Pimps and Power Point, Together at Last

That’s right, I’m teaching.

Writer’s Digest has provided me with an incredible opportunity to share my screenwriting knowledge with their community of writers. 

On October 14^th at 1pm, I’ll be teaching a live webinar, entitled, How to Write a Marketable Screenplay: Learn how to structure your script the Hollywood way. 

All the details of the webinar can be found on the Writer’s Digest site HERE. 

If you’ve always been curious about screenwriting, please join the class, and I’ll provide you with as much knowledge as I can fit in 75 minutes. 

You’ll even have the opportunity to send me the first three pages of your script for a quick critique.  I’ll try not to make you cry. 

And, if you’re good in class, I may even pass out cookies.  

Editing is Murder... and other tips

My writing partner and I recently cut 25 pages of SLAVERY BY ANOTHER NAME in order to meet contest requirements.  Daunting, to say the least.  But in the process, I learned I love editing.  I’ve always said, “Love is in the details”. 

I love writing, even the gritty nasty parts.

As I tweeted out my progress, writers started sharing their own tips.  Whenever I learn from others, I aim to spread the love.

Carrie Bailey of Peevish Penman graciously offered me the perfect venue for 

Editing is Murder, my latest in a recent string of editing and rewrite pieces. 

The previous two were for Tyler Weaver’s Multi-Hyphenate on what I learned at Stony Brook Southampton Screenwriters Conference, specifically, rewrites and handling feedback:

Stony Brook, Rewrites, and Tequila (Part One)

Stony Brook, Rewrites, and Tequila (Part Two)

If you’re looking for other writing tips, you can find great information on Peevish Penman as well as the Scriptchat blog.

Don’t dread editing.  Embrace it.  You can't be a true writer without the courage to kill your own words.

Scriptchat has arrived!

What started as a little Twitter screenwriting chat on Sunday evenings has turned into an internet phenomenon.... okay, maybe just a big screenwriter party of learning.

Script Magazine mentions #scriptchat in the November/December 2010 issue!

Thanks to Joshua Stecker, West Coast Editor and wonderful supporter of scriptchat, we appear on the page alongside other recommended websites for screenwriters.  We even share the page with John August!

The smiley stickers are plastered all over the scriptchat #treefort!

Long live the generous screenwriting community, our treefort team... and tequila!

lessons come with a sting

I have been bitchslapped by Sundance. I only have one thing to say to Robert Redford:

“Thank you, Sir, may I have another?”

If you follow me on Twitter, you’re probably familiar with my journey to get our script, SLAVERY BY ANOTHER NAME, into the Sundance Screenwriters Lab. Yeah, it was our dream. A big one.

Am I upset they passed?
Sure.

Did I cry?
You betcha.

Did I get angry?
Just ask my heavy bag in the basement.

Do I feel defeated?
Not on your life.

I. Am. Grateful.

I’m grateful in part because it’s with rejection and failure we learn the most.

Just ask yourself if you learned anything when things came easy to you. I bet the answer is no.

I know I haven’t. It’s only those journeys full of pain and obstacles where real growth has happened for me.

In short, this script was my black belt in writing. Hands down. It kicked my ass every single day. But, I took the beating and kept coming back for more.

On February 1, 2010, my writing partner, Doug, and I started with a 31-page outline, and 11 weeks later, we had our submission off to Sundance. In between that time, I wrote 12-hr days, never took a single day off, went to NYC to meet with Doug and Bill Pace, our fabulous script consultant, and barely saw my family.

I cried many tears while writing.  It wasn't because I was tired or thought for even a minute I wasn't capable of doing it.  I knew we'd kick this out of the park.  I cried because of the enormous weight we felt to “get it right” for the African-American community. We didn't take that responsibility lightly. Sundance accepting us wasn’t about an advance of our careers, it was about the advancement of this incredible story… and the truth being told. Note: I didn’t cry after the rejection because of my loss, I cried for the loss of an opportunity to share the truth.

