICTOR
                      Where’s the waiter?  No bother.  People
                      don’t understand half the pleasure of the
                      meal is the anticipation, hmm?  More tea,
                      Maria?  No.  Open your gift then.

            Victor looks around for what might substitute for the gift.
            Opens an envelope by the window.  Takes out the letter.

                                VICTOR
                      Oh, a beautiful cameo of you for the
                      occasion.  Your grandmother had one done
                      of her, your mother of her, and now...

            His concentration drifts.  Slides the paper hat off his head.
            Disassembles the rest of the charade.

                                VICTOR
                      What is happening?  You were told, no
                      ordered.  Orders give us purpose.
                      Purpose gives us clarity.  Why didn’t you
                      do what you were told? 

            Victor puts on his overcoat.  Grabs his bowler hat.

            EXT. COTTAGE - NIGHT - FLASHBACK

            Victor adjusts his hat.  Smiles at a toppled tea cup on the
            old table. 

                                VICTOR
                      Maria?  Commun here.

            Maria runs around the corner.  Her face is flush.

                                VICTOR
                      What were you doing over there?

                                MARIA
                      Just nothing, uncle.

                                VICTOR
                      Nothing?  Like leaving your best china
                      outside for anyone to come and take.

                                MARIA
                      Are you finally having tea with me?!

            He offers his cane to her; she grabs it.  They walk along the

            BANKS OF THE FROZEN RIVER

            past the compound of striped tents on the other side.

                                MARIA
                      We’re not crossing here?

            Maria’s hand climbs over Victor’s.

                                VICTOR
                      (pushes her hand away)                 
                      Don’t...know for sure the river’s frozen.

            Let down, Maria sees the tents and clumsily walks backwards.

                                VICTOR
                      Why are you walking like that, hmm?

            Face partially painted like a clown, Josef watches Victor
            following Maria walking backwards from the far bank of the
            river.  He scrubs off the make-up and runs toward the tents.

                                VICTOR (O.S.)
                      I’m leaving again.  Maria, keep away from
                      people you don’t know.  Understand?

            AT A SMALL WOOD BRIDGE

                                MARIA
                      But uncle I have something to tell you.

                                VICTOR
                      Tell your mother what I told you instead.
                      And this.  Stay with her.  She needs you.
                      She’d go crazy without you to love.

                                MARIA
                      But Uncle Victor, she’s just across--

                                VICTOR
                      NO she is NOT.  She’s at the house. 

            Maria gives up trying to be heard.  Just stands there.

                                VICTOR
                      So anxious of the lady you will become.

                                MARIA
                      But I can know what I’ll become.  My tea
                      parties, I made a friend.  She can--

                                VICTOR
                      Maria!  I know you want me to play tea
                      with you, but I am too old for that, hmm?

            Maria endures a pat on the head.  Watches Victor disappear
            over the bridge.  Looks at the tents.  Step onto the ice.

            BACK TO SCENE

            EXT. 503 MARBUFFPLATZ - MAUTHAUSEN - NIGHT

            Ingrid stares at the address.  Looks through a window.

            E/I. 503 MARBUFFPLATZ - MAUTHAUSEN - DAY

            Victor pushes through a crowd around the front door.  He
            glances over a shoulder to see

            A BLOOD TRAIL

            in the foyer.  Victor falls through the crowd into the foyer.

            This gets the attention of OFFICER KATZ.  In his 30’s, he’s
            tall, handsome, and has an air of privilege about him.
            Circles up to Victor. 

                                OFFICER KATZ
                      I never saw you before.  Who are you?

                                VICTOR
                      Just no one.  What happened here?

            ON INGRID.  In the crowd, she stifles a yawn hearing Victor.

The Crooked Old Man (1st 10 pgs)

                                                                FADE IN:

            Any small town in Europe.

                                NARRATOR (V.O.)
                      With the ending of the first world war
                      many in Europe were left without
                      protection or identity.  Violating the
                      Versailles Treaty patriots devised a plan
                      of defense called the Mirror Project, a
                      clandestine network of deep cover spies
                      whose mission was to observe societal
                      behavior looking for national threats
                      communicating their intelligence solely
                      through a chain of anonymous letters.
                      Worse than the routine and isolation was
                      not knowing their letters’ ultimate
                      destination.  The fact others knew and
                      they did not would test their resolve,
                      their allegiance and their sanity.

