The Conversations

Originally posted on Princess Scribe's Blog:

images-1Today is August 4. Today is the fourth anniversary of the death of my mentor, employer and friend, Blake Snyder.

In the past, I’ve marked the date with a journal entry about Blake, his influence on me, and the memories surrounding his unexpected passing.

This year, however, I choose a different path.

BJ Markel, Blake’s partner in Save the Cat! and closest friend, has invited several of us who knew Blake, to contribute to a series of columns about our conversations with the Master Cat. I have a few of these in mind, as I am certain, do others.

And so, while I peruse my treasure trove of memories, and prepare to pen my own remembrances, I encourage you to visit the site, and read the first of many of these entries. Blake’s childhood friend, Tracey Jackson, shares her memories of her last conversation with Blake.

Now, go write.

HRH…

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A New Adventure

I’ll continue to post at Princess Scribe; I have some nifty musings on character prepped to launch later this week; however, my life has taken a sudden turn. Many of you know about the accident that led to the discovery of a Giant Cell Tumor on my spine.

This discovery has placed me on a new path. My life has irrevocably changed. And so, I decided to journal this adventure, and invite you all to join me on The Accidental Journey.

~ anne

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My Writing Process: Blog Tour

Today, I’m participating in the “My Writing Process” Blog Tour. It’s a sort of chain mail amongst scribes; the tour rolled out in January, and will conclude by next week.

I was invited to play by Henry Sheppard, aka the Adelaide Screenwriter. Henry’s tour commenced last week; he wrote with great eloquence about the publication of his novel Play the Devil , as well as writing for the screen, large and small.

Long story short, the blog tour asks its participants four questions about their writing process. I’ll turn my tour over to another writer, who will conclude this adventure in story, publishing her blog on June 15.

***

rabbit-hole1. What are you working on? I’m working on what is certainly the most challenging piece I have come up against. It’s a dark fantasy piece, set in the world of child abduction and sex-trafficking, a bit of a down-the-rabbit-hole journey for one girl. It’s a mentally, spiritually, and emotionally taxing piece to commit to. I plan to go into production with it in early winter or spring.

2. How does your work differ from others? Hmmm. That’s a loaded question. I could be cagey and say that everyone’s voice is uniquely their own, but… I’m influenced by classic literature, and reference mythology in my stories. Shakespeare influences me, as do Joyce, Homer and Austen. So there’s a certain sensibility that my characters carry around with them, regardless of their station in life. And, as I’ve noted before, the majority of my stories share the common thread of redemption.

fogg3. How does your writing process work? Process is so interesting to me, because it combines moments of great inspiration with what is seemingly banal organizational work. Stories usually come to me in dreams – I’ll dream of a character. Tom, my hero of EDEN, appeared in a dream I had while working on a completely different story. I was standing in a barren field. It was just after dawn; a heavy fog blanketed the land around me. A movement caught my eye; it was a man. He carried a rifle against his right shoulder, and a string of pheasants dangled from his right arm… and as he moved closer to me, I realized that his left arm ended just below the shoulder. And so, it began… The same for They Live Among Us; Caim appeared in a dream.

So, I start with a spark from my muse, and then begin the hard work of beating out the story, getting the structure sound. I use my Save the Cat! training for this; it’s a great system that allows me to lay the story out. I put it up on my board, and work it there for months before I type FADE IN. I find it is much easier to discard a note card than it is to cut out five pages of work. By the time I am ready to go to script, I have anywhere from 60 to 100+ story “beats.”

thepalemanFor my new project, I’m trying something different. I’m using the same process… but I’m beating out the story in images as opposed to words. I was inspired by Guillermo del Toro’s journals for PAN’S LABYRINTH, and as this new project is a dark fairytale, I decided to play with this technique.

4. Why do you write what you do? Honestly, I have no idea. My work reflects the muse that I was dealt.

image_(2)I’ve always been a storyteller; I published my first short story when I was 11, and made my first film at 14. My father was a huge fan of the cinema; I remember being taken to see Fritz Lang’s METROPOLIS when I was 9. It blew me away; I never knew that film could be “that.”

When I was 13, I was injured in a horseback riding accident, and had to spend quite a bit of time in bed. I had blown through my entire Nancy Drew collection, and was bored out of my skull. In what I believe was an act of desperation, my mother dropped The Complete Works of William Shakespeare on my bed, along with Homer’s Odyssey. I was hooked.