I tweeted in panic one day after realizing that in the midst of getting the draft done, Sundance also wanted a 2-page synopsis. That moment nearly pushed me over the edge. Then, Jacqueline Lichtenberg wrote a post for me with synopsis advice. You have no idea what that meant. It wasn’t just her great advice; she was the hand reaching out as I felt the undercurrent pull me down. Her generosity saved my life that day. I will be eternally grateful to her.

Even after we submitted, we sought more feedback. I spent hours on the phone with Nevada Grey for consultations, Bill Pace sent added notes to work on, and we sent the script to trusted screenwriters to read and rip apart.  We continued to rewrite draft after draft, in hopes to knock Sundance off their feet when they requested the full read. It would be a total of six months before I took my first day off.

In short, we kept raising the bar for ourselves.

But they passed. Passed without that full read. Ouch.

Was it that Sundance thought the Pulitzer win and PBS documentary would already give us a leg up over other, newer writers? Perhaps they didn’t feel we really needed them, or the budget would be too big for an indie venture. Or maybe I’m just rationalizing and they simply weren’t interested. In the end, it doesn’t matter.

The bitchslap stung like hell.

Once I numbed the pain with tequila last night, I realized I learned an enormous amount from the process. Maybe that was my win.

*I learned I’m capable of so much more than I ever realized.
*I can write like a fiend under pressure.
*I absolutely LOVE feedback and editing.
*As much as I loathed writing that synopsis, I will now make it a regular part of my story preparation process (1. Outline, 2. Synopsis, 3. First draft).
*I have an entirely different outlook on writing partnerships.
*I will ALWAYS get professional feedback.
*I am blessed to have Doug’s trust and faith. In truth, I still pinch myself that I am writing with a Pulitzer winner as a partner. He is both generous and humble.
*I am a damned good writer.
*My family believes in me.
*There isn’t enough room in a partnership for both an ego and a successful project. The project always comes first.
*Patience. Patience. Patience.
*Stony Brook Southampton Screenwriters Conference kicks ass.
*You can be a determined and great businessperson, but without writing talent, an ability to take honest feedback (even when it’s ugly), and a great support system behind you, it doesn’t mean squat.  Everyone talks about having to have a business mind to succeed.  Yes, you do, but first and foremost you need to know the craft and write well.  Even the best businessperson can't sell a poorly-written script.
*Polish, polish, polish.  Do the hard work.  

The Sundance experience also taught me who my real friends are. While most were supportive, some who have known me for years weren't.  That saddened me, but I had to learn  to not let anyone piss on my flame.  I had to keep moving forward.  I grieved and moved on.  I took delight in my Facebook friends and Twitter writers cheering me on and following our #slaverybyanothername hashtag with curiosity and support. You were there for me, not expecting anything in return other than the joy of riding the wave and learning alongside me. You didn’t try to distract me.  You fought to keep me focused.  You wanted me to succeed.  I wanted to succeed for you.  You raised the bar for my standards of real-life friendships. I am deeply grateful for all of you and the lessons you have taught me.

But, one of the best things that came out of the experience was a voicemail from my mother. Our characters and story moved her to tears. That trumps Redford’s seal of approval any day. My mother has never read any of my scripts before… and she rarely cries. She’s the toughest bird in town.

I take Sundance’s bitchslap with pleasure. No regrets. No “what ifs”. We tried. We put our baby out there. I’m damn proud of our script and of us.

However, I will be drinking tequila yet another night to continue the writer’s anesthetic. I’ll also be making voodoo dolls of the 12 winners. I am Sicilian after all. Just sayin’.

What have you learned from the setbacks in your life? Those goals you thought mattered so much… did they really matter in the end?

A Graveyard Writing Shift

Living in rural New York, I often drive the countryside for writing inspiration.   This particular day, I needed to find a way to kill one of my characters.   I wanted something unique for her death.

Suddenly, my car’s ball joint snapped and twisted the front wheel perpendicular to the car.  The car screeched to a halt, opposite a graveyard.   How fitting.   Could my character die in a car wreck?  No way.  Too cliché.

As I waited for the tow truck, a flurry of tornado-warning emails filled my cell.  I’m not an alarmist, so I ignored them, until the winds swirled faster and faster.  I was a sitting duck.  I glanced over at the graveyard wondering if God was trying to kill me… or just send me a message.