            INT. 503 MARBUFFPLATZ - MAUTHAUSEN, GERMANY - NIGHT

            A drafty, rundown room fortified like a bunker by piles of
            papers listing and leaning against every wall.

            VAAS, middle-aged, moody as a chess master in the body of a
            coal miner, seals an envelope.  Exhausted.

                                VAAS
                      Another letter.  Another night.  In this
                      room.  All alone.

            Neatly puts away his writing materials.  Paces.  Adjusts
            papers on their stacks.  The sight hurts his eyes.  Folds the
            top sheet.  Stands at attention.  Presents the folded sheet.

                                VAAS
                      MY NOTES, HERR GENERAL.  No, Herr general
                      I don’t yet see a pattern.  Yes, Herr
                      general letters still coming.  No, Herr
                      general have not missed a post.

            Vaas looks around the room.  LAUGHS at the amount of paper.

                                VAAS
                      Just look around.

            Vaas flies into a rage scattering piles of papers.  As pages
            drift to the floor so does Vaas.  He begins cleaning up.

                                VAAS
                      Losing my mind.  Have to get out of here.
                      I’ll post this one and I’ll...take a
                      walk, yes!  See people.  See real people.

            EXT. STREET

            Vaas walks down a deserted street.  Looks at the buildings on
            either side of the narrow strip.  Rips at his overcoat to
            breathe.  Bends over.  At his feet is a faded, crumpled   

            CARNIVAL FLYER

            that reads: “SEE THE WONDERS OF THE MYSTERIOUS FATIMA GIRL”.

            Vaas picks it up.  He smiles and walks away with new purpose.

            EXT. CARNIVAL

            It’s crowded and nobody minds the shoddy presentation.

            Vaas cruises the booths and tents.  Anyone who notices him
            either looks away or shoots dirty looks at him.  He defiantly
            smiles in the wake of their ostracizing.  Goes in the

            FREAK SHOW TENT

            crowded with locals gawking at the attractions.  Vaas
            inventories the freaks.  Looks at his crumpled flyer.

            A carnie, JOSEF, 30’s, a simpleton in overalls whose clown
            face looks like an accident, studies Vaas.  A macaque pops
            its head out of Josef’s shirt.  Josef follows Vaas  

            OUTSIDE

            and out of the carnival compound.  Josef lopes after him.

                                JOSEF
                      You didn’t stay long, mein Herr. 

                                VAAS
                      What do you want?

                                JOSEF
                      I have something better than what you saw
                      back there.  A real wonder, mein Herr.  I
                      have her just around the corner.  Only
                      the right kind of people can see her. 

                                VAAS
                      I get it.  In business for yourself.  No.

                                JOSEF
                      She’ll show things your mind won’t be
                      able to handle.  Mein Herr.

                                VAAS
                      Go away before I tell them about your
                      little enterprise.  I...Mind?  What can
                      you possibly know about-- 

                                JOSEF
                      I know she can make you scream.

            EXT. PASTURE

            Josef leads Vaas along.  Josef puts down the macaque.  It
            runs into a bush.  The bush rustles and then PANTING.  Josef
            goes behind the bush.  Comes out dragging a small coffin.

                                JOSEF
                      Wait for it, mein Herr.

                                VAAS
                      For what?  What’d you put in there?

            Josef’s smile widens.  Dares Vaas with a glance.

            Vaas’ expression of doubt turns to curiosity, then amusement,
            then awe.  He reaches a hand out to touch.  Vaas SCREAMS.

            INT. 503 MARBUFFPLATZ - DAY

            Still in his overcoat Vaas awakes.  Goes to a dirty mirror on
            the wall.  Nervously LAUGHS and starts scratching his eyes.

                                VAAS
                      Not yet. Got to tell somebody.  Somebody.
                      Someone else has to know about this
                      before I...Somebody has to know.

            Vaas takes out his writing materials, starts scribbling.  All
            the piles of papers are gone from the room. 

            EXT. MAIN STREET - BUCHENWALD - DAY

            A sea of humanity buys, barters, or just begs.

            Ignoring everyone is VICTOR BARCHAS, 40’s, cane in hand,
            metal brace on a shoe, a man who seems to relish being hated.
            Suddenly a newspaper under his arm gets knocked free.

