Somewhere I read that there is always a better word than "good" in your screenplay's dialogue. Now every occurrence of the word brings an immediate red flag for me when reading a script. It definitely makes me look at dialogue with a more critical eye.
Let's take a good look at the uses of "good" in the first draft of one of my scripts.
Good morning. Could that be better? The character is a pompous douchebag, so I'd say it could be better. How about something like, Right fine morning? So that's a case when there's a gooder version.
Does a man’s heart good to see a white family on the prairie. Same douchebag speaking. He's actually a racist douchebag. In this case, I'd say that the line of dialogue could be better without "good". Pleasing to my heart to see a white family on this prairie.
Fetch more. And limb wood, a good bunch. Can this one be better without "good"? This is a mother telling her children to get firewood, but more to go away for a few minutes. I'd probably keep this one here. She's speaking to two children under ten years old.
That sneaky red devil certainly be up to no good. This is the racist douchebag's first lieutenant. He's also drunk. This occurrence could definitely go. I'd say that the dialogue should be changed to, That sneaky red devil certainly be up to something.
Covet is good? This is a middle-aged Potawatomi chief with some command of the English language. I'm thinking it would stay. The word would most likely fit the question.
Much too good. Again, I'd keep it. This is response from a middle-aged settler.
Good day, gentlemen. This is Potawatomi Chief Metea who spoke better English than virtually any white man. This occurrence of "good" definitely needs to go. In this case, the character's eloquence could be shown better.
How’s about whiskey? Where’s the good stuff? This character is a jester type. Fearful, boastful and boisterous. Just off the top of my head, this could be improved by something like, Where you keep the spirits? Whiskey and such?
Those uses of "good" in the dialogue of my script were in the first 32 pages. More than half them are in lines of dialogue that definitely could be improved. So maybe checking your screenplays for uses of the word good in dialogue can help you become a better writer.
I would also include "ly", "is" and "are" in that list of what to search for in a screenplay. Maybe one of these days I'll find occurrences of these that can be eliminated to strengthen a screenplay.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
An invisible sign that says "NOTICE ME"
I sent a message about what people choose to notice to a friend of mine from kindergarten through high school. In that message, I recalled a story told by former Chicago Bears linebacker, Chris Zorich. Chris' mother used to tell him that everyone has an invisible sign around his or her neck that reads "NOTICE ME".
My goal was to stick that into a screenplay someday, but it's a story worth telling regardless of how it gets told. Feel free to steal it before I get the opportunity to steal it myself.
My goal was to stick that into a screenplay someday, but it's a story worth telling regardless of how it gets told. Feel free to steal it before I get the opportunity to steal it myself.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
What the hell happened in Massachusetts?
When I was six years old, we had a Rupp mini bike. It was really cool back in the 60's to have a Rupp mini bike. My brother is 5 years older, so it made sense to have one. Apparently it also made perfect sense to turn me loose on the thing.
Our Rupp TT-500 had a 5hp Tecumseh that never liked to start but ran like a banshee with the straight pipe exhaust my dad put on it. Screw those stupid mufflers. It had a two speed clutch. The chain literally jumped from one sprocket to the next when you got to a certain speed, so there was no input other than speed that made it happen. It would literally pull the front tire off the ground when it shifted if you were accelerating quickly, especially with a 50 pound six year old driving.
Being 6 years old and a bit short for my age anyway, mounting the mini bike required me to stand on the step to our back door while my dad held the thing. If you're thinking that sounds like the beginning to a problem, it definitely is. After I sat on the thing and took off, my legs weren't long enough to actually touch the ground.
My Dad would pull start the thing and watch me tear off up the hill in our backyard to hundreds of acres of woods and miles of trails. Sound dangerous? Helmet? I didn't need no stinking helmet. But I was a smart 6 year old and knew what to be scared of: DAD! Not broken bones, concussions, being pinned under a machine that was twice my weight (kids were skinny in the 60's).
I was paranoid about crashing the thing, not because of getting injured, killed or bloody. Of course, I crashed and OFTEN. Really great crashes, the kind that makes you get dirt in your mouth and teeth. Bouncing off the ground crashes and then rolling a couple times like Evil Knievel!
The engine would sometimes keep running, but I couldn't pick it up or get back on it. So I'd shut it off and walk home. No matter what, my Dad would be pissed-off that I'd crashed. He'd say something like, "Well, where is it? Did you even shut it off?" He said most of this while walking up the hill toward the woods. I would do my best to describe how I fell and where it was.