A couple of years later, I stumbled across Stephen King’s The Stand. I firmly believe that King is one of the greatest writers in modern literature, regardless of genre. He just happens to write about things that go bump in the night.

As stated earlier, I find that redemption tends to pop up as a theme in a lot of my work; I also play with the theme of duality. The two faces of Juno that reside within us all, and also, the perception of truth, and reality. What is real… and what isn’t… and what may be.

***

sandrastanton3Join the final stop on the blog tour on June 15 with playwright, screenwriter, novelist, poet, and self-described “redhead born in a blond-headed body” Sandra de Helen at her blog site Red Crested Chatter.

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The Stranger on the Platform

Urban SprawlLife in Los Angeles can drive one mad. The hustle and bustle, the noise, the confusion… add to that the insanity of the entertainment business, and you have a mix that is guaranteed to bring the most stoic of people to their knees.

One of my coping mechanisms is to get out – not out of L.A., but into it. I find hidden treasures everywhere. And so, the plan today was to explore: an architectural jaunt to Hollyhock House, then a Metro trip to the Gamble House.

As the train pulled into the 7th Street Station, it jerked and slowed, then stopped. There was a great commotion outside. People were yelling and pointing. The lights went off in the train; the airflow stopped. Moments later, L.A. County Sheriffs swarmed through, ordering people off the train. We exited, confused. A man pointed. I turned and saw one of the Sheriffs on his knees. He held a flashlight, and was peering under our car. A man was under there. He had jumped in front of our train.

Within a few minutes, the place was evacuated as emergency personnel descended to carry out what could only be described as a grisly mission. We were with the people who had tried to prevent the man from jumping; apparently, he threatened to do so in a joking manner, making several false starts before he most determinedly flung himself in front of the tons of steel barreling towards him. No one knew him; some said he was 40, others claimed he was 20. The truth will come out by the end of the day, once the local media prioritizes the importance of their newsfeed… but what is known is that he is dead.

I was in shock; not 15 minutes before, I had been talking about a story that I am working on, strangers coming in contact with one another, a tale of urban life. One character – a young man – had traveled to the train station. He had gone there to commit suicide – by jumping in front of a train.

We were led upstairs and pushed out onto the street, only to land in the middle of a Hollywood blockbuster filming a great action and adventure sequence. Helicopters were everywhere – police, media, and the ones that were filming. It was chaos. The trip to the Gamble House was off, as train service was suspended, and the desire to go there had diminished. I spent the next few hours wandering around the Theatre District and Pershing Square, as my mind returned again and again to the event. Eventually, the Metro declared the situation resolved, and the trains resumed their schedules, with a few minor delays.

photoThe return to 7th Street. It was so very quiet. There were neither police nor emergency responders; the platform was all but empty. As I waited for the train, something caught my eye. It took a few moments to register, but suddenly, I realized that I was standing in the precise spot where, just a few hours ago, that desperate soul had taken his life. That man’s entire existence – all he was, all he would ever be – was reduced to three sad objects – a coroner’s glove, a pair of tennis shoes, and a pool of dried blood.

***

Unknown-1I keep wondering about that man. Who was he? He was somebody’s son, that is for certain, and at one time or another, he had been somebody’s friend, somebody’s lover. What happened to him, what despair so consumed him that he felt this action was the only one he could take? And… where were his angels? Where were those voices, those soft whispers, telling him to stop, reassuring him, telling him to breathe, that everything would be alright? What had left him so bereft and alone? Why had his angels, that grace within humans that stops them from committing the unthinkable, abandoned him? And, so, I think about Caim, and Father Buer, of Lillith, Lucien, and Beliala, and of their falls from grace. I think of the guardian angels in my life, and realize how grateful I am for them… and I wish fervently that, for just one second, they had left me, to give comfort to another.

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Good Night, Sweet Prince

220px-Philip_Seymour_Hoffman_2011“I had insecurities and fears, like everybody does,and I got over it. But I was interested in the parts of me that struggled with those things.” ~ Philip Seymour Hoffman

For creatives, our mind can be our greatest asset – or our worst enemy. Philip Seymour Hoffman succumbed to his fears and insecurities today. He was perhaps the greatest actor of his generation. His ability to step into a character’s skin, and to transform into their personas was uncanny; his gift was as immense as his deeply vulnerable heart.