            Ashamed, Victor watches boys and desperate men smother the
            paper.  They rip it apart ignoring an envelope kicked loose. 

                                VICTOR
                      Out!  Get away or you’re in my book, hmm?

            Victor produces a leather notebook and pen.  That’s all it
            takes.  Instinctively they retreat from the scattered pages.
            Victor rescues his envelope.  Leaves them the shredded paper.

            EXT. ABANDONED FACTORY COURTYARD

            A line of local workers with newspaper cut-outs push to see. 

            Armed POLICEMEN stand guard for a FOREMAN, 50’s, who sets up
            a table and chair, opens a ledger, beckons the first worker.

            From an alley Victor calculates how to get around them.

            Suddenly WERNER, 30’s, approaches the line.  He’s
            Buchenwald’s weasel; a conniver and a notorious liar.

            At sight of him Workers MOAN and direct him to the back of
            the line.  Among the men is CLAUS, 30’s, a John Henry type.

                                CLAUS
                      Werner.  Too late to get the ad from the
                      newspaper.  He’ll want one of ours. 
                      No favors, Werner.  Not for this.

                                WERNER
                      When you hear what I have to tell you
                      you’ll regret saying that, Claus.

            The Foreman pulls his table closer to the policemen. 

                                WERNER
                      I’ll explain it to a dumb head like you.
                      If you don’t get to the bank building
                      before closing time today you can’t get
                      your money stamped with the zeroes.

            The news jumps from man to man.

                                FOREMAN
                      Any man steps out of line forfeits his
                      interview.  Is that clear?  Any and all.

                                OLD WORKER
                      Don’t give him your money, fool.

                                WERNER
                      Just for that you’ll pay double tax. (To
                      Claus) Marks turned into thousand marks
                      like magic.  Who wants his money stamped?

            GROANS sound from the line.

                                WERNER
                      Werner doesn’t need to do any favors.
                      You up front, hurry.  You others, well...

                                YOUNG WORKER
                      I heard he’s only giving chances to work
                      today.  We should go with Werner.  

                                OLD WORKER
                      Trusting him is out of the question.  We
                      either get our money stamped or stay in
                      line.  Unless, there!  Claus, call him.

                                CLAUS
                      The bastard?

                                OLD WORKER
                      Is better than this Untermensch.

            Werner collects money from some men in the line.

                                CLAUS (O.S.)
                      Herr Barchas.  Please, Herr Barchas.

                                CHORUS OF WORKERS
                      Him?!  Not the bastard in building four.

                                FOREMAN
                      You there.  Be quiet.

            Werner’s greedy smile melts when he espies Victor.

                                WERNER
                      Damn him. 

                                CLAUS
                      For our money, Herr Barchas.  Please.
                      You’re not in the line.  We have to be.

            Victor looks at the neutral Foreman, then at the line of men.

                                VICTOR
                      I can’t.  The outgoing train.  My letter.

                                CLAUS
                      But you never get on the train.

            YEAS and approvals bleat from the line.

                                CLAUS
                      We’ll pay you.  How much?  Mockie.

                                VICTOR
                      I don’t want money.  I just want to mail
                      my letter.  You have your business.  I
                      have mine.  Leave me to my work.

            Victor turns toward the train station.  The train WHISTLES. 

                                WERNER
                      That’s right, go. 

            Victor shoots daggers at the gloating Werner, who smirks back
            at him.  Even the Foreman enjoys the spot Victor’s in until
            the line starts morphing into a mob.

                                WERNER
                      Men, wait!  Don’t forfeit your chance.

                                CLAUS
                      If you won’t help us then you won’t get
                      to the train. C’mon men.  Damn you, Herr--     

            Some men step toward Victor.

                                VICTOR
                      NO!  Buchenwald already damned me.

            Victor’s sudden intensity stops the men in their tracks.

                                VICTOR
                      Know what Topf company makes?  Industrial
                      brick ovens.  Only the masons and smiths
                      are getting called back.  You others are
                      wasting your time, and he is letting you.

            Men look at each other.  Train death stares on the Foreman.