He'd come riding it back to the house and most often not let me go loose on the machine again that day. No way was he going to retrieve the thing twice the same day. It was okay if I lost control going 35 miles per hour, fell off and barrel rolled with the mini bike. Or went tearing into a bunch of sand, lost control and flew over the handlebars. The sand pit crashes were the worst, because it always made you get dirt in your teeth, hair, eyes, ears and everywhere else.
It wasn't okay with my Dad to HIT TREES! If I hit a tree, he would definitely come home and ask me "Did the tree jump out and hit you or did you just not see a big tree right in front of you?" Only a dumbass 6 year old runs into trees.
So let's talk about the Democrats. They lost their super, filibuster-busting majority in the Senate yesterday and might have lost the ability to reform health care. Hey dumbasses! Were you all just buzzing along like a 6 year old on a Rupp mini bike when that tree jumped out in front of you? How long did you know this little election thing was coming? Didn't it seem perfectly obvious that the Republicans would put 110% (the other 10% is illegal shit) of their resources into getting their guy into office?
Now the Democrats are just like me walking around a little dazed after blazing right into a tree that jumped right in the way. What a dumbass manuever that was. I'm feeling like my Dad had to feel. There's a tree and you knew it was there all along. And my message to everyone from President Obama on down, "YOU ARE NOT A BUNCH OF SIX YEAR OLD KIDS!"
Seriously! This politics thing is supposed to be a science, like Political Science. That means that people went to school and actually figured out what is supposed to happen and how to make things happen. But DOH! Dang, who put that tree there?
So what the hell does this have to do with screenwriting? I have no idea whatsoever. Maybe if the day comes that I ever sell a screenplay, I'll go find one of those Rupp's with the 5hp Tecumseh and the two speed clutch. There are a five or six acres of woods across the street from where I live, with plenty of trees. Hell, I'd even wear a helmet.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
A polished turd with whipped cream will never be a sundae
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Thursday, January 14, 2010
The entertainment industry is smaller than you'll ever believe
When you start sending your scripts out to important people in the entertainment industry, these people will remember who you are long after reading your script. As your participation increases over time, your name will come up or be seen more often. People will actually try to connect your name to something seen before.
As much as I hate the small town mentality of everyone having to know everybody's business, the entertainment industry has its own similarity to a small town. There are hundreds of thousands of screenplays written every year. Over 90% of these scripts never see any attention from important people in the industry. Once your stuff starts receiving attention, you have a reputation to protect.
I'm not saying that anyone cares what you're doing in your own time. What you submit and how easily it is digested within the entertainment industry definitely does count. Screenwriting is a tough business, so realize that you'll never be perfect. But you need to have quality in mind with everything associated with your name. I don't remember what McKee says about what to be or who to be as a screenwriter. He describes it well, but I can never remember much of what he says. I spend hours and hours cleaning fish and listening to McKee on audio tapes and still don't remember much.
As a relatively new writer, I am willing to have flaws in my writing. I'm not talking about the technical stuff, although I've screwed that up too. Realize that getting close to something with enduring and important quality is a huge success. If you have a strong concept and your story has a naturally occurring three act structure or spine, you can get the attention of Hollywood. If you have a weak concept and story with no naturally occurring spine, you're setting yourself up to be remembered as a weak writer. That weak story becomes your reputation in the Hollywood community.
Do the best you can with what you've got. If you fail, fail with something that you're proud to have created. Remember that those who have had success had to be where you are in the learning curve. Be proud that you've made it that far and that you have the ability to improve. Be that guy or gal and people will remember you for all the write reasons.
As much as I hate the small town mentality of everyone having to know everybody's business, the entertainment industry has its own similarity to a small town. There are hundreds of thousands of screenplays written every year. Over 90% of these scripts never see any attention from important people in the industry. Once your stuff starts receiving attention, you have a reputation to protect.
I'm not saying that anyone cares what you're doing in your own time. What you submit and how easily it is digested within the entertainment industry definitely does count. Screenwriting is a tough business, so realize that you'll never be perfect. But you need to have quality in mind with everything associated with your name. I don't remember what McKee says about what to be or who to be as a screenwriter. He describes it well, but I can never remember much of what he says. I spend hours and hours cleaning fish and listening to McKee on audio tapes and still don't remember much.