Should this tornado come, there was no way I’d survive in the car or fully exposed outside.  Why didn’t I watch that survivor episode on The Discovery Channel? 

Think. Think. Think.  How could I find safety in the middle of nowhere?  The graveyard.  I grabbed a rope from my car and ran across, planning to tie myself to a gravestone.  Yes, you read that right.   I may be calm under pressure, but I didn’t say I was smart. 

Whose stone would I choose: a man’s, a woman’s, or a child’s?  Who would I want to die with? 

As my hair spun in the wind, I pulled it from my eyes to read the names and dates on the stones.  My imagination ran wild.  I became swept into the stories buried with these people.  Maybe he died in a shoot out.  Perhaps she died in childbirth or at the hands of a jealous lover.  Stories were popping in my head.  My body was in peril, but the writer inside me was on fire. 

Like a lunatic, I lurked gravestones while the threat of the tornado was still buzzing in my pocket.  Is this how Geraldo felt revealing King Tuts tomb?  Maybe someone would find my dead body the next day. 

There should be a warning label on notepads: “Writing can be deadly.” 

The winds whipped, literally smashing me into gravestones as I searched for the one I’d connect to, both emotionally and physically.   Then, I discovered the old section of the graveyard.  The stones were riddled with details.  Such art.  

As I admired the carvings on the delicate stone, a tree branch snapped and flew past, almost crashing into me.    I glanced toward my car to see the large SUV rocking in the heavy winds.  Time to stop admiring and start graveyard bondage.

While the old stones were more to my artistic taste, I couldn’t tie myself to a wuss headstone.  I needed a big, gaudy monument.  I ran toward the largest one I could find, the wind forcing me into a zig-zag path.  

Just as I found the perfect dead person to join in all eternity, the tow truck pulled alongside my car.   I raced to my hero of wreckage.  

As my mechanic secured the car on the flatbed, I snatched my notepad and frantically wrote, “Idea: girl passes up delicate gravestone for a sturdier, safer and massive monument.  Ties herself down.  Winds howl.  Suddenly, the delicate gravestone is yanked from the ground.  She smiles, happy not to have chosen it… until it heads her way, smashes into her, and kills her.” 

Now that is what I call a unique death.  

I’ve decided to make graveyards a part of my writing inspiration routine.  Next time, however, I’ll choose a lovely sunny day, admire the beautiful ornate stones and see what other stories rise from the dead.

A graveyard can be the perfect resurrection for creativity.

*originally published in Making Me Magazine

Memories of the Crandell Theatre

Palms sweating and heart pounding, I entered the Crandell Theatre.  I prayed garbage cans were within reach, as I was positive I’d be sick from fear.  I was 11 and on my very first date. 

The Crandell Theatre was built in 1926, as a vaudeville house in a little Upstate, New York country town.  Much of my childhood was spent sitting in the balcony watching the red velvet curtain part, to reveal the Marx Brothers, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and Jaws, amongst others.  For years, the price of a film was $1.50 until it slowly rose to $5.00.  The best bargain in town.

What better place for a first date? 

Young Frankenstein, 1974.  Yes, I’m revealing my age with that admission, but the thrill of seeing the film alongside my boy crush was indescribable. 

That night, as I sat frozen in my chair with “him” mere inches away, I never noticed the beautiful architecture of the building.  The old lanterns, Spanish-arched designs, stucco walls, 26-foot wide stage and orchestra pit. Little did I know, there were still dressing rooms in the back from the vaudeville days.  Perhaps my date knew, but luckily, we were only 11 and not 18. 

Did he hold my hand?  I don’t remember, but I do remember the sexual innuendo between Gene Wilder and the gorgeous Teri Garr horrified me.  I was definitely too young to date… and too young for that film. 

This was to be my first of many dates at the Crandell.  Three years later, I went back with the same boy to see Star Wars.  This time it was Princess Leia flirting with Han Solo.  If only I were that graceful and experienced.  Even though I was older, not even a Jedi mind trick could calm my nerves.  I was convinced I was in love… though perhaps it was Luke Skywalker I loved, not my date.