As creatives, we’re asked to open ourselves up to the world, to stand naked, to bare all of our secrets. This emotional accessibility is what makes a great artist, and yet, it is also what makes so many of us fall prey to one form of addiction or another. It’s painful to feel so much all of the time, and for some, this pain is so great that they desperately try to numb themselves, in order to be free from its grasp. They seek respite in the form of drugs, alcohol, and sex.

Hoffman’s death comes as a great shock to us all. We believed he had conquered his fears, and that his days of addiction were long past. He was very candid about his struggle with sobriety; and yet, the story seemed a long-closed chapter of his early life.

We were fooled… because we wanted to be. It’s a difficult truth, to discover that what you most love about a person ultimately leads to their undoing.

Good night, sweet prince,

and flights of angels guide thee to thy rest.

RIP Philip Seymour Hoffman 1967 – 2014

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Scribe, Interrupted

Dementor image“There was a demon that lived in the air. They said whoever challenged him would die. Their controls would freeze up, their planes would buffet wildly, and they would disintegrate. The demon lived at Mach 1 on the meter, seven hundred and fifty miles an hour, where the air could no longer move out of the way. He lived behind a barrier through which they said no man could ever pass….” ~ The Right Stuff

I have met this demon.

In November, I stumbled upon a story. It sprang forth from a conversation that haunted me; it invaded my dreams. I had a visceral, emotional reaction to what had been discussed. It possessed me. I knew the only way to exorcise it was to write it.

And so I began. I welcomed my muse with open arms. I methodically and precisely built my outline; I created characters, and gave them detailed backstory. I knew them inside and out, heart and soul. I created a world. Perfection. Finally, the time came to type FADE IN:

At my first pass, I knocked out half of the script (this was for a 12 – 15 page short). I contacted a few people for a bit of feedback – is this a story of interest? Worth exploring? I received a unanimous “Yes” and took the plunge. I dove into story, headfirst. I made some adjustments, and began again.

Once again, I knocked out half of the script. Then, the problem surfaced. I could go no further.

Every day, I’d open up my trusty Final Draft; every day I would stare at the screen. I’d read my pages, and try to push further, only to have my brain completely shut down.

It was terrifying. I had never experienced anything like this in my entire life. I was beginning to believe that I’d never write again.

I tried everything that I knew to do. I threw away the outline and free-formed it. Stalled at the same place. I dropped characters, and brought in others. Stalled in the same place. I gave my protagonist a new name. Stalled. A new job. Stalled. I was in a complete state of panic; I felt that I was free-falling without a parachute. Stalled. Stalled. Stalled.  I had met the demon in the sky of my mind, and my heart and soul were disintegrating, like a jet hitting the sound barrier. All was lost.

This particular script had a hard deadline, as I had the opportunity to place it in consideration for production this year. The deadline was in a day. I had about 36 hours in which I would need to write, proof, rewrite, edit, and hand off my little drama.

I went jogging. That always works. I ran and ran along the streets of Toluca Lake, until I could run no more. I turned and walked home, waiting for the muse to descend.

As I neared my house, my pace slowed, for nothing had happened. 

I took a deep breath, and walked inside. Surely, something will click, I told myself. I sat down, opened up FD… and once again, stared at the pages.

I took a shower. I scrubbed my hair, breathed in the steam, and poached myself like a lobster.

Nothing.

And so, I broke. I buried my head in my hands and sobbed. I keened for the death of my creative spirit. I surrendered my need for perfection. I allowed the project into my heart, I let go of all expectations, I permitted myself to be totally naked and raw. I felt… and then, it happened.

My hands reached, shaking, towards the keyboard… and once again, I typed FADE IN:

Only this time, I kept typing. I had met the demon… and the demon was me.

***

Apogee - apo*gee (noun) : the highest point of a vertical ascent. Multimedia production and distribution house. We #SupportIndieFilm

Apogee – apo*gee (noun) : the highest point of a vertical ascent. Multimedia production and distribution house. We #SupportIndieFilm

The script is complete, and has been submitted. I’m still making minor tweaks here and there. Pre-production is beginning under my newly formed Apogee Entertainment, and by the end of the year, by hook or by crook, I’ll be able to take you by the hand and lead you through the world of CREED. It’s the unflinching story of a returned warrior, a veteran of the Afghanistan war, who is so haunted by the past, that he is precipitously close to destroying his future. For it’s not only the fallen soldiers who are left behind. Our returning vets are being left behind – by the very country they risked their lives for.

Now, go write.

HRH, Princess Scribe

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Happy Holidays

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