As a relatively new writer, I am willing to have flaws in my writing. I'm not talking about the technical stuff, although I've screwed that up too. Realize that getting close to something with enduring and important quality is a huge success. If you have a strong concept and your story has a naturally occurring three act structure or spine, you can get the attention of Hollywood. If you have a weak concept and story with no naturally occurring spine, you're setting yourself up to be remembered as a weak writer. That weak story becomes your reputation in the Hollywood community.
Do the best you can with what you've got. If you fail, fail with something that you're proud to have created. Remember that those who have had success had to be where you are in the learning curve. Be proud that you've made it that far and that you have the ability to improve. Be that guy or gal and people will remember you for all the write reasons.
Friday, January 8, 2010
PTSD & boobs
PTSD totally sucks and has nothing to do with boobs, but we'll get to the boobs. I was looking through a Facebook posting today with the yearbook senior pictures from Portage Central High School in 1980. It was the other high school in Portage, and I attended elementary and junior high with with many of the kids. There was quite a bit of a rivalry between Portage Northern and Portage Central in those days, so it's probably a good thing that some of us had been classmates. Otherwise the actual occurrences of violence could have been worse, and I wouldn't have dated as often.
I went to Portage Northern for 3 years and did not graduate. The reasons for not graduating are many and too boring to repeat. The wonderful thing was that I escaped to live with my paternal grandparents in Florida. They had no intention whatsoever of supporting me if I didn't finish high school. That turned into graduating from Riverview High School in Sarasota and eventually Florida State University in 1987. If it wasn't for Grandma & Grandpa, none of that would have been possible.
While looking at those senior pictures tonight, it was another reminder of many of the hardships in life that I've faced that hopefully few if any of these young people dealt with in any way. One of those was what caused the PTSD. Having Post Traumatic Starvation Disorder really sucks. Anyone who has ever been told that popcorn or tomatos is a meal would definitely understand. Not having food at hand or the ability to eat meals puts me in a panic mode of Post Traumatic Starvation Disorder.
People who are abused often try to do the same or to do the opposite. The seeds of the lack of food come from hereditary insanity. There is no other explanation than to call it what it is and was: insanity. It's probably a good thing I didn't have kids. They would have to eat three meals a day, sitting at a table and be doted over continually to eat, eat and eat.
Today was coincidentally a time when hardship created a situation of fearing where the next meal will come from. Believe me, the thought of not having access to a decent range of vittles sends me into a panic. It's really not as bad as I'm making it out to be, but it's enough to give me flashbacks of bowls of popcorn without butter and tomato sandwiches without bread. The biggest reason for this lack of edible resources is something that I cannot mention for one specific reason that you won't know. But it is just another example of the neglect and abuse by a family of half-witted hillbillies rearing its ugly head to further complicate my life even at 47 yo.
It was nice to see that many of my friends from that time got class pictures and hopefully never even considered for a moment the prospect of subsisting on tomatos or popcorn. There were also several of what you could call girlfriends. There were at least one example of each base from the backseat romp. You know the routine from the Meat Loaf song where getting from first, to second, to third base and to home is the goal. Right there in a high school I didn't even attend, I had the bases covered. Damn, some of those wenchs had low standards!
One of the girls in that old yearbook sat across from me in study hall in 7th grade. This wasn't just any girl, she had boobs, big boobs. It was funny, because I told a female friend of mine about it the other day. After about 35 years, I wondered if she remembered me as the short kid who stared at her boobs each day for 50 minutes. My friend assured me that girls, and especially girls with big boobs, are used to "the boob stare".
I never got to any of the bases with the girl from study hall, but I hear she's single...
I went to Portage Northern for 3 years and did not graduate. The reasons for not graduating are many and too boring to repeat. The wonderful thing was that I escaped to live with my paternal grandparents in Florida. They had no intention whatsoever of supporting me if I didn't finish high school. That turned into graduating from Riverview High School in Sarasota and eventually Florida State University in 1987. If it wasn't for Grandma & Grandpa, none of that would have been possible.
While looking at those senior pictures tonight, it was another reminder of many of the hardships in life that I've faced that hopefully few if any of these young people dealt with in any way. One of those was what caused the PTSD. Having Post Traumatic Starvation Disorder really sucks. Anyone who has ever been told that popcorn or tomatos is a meal would definitely understand. Not having food at hand or the ability to eat meals puts me in a panic mode of Post Traumatic Starvation Disorder.