                                VICTOR
                      And you let him.                  
                      (Slams his book in Werner’s direction)
                      You hate him when it’s convenient.  You
                      don’t say no to him, any of you.  I’ve
                      said it and I’m saying it.  Damn me?
                      Every time I watch you make the same
                      mistakes out of your own ignorance.    

            Staring at the men Victor picks up his book.  Heads for

            THE TRAIN STATION

            where the Conductor accepts his envelope and hands Victor an
            envelope in return.

            Confused, Victor opens his leather notebook.

                                VICTOR
                      Ist wrong.  I don’t get a letter today.

            Victor studies the envelope as he heads back through the

            ABANDONED FACTORY

            where the remaining men in line begrudgingly pay Werner.

                                WERNER
                      Danke schon, Herr Barchas.  Thank you.

            Victor keeps walking but Claus gets in his way.

                                CLAUS
                      Like good Germans we listened to you just
                      like we listened to the treaty.  You.
                      You’d watch a man bleed to death.  Your
                      problem is you don’t care about anyone.
                      Just those stupid letters.

                                VICTOR
                      Precisely.  And they afford you the
                      luxury of ignorance. 

                                CLAUS
                      No more.  We’re watching you, and that
                      building you haunt.  We’ll find out about
                      you, your letters.  And then we’ll know.

                                VICTOR
                      Stay out of my building. 

            Victor walks away.  Rips open the envelope.  Stops.

            INSERT - THE LETTER

                                
                      Something amazing happening.  Identified
                      positively the threat.  Must take special
                      action against Mirrors.  It’s coming.
                      She cannot find you. 

            INT. TENEMENT - NIGHT

            Vaas lay on a bare mattress.  He’s drenched in sweat.
            There’s a wine bottle tethered to his wrist.  He jerks in his
            sleep and the wine bottle SMASHES against the wall.

                                VAAS
                      NO!  Who’s there?!

            He throws himself at the door.  Jams a chair under the knob.

                                VAAS
                      Show you.  I’ll have to show you.

            Vaas punches the floor by the mattress.  Shards of glass are
            stuck in his knuckles.  With his fist he starts writing huge
            letters in blood on the wall.

            EXT. BUCHENWALD - TRAIN STATION - DAY

            Victor waits behind a crowd of frustrated people questioning
            and griping at the mealy-mouthed CLERK in the ticket office.

                                CLERK
                      All second class and otherwise non
                      priority mail was halted.

                                WERNER
                      We’ve been cut off from jobs, money, even
                      Europe doesn’t want us.  And now no mail?

            The crowd reluctantly breaks up except Werner who studies
            Victor going to the ticket office. 

                                WERNER
                      What was that?  Barchas got a letter! 

            Heads turn to see what Werner is shouting about this time.

                                CLAUS
                      How come he got mail?

                                WERNER
                      You don’t wait in the job line.  You
                      didn’t get your money stamped.  And
                      you’re the only one in Buchenwald to get
                      his mail?  What makes you so special?

                                VICTOR
                      If you listened you wouldn’t be wasting
                      time. (To Clerk) What mail was held up?

                                CLERK
                      All second class and...

                                VICTOR
                      ...otherwise non priority mail.  My
                      letters come priority class.  Guten Tag.

            Victor parts the crowd with his cane.  Leaves.

                                WERNER
                      What keeps you among us non priority
                      class, you bastard? 

            E/I. BUCHENWALD - BUILDING FOUR - DAY

            A condemned, five story apartment building sadly displays a
            tarnished bronze plaque reading: BUILDING IV.

            Victor enters turning the envelope over in his hands.  Sees
            one of many strategically placed intruder alerts, a fallen
            bannister spindle, out of place.  Goes to a door.  

                                VICTOR
                      Who ist there?  Come out.  Put you in my
                      book.  Hello?  I got the letter.  I--

            His door opens.  LILY, early 40’s, weathered, she carries
            herself with the poise of a former beauty, comes out.

            INT. VICTOR’S ROOM - MOMENTS LATER

            Everything in the place: his cot, his hot plate, has a
            singleness about it.  There is a table and one chair.                                                                                                                                             

                                VICTOR
                      I told you I’d write you.

            Victor hides the envelope under a book, lights the hot plate. 

                                LILY
                      You never left a return address the few
                      times you did.  What is this awful place?

            Lily examines a large map of Germany.  It has a twine-linked
            network of headlines, notes, photos, and thumb tacks.

