 |
|||||||
|
By mw2828, Section Journals
I don't want to write anything for about two months, honestly. I will of course, but I might not enjoy it. I'm completely burnt, beat, exhausted.
What started out as a routine, multi-hour trip into my fatally flawed screenplay, to fix haywire slug lines and correct fatal formatting issues, turned into a five-day trial, a test of my will. I started writing "Ghosts of the Boulevard" when I was 17. It was a summer night, I was drunk and felt like doing something with myself. Never mind the fact I was completely winging it, I wanted to write a movie, and write it I did. I thought I finished it, the first time, that December. Upon printing the pages and analyzing the script, I realized the story was terrible, the dialogue superfluous, and the characters largely one-dimensional. Unwavering, for whatever reason, I went back to work. I sliced and diced the dialogue, streamlined the story, and gave the characters layers, insecurities and dreams, strengths and weaknesses. Confident now, I sent the script into a Hollywood analyst, searching for feedback, or, more accurately, a pat on the back. I was the next... uh...big time screenwriter guy, yeah, that dude. The advisor returned the script about ten days later. It'd been given a grade of "pass". The analyst cited a directionless narrative and atrocious formatting as justifiable reasons for not recommending my script to executives and agents. I couldn't agree more. There were positives, however. He thought my dialogue crackled. That wasn't his exact word, but screw it, I'm taking liberties here. He also felt the characters were realistic enough, but implied I needed to give them something relevant to do. And, most satisfying, he congratulated me on successfully submerging the reader into a specific time and place. So, despite the "pass", I was emboldened. Once again, I went back to work. I ignored the complaint about a directionless narrative, the precise point of the entire story. Instead, I hammered away at the formatting, for hours, for weeks. And, just for the hell of it, I tweaked the dialogue, for what I thought the final time. I knew, and loved, these characters. I was positive I possessed a finished product. I sent the script into a professional reader. I waited anxiously at college for days, anticipating a major change in my life. I would get representation. A studio would buy my script. I'd be the youngest screenwriter to ever win an Oscar. And, if everything broke right, I would rampage through the Hollywood starlet division, a latter day Warren Beatty. The professional reader e-mailed me his thoughts on the script. The review began rather... inauspiciously: " Well, right off the bat, in this first scene, I see you have no clue how to write a script." Uh-oh. I believe the guy truly enjoyed it, taking a skewer to my work. He poked fun at the characters, deeming them "goofballs." He took shots at my still horrendous formatting, warning that the script would have ended up in any studio's wastebasket. Worst of all, he all but assured me that this type of script, about middle class teenagers in Whitestone, New York, attempting to make sense out of their complicated lives, just wasn't very interesting, and wouldn't have worked even with perfect screenwriting technique. He also used the term "alas" an infuriating amount of times. Alas, I couldn't counter any of his arguments. They were pretty irrefutable, the proof on the page. So, I was done. I didn't look at the goddamn atrocity for months. I focused on school, alcohol, and my sports writing, not necessarily in that order. And thank God for all that. The script would pop into my head about once a day, a shiver following, right down my spine. Did it really suck that badly? Apparently, it did. Balls, even. I pictured the professional reader, cackling with glee, putting out cigarettes on the pages containing my climatic ending. It definitely wasn't happening, of course, but that didn't stop my imagination from kicking the self-pity into overdrive. A few days ago, by pure chance, I happened upon an original draft of " Ghosts of the Boulevard". With trepidation, I began reading. It had rough edges, portions of dialogue where my inexperience shone through. Yet... it really wasn't that horrendous. It was bad, of course, but not that bad. It got me thinking. Maybe I should try, one last time, to fix the formatting. Maybe than, the real point of the story would shine through. Maybe, just maybe, I could be riding around in limousines, sitting behind the dugout at Yankee Stadium, and nailing perfect ten models, all in a few months time. So, last Friday night, on 1 AM, I returned to a time in my life where absolutely nothing made sense. I returned to a script, which featured, and I quote, dialogue and action text "bleeding together on the page in an inscrutable sea of ink." After reading 34 pages of Syd Field's "On Screenwriting", I was pumped up and ready to roll. I'd learned how to write a slug line. I'd realized I couldn't give specific shot direction in the script, leaving that to the director. There was only one problem with the overhaul. Nikolai sucked. He was an obvious villain, patently unlikable, and when something horrible befalls him late in the script, it would be impossible for the audience to feel sympathy for him, considering what a jerk he'd been for 80 pages. So, I changed Nikolai. And in changing Nikolai, I had to change James' reaction to Nikolai. And in changing James' reaction to Nikolai, I had to change James. And in changing James, the main character, I had to change the entire freaking script. I worked deep into the night, than the morning, and didn't stop until the work was finally done, yesterday. It was the most work I'd ever put into anything, crammed into one week of writing mayhem. By the time it was over, only about 10 percent of the original script had survived, maybe less. I sent it to another advisor, today. I posted it on Inktip.com. It finally feels finished, something I could be proud of, no matter what. Now I wait, ready to return to my sports writing, with a clean conscience that I did all I could.
That's all we should ever ask of ourselves. Let the chips fall.
All trademarks and copyrights are owned by their respective leagues and associations. The Rest © Sportscolumn.com / Cow Hollow Media, LLC. Please read our Terms of Service. Sportscolumn.com is powered by Scoop.
|
Related Links |
||||||