People who are abused often try to do the same or to do the opposite. The seeds of the lack of food come from hereditary insanity. There is no other explanation than to call it what it is and was: insanity. It's probably a good thing I didn't have kids. They would have to eat three meals a day, sitting at a table and be doted over continually to eat, eat and eat.
Today was coincidentally a time when hardship created a situation of fearing where the next meal will come from. Believe me, the thought of not having access to a decent range of vittles sends me into a panic. It's really not as bad as I'm making it out to be, but it's enough to give me flashbacks of bowls of popcorn without butter and tomato sandwiches without bread. The biggest reason for this lack of edible resources is something that I cannot mention for one specific reason that you won't know. But it is just another example of the neglect and abuse by a family of half-witted hillbillies rearing its ugly head to further complicate my life even at 47 yo.
It was nice to see that many of my friends from that time got class pictures and hopefully never even considered for a moment the prospect of subsisting on tomatos or popcorn. There were also several of what you could call girlfriends. There were at least one example of each base from the backseat romp. You know the routine from the Meat Loaf song where getting from first, to second, to third base and to home is the goal. Right there in a high school I didn't even attend, I had the bases covered. Damn, some of those wenchs had low standards!
One of the girls in that old yearbook sat across from me in study hall in 7th grade. This wasn't just any girl, she had boobs, big boobs. It was funny, because I told a female friend of mine about it the other day. After about 35 years, I wondered if she remembered me as the short kid who stared at her boobs each day for 50 minutes. My friend assured me that girls, and especially girls with big boobs, are used to "the boob stare".
I never got to any of the bases with the girl from study hall, but I hear she's single...
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
I love Marge!
One of my neighbors is a retired woman who used to work with my dad and mother way back in the 70's. Marge is a wonderful woman, and we talk for a while almost each time we meet. During one of these talks, I mentioned my journey into screenwriting. There is always that hesitation before I can tell anyone. Some people react like I just mentioned sodomizing goats. Marge and a few others actually are interested.
Marge is actually interesting and has the intellect to follow a conversation. One of my scripts is about a Potawatomi Chief named White Pigeon (google it for more). Marge and I talked about how I came up with that as a concept and about the script. At that time, my most recent script wasn't finished, and I felt that talking about it might jinx me.
Then around Thanksgiving I ran into her again and told her about my most recent script. She wanted to read it. I'm always flattered when anyone shows an interest in reading one of my scripts. It's the litmus test that Blake Snyder talked about when pitching the logline to random people. The desire to read the script is about as well as it can go.
It took me a while to get the thing printed. The delay was for a couple reasons that centered on a low ink supply and other priorities for the printer. A few days ago while walking the dogs, Marge stopped her car to talk to me. It was probably about 5 degrees, and I knew what she wanted - the script. We talked for a bit, and I promised to get her my most recent script and the Chief White Pigeon script.
So yesterday I printed them off, punched the holes in almost 200 pages and 4 pages of card stock, then bound them with brass fasteners. I even pasted a copy of a photo of Chief White Pigeon's monument to the front of that script. Some of you may think it goofy to go to all that effort just for a neighbor. I could probably have just emailed her pdf files. But she got two bound scripts almost as nice as I'd sent to Hollywood.
Marge wasn't home when I dropped the scripts on her porch in a plastic bag. I'm sure hoping she enjoys reading either one. Both the scripts have gone to Hollywood already, so I'm really not concerned with feedback from Marge. I'm just grateful to have met someone interested in someone striving to create. It really means a lot to me for someone to show more than passing interest. Thank you, Marge, from the bottom of my heart.
Marge is actually interesting and has the intellect to follow a conversation. One of my scripts is about a Potawatomi Chief named White Pigeon (google it for more). Marge and I talked about how I came up with that as a concept and about the script. At that time, my most recent script wasn't finished, and I felt that talking about it might jinx me.
Then around Thanksgiving I ran into her again and told her about my most recent script. She wanted to read it. I'm always flattered when anyone shows an interest in reading one of my scripts. It's the litmus test that Blake Snyder talked about when pitching the logline to random people. The desire to read the script is about as well as it can go.