                                VICTOR
                      Difficult but not the worst it could be.

            Victor dips one sad tea bag into two cups. 

                                LILY
                      What could be worse than being in this?

                                VICTOR
                      Not being in it. 

                                LILY
                      Victor, it’s Maria’s birthday soon.  Come
                      home for your niece’s birthday. 

                                VICTOR
                      Oh Lily.

                                LILY
                      You talk about choice, who has it.  I’m
                      taking back your choice to stay away.
                      Just who do you communicate with?

            Victor stares at the envelope underneath the book.

                                LILY
                      You don’t know.  Think you’ll make some
                      grand discovery if you stay.  You don’t
                      feel for me or Maria, you don’t feel--

                                VICTOR
                      I don’t feel responsible.

                                LILY
                      You don’t feel anything.  Whoever these
                      people are stay with them.  They’re all
                      the family you have now.  God help you.

            Victor watches her leave.  Nervously starts cleaning.  Moves
            the book.  Stares at the envelope between two tea cups.
            Clears his throat, smiles.  Rotates one of the cups. 

                                VICTOR
                        I am fine.  How are you?  Das ist good.

            EXT. COTTAGE - DAY - FLASHBACK

            An old, wood table is set with two chipped tea cups.

            INGRID, 10, a waif with the unsettling quiet of a child who’s
            survived a tragedy, waits on a porch smirking at a MAILMAN
            approaching.  Suddenly she looks past him at

            MARIA, 9, a tomboy who tries to act older than her years,
            running toward them.

            Something’s wrong.  Ingrid scrambles for cover.  Hyper
            ventilates.  Resists a violent, involuntary bodily function.

            The Mailman reaches the table. 

            Ingrid’s breathing quiets.  Arms by her sides.  Her gaze
            drifts into the sky.  An ecstatic grin rips across her face.  

            The Mailman holds out an envelope mistaking Ingrid for...

                                MAILMAN
                      Maria?  Guten Tag.  For your uncle.  Your
                      uncle.  I don’t have time for your games.

            Mailman puts the envelope in Ingrid’s stiffened arm.  Leaves.

            Maria watches the Mailman approach her.  And then gawks at

            INGRID STILL SMILING INTO THE SKY

            turn and mechanically walk backwards off the porch.

                                MAILMAN
                      Maria?  How did you get... 

            The mailman watches Maria running for the empty porch.

            INT. DEN - COTTAGE

            An antique piano ages under piles of papers and notes.

            Fondling a wax sealed letter, Maria catches sunlight glinting
            off a metal brace on an orthopedic shoe. 

                                VICTOR (O.S.)
                      Who’s it from, hmm?

                                MARIA
                      It doesn’t have a return address.  Uncle,
                      won’t you come to my tea party?

            Victor finally puts down his newspaper.  Takes the letter.

                                VICTOR
                      I’m too old for that.  So are you soon,
                      hmm?  Go find your mother now.

            Burns the letter.  Stretches for a cane.  Can’t reach.  He
            makes sure she’s gone.  Walks peg-legged to get it.

            INSERT - THE BURNING LETTER
                      “Major Victor Barchas,
                                             By order of the
                      Weimar Republican Guard and The Munich
                      University your presence is hereby and
                      formally--”

Staying up nights thinking of poignant dialogoue

Last night I was on a bus coming back from the shore.  Relieving a painful experience lead to machinations and "what-if's".  That lead to a bit of dialogue.  In it's true life context it's what I'd have to say to someone for X reasons.  When I thought the same line in the world of my story it succinctly captured a character's skill, implied a warning, and it was fun to say.  I fought through the apathy and wrote it down.

What was the line?  I'll share it soon; hopefully in the body of those 20 pages.

Dead line's tomorrow.  Here's hoping.

First 20 pages Rewrite almost finished.

rejection slip

AEI Entertainment was nice enough to email my unsolicited, cold query back with a polite, "no thank you good luck", email.  Made my night.  I wrote them and others some two weeks ago.  I'll take this as a ping of depth, much like when sailors watch a descending anchor chain stop.  They're looking at the chain spool but their imagining the anchor touching down unseen fathoms below the surface.  It's a release.  A landing.  A sense of depth.  And tonight AEI told me my anchor hit bottom.

                                      Here's hoping.

Forgiveness

A detachment from the strife of writing.  Thank God.

Last night at work Tavis, a bar regular, and I got into a discussion about forgiveness.  It started as I explained how I phoned my eye doctor's office to get refills on scrips for an irritated cornea due to overwearing contact lenses.  My doctor wasn't in, but his secretery (do we still call them that?) said she'd pass along my request.

It's here I told Tavis my doctor could either OK the refills assuming what he told me not to do I did; highly unprobable in this the age of law suits (is that how you spell it?).  Or...make me schedule an appointment to cover his ass legally and give me the, "I told you so".

That touched off the forgiveness thing.  Past eye doctors, I feel I'm a competent person.  I pay my bills on time, I show up for work, I'm an attentive listener, and assorted other qualities that would never get me a towel on an NBA bench, but do help keep this beautiful blue/green ball spinning.  Tavis felt the same way.  Why then does it feel when one of us falls from the purer faith we are not lifted up with forgiving arms, dusted off, hugged and sent to try again?

I'll say it again.  How come the fuck-ups get to fail and try, fail and try among the forgivers among us; but the dutiful and diligent get the, "You should know better" rage and warnings of, "Don't let this happen again"?  It seems to Tavis and me that the screw-ups, ne'er do wells, and idiots use up all the forgiveness leaving none of that precious emotional balm for the rest of us.  Why?

Why are the competent persecuted for their mistakes while the incompetent are given an endless stream of leg up programs, open arms, and shoulders to cry on?  What part of the body is left for us strivers and triers?  Middle finger spite and bird beak filled colons of disappointment?

By the way, my eye doctor left a long message on my machine chiding me about, "this problem four months ago, and I shouldn't be asking for refills if I'm not overwearing my lenses".  I made an appointment for Tuesday.

Went with the old

I decided to give the first story one more draft.

The rewriting is getting tedious.  And what looked like a cut'n paste job with a few new scenes is quickly becoming a whole new draft; but I'm keeping my head up.  I got 6 days left for the 20/20 contest; and they only want the first 20 pages.  I'll meet that.  But the rest, oye!

Last night I got some pages done.  With the new thriller pace of events I created other story problems.  Characters that came across as benevolent now have harder edges because of how I'm getting the hero and villain together.  That doesn't bother me too much.  Keeping in mind what story information is coming out when is difficult.  You're so used to how the last draft reads you fall into the trap of thinking, "I introduced this character back there.", where now there is no back there.  Things like that too.

I'll try to get three to five more pages done before work tonight.  Catch you up tomorrow.

rewrites???

This whacky blog site cost me yesterday's entry.  Who cares because it's about as active as a urinal in a convent.  But who am I to complain.  Try, try again.  Right?  (Chorus of , "right").

To reitterate, do I rewrite the story of three years and four drafts as it's the flagship of my breaking-in endeavor; or do I start the next story, a high concept, chick comedy that I'm not too into besides it's potential marketability?

Yeah, I know.  I want to get into the business.  For that I should be ready to write my most embarrassing moments on alligator carcasses at a Bayou feeding farm.  But something about the first, a Historical Thriller just gnaws at me.  I love the story.  I put years into it.  It's my first.  It's in four, about to be five, contests this year and faring well.  Got it to an intern (for what that's worth) at Benderspink.  And I just accommodated the critique from A Feeding Frenzy by revamping the first act to pep it up and make it more thrilling.

I know there are writers out there all thinking the same thought.  "This would be such a good movie!"  And then you hear their pitch and crack your face trying to give'em a reassuring smile while thinking, "How could you delude yourself?"  So looking from the inside out I could be the worst of that bunch and not even know it; like Pappion with his head locked in a hole in his solitary confinement cell door asking the guy next to him, "How do I look?"

I heard some writers fall into the research trap.  Where they toil away researching their story to the point of exhaustion because researching puts off actually writing.  So their dutiful research becomes another form of procrastination.  Just like me typing this long ass blog.  It's making me feel good about myself hearing my laptop keys CLICKING away; and I see paragraphs forming like tumors, but am I actually getting anything accomplished?  NO.

So I guess I'll wrap up with a Harvey Corman line delivered to the camera during his dastardly plot monologue from Blazing Saddles, "Why am I asking you?"

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