It took me a while to get the thing printed. The delay was for a couple reasons that centered on a low ink supply and other priorities for the printer. A few days ago while walking the dogs, Marge stopped her car to talk to me. It was probably about 5 degrees, and I knew what she wanted - the script. We talked for a bit, and I promised to get her my most recent script and the Chief White Pigeon script.
So yesterday I printed them off, punched the holes in almost 200 pages and 4 pages of card stock, then bound them with brass fasteners. I even pasted a copy of a photo of Chief White Pigeon's monument to the front of that script. Some of you may think it goofy to go to all that effort just for a neighbor. I could probably have just emailed her pdf files. But she got two bound scripts almost as nice as I'd sent to Hollywood.
Marge wasn't home when I dropped the scripts on her porch in a plastic bag. I'm sure hoping she enjoys reading either one. Both the scripts have gone to Hollywood already, so I'm really not concerned with feedback from Marge. I'm just grateful to have met someone interested in someone striving to create. It really means a lot to me for someone to show more than passing interest. Thank you, Marge, from the bottom of my heart.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Damned plagiarizers
Think there isn't someone out there just waiting to copy your great idea? Well you are wrong, wrong, wrong. Some dumbass will copy what you've written virtually word for word and deny doing it when caught red-handed. You'll be pissed and want to smack the dumbass right in the head. Trust me, I know how you'll feel.
It was second grade, and our class had an assignment to write a story. Back around 1970, we wrote on wide lined paper with those great yellow pencils. I have no memory whatsoever of what I wrote about. But I never had trouble coming up with stories, and wrote the thing and turned in to the teacher.
Imagine my surprise when the teacher wanted to talk to me and '*****'. I'd like to protect this dork's identity, but his name was *****. I'd been to the kid's house once. It was way too much of a religious experience for me, and his mother was a creepy, smelly religious whacko in a 50's style dress. Not sure what prompted that little playdate, because ***** was (and is) a dork. I kind of figured dorks are smart enough to come up with their own stories. WRONG!
So I'm out in the hall with ***** the dork and the teacher. She starts giving US a speech about how it's not a good thing to be copying. Then she tells US that she's not going to do anything about it, for some assinine reason. Even as a 7 year old kid, I was a little outraged and expressed my innocence. The bitch blew me off! She wasn't listening to anything about how this dork copied my story.
***** never had any kind of explanation for his plagiarism. For some insane reason, this dork thought he could copy my story pretty much word for word and hand it in to the teacher as his own. I went to school with this dork all the way through high school and never forgot how much of a thieving dumbass, piece of shit, dork he was back in 2nd grade.
Seeing a photo of him on Facebook from 6th grade actually prompted this rant. I did google the dork to see if he is a convicted felon, child molester or a politician. Nope, none of the above. Just some thieving plagiarizer of 2nd grade material after all thse years. Maybe he reformed himself after being caught doing something so stupid. Stupid fuck.
It was second grade, and our class had an assignment to write a story. Back around 1970, we wrote on wide lined paper with those great yellow pencils. I have no memory whatsoever of what I wrote about. But I never had trouble coming up with stories, and wrote the thing and turned in to the teacher.
Imagine my surprise when the teacher wanted to talk to me and '*****'. I'd like to protect this dork's identity, but his name was *****. I'd been to the kid's house once. It was way too much of a religious experience for me, and his mother was a creepy, smelly religious whacko in a 50's style dress. Not sure what prompted that little playdate, because ***** was (and is) a dork. I kind of figured dorks are smart enough to come up with their own stories. WRONG!
So I'm out in the hall with ***** the dork and the teacher. She starts giving US a speech about how it's not a good thing to be copying. Then she tells US that she's not going to do anything about it, for some assinine reason. Even as a 7 year old kid, I was a little outraged and expressed my innocence. The bitch blew me off! She wasn't listening to anything about how this dork copied my story.
***** never had any kind of explanation for his plagiarism. For some insane reason, this dork thought he could copy my story pretty much word for word and hand it in to the teacher as his own. I went to school with this dork all the way through high school and never forgot how much of a thieving dumbass, piece of shit, dork he was back in 2nd grade.
Seeing a photo of him on Facebook from 6th grade actually prompted this rant. I did google the dork to see if he is a convicted felon, child molester or a politician. Nope, none of the above. Just some thieving plagiarizer of 2nd grade material after all thse years. Maybe he reformed himself after being caught doing something so stupid. Stupid fuck.
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