The years past and my taste in movies and boys did too.   I saw everything from The Breakfast Club to the horror flick, Friday the 13^th.  For that, I do remember being clutched to a boy’s arm.  Horror films were the perfect rouse for boys to hold my hand.  I fell for it, hook, line and sinker.

The thrill of the Crandell wasn’t just in the charm of the architecture, it was the family who ran it.  I’d come to the counter to buy my R-rated film ticket, terrified the owner would turn me away for being under 17.   He would give a stern look, ask if my parents gave permission, I’d nod, then he’d smile and hand me my ticket.  No one dared lie to him, because he indeed knew all our parents.  Small town living. 

Time went on, but it never seemed to change the Crandell.  It was the town anchor of amusement and beauty.  Ten years ago, our community formed The Chatham Film Club, a lovely group of film fanatics who birthed the film festival, Film Columbia.  Our Crandell Theatre was the star.  I would buy a pass and sit in my chair, this time with my husband holding my hand.  We’d watch foreign films and a variety of independent features.  The seats were packed, and we lived on popcorn and Hot Tamales for four days.  By this time, the theatre had passed hands to the next generation, and every day of the festival, the owner and his wife were present.  Him smiling and greeting the locals, and her at the concession stand passing out Milk Duds. 

Sadly, the owner, Tony Quirino, unexpectedly passed, and the theatre closed.  The Film Club is raising money in hopes of purchasing it to preserve its beauty and charm for future generations, just as the Quirino family did. 

A part of our town’s charm passed away with Tony that sad day, as the lights went out on the marquise.  While we all miss him, we are grateful for the years of joy he and his family brought our lives and the memories forever embedded in our souls. 

The Crandell was more than a movie house; it was a treasure of celluloid, first loves, hand-holding memories and a magical red velvet curtain. 

*originally published in Making Me Magazine
*update: The Chatham Film Club now owns of the Crandell Theatre. Full story HERE


*NEW URGENT UPDATE* Our theatre desperately needs a new roof.  

Please help the Crandell Theatre win $25,000 in a community challenge.

 

Just click on this link and vote for the Crandell in the National Trust for Historic Preservation's "This Place Matters" contest.  It doesn't cost anything and you can opt out of receiving any further emails from them.  Please do this now.  You must vote BEFORE SEPTEMBER 15^th.

 

http://my.preservationnation.org/site/News2?page=NewsArticle&id=9486&security=2862&s_interest=3224

 

You can only vote once, but please take a few moments to pass this message along to your friends, neighbors, family and co-workers.  The Crandell needs your support and a new roof before winter!

 

Thank you so much for your time.

Writing as a Martial Art

“This is a last-laugh business: If you can survive as people are kicking you in the head, eventually their leg will get tired, and they’ll want to start kicking someone else.  If you’re still there, and can pull yourself up to your feet, you get the last laugh.”   

Billy Ray, professional screenwriter

When I heard the above quote, while watching TALES FROM THE SCRIPT, I realized how similar writing is to martial arts. 

Persistence, determination and belief in oneself are needed to finish any script or novel.   Coincidentally, those qualities are also found in a martial artist. 

Let’s compare the journeys:

1. Training:

MA: We train by repeating blocks, kicks and punches over and over until sweat drips from our bodies.  

Writer: The first draft is never good enough, so we write it over and over, until our brain and fingers throb.

2. Fighting under pressure:

MA: Once you’ve trained hard enough, the moves become “muscle memory”.  When under the pressure of fighting, we need our moves to occur without thought.  

Writer: When you’re under a deadline, you need your words to flow effortlessly.  That won’t happen if you spend your days procrastinating and not putting words down on paper (side note: the program Write or Die is fantastic at honing your writing-under-pressure skills).

3. Being tested by your Master: 

MA: The test day for your next belt arrives.  If you’ve practiced, your Master will know it and reward you.  But if you haven’t, he can see it with one look into your eyes.   There’s no way to fake being ready.

Writer: Every time you send out your work, you’re being tested.  Are you prepared? Did you do as many drafts necessary to make it your best?  Will your work be viewed as amateur or professional?  Do you have the stamina to wait for, and then deal with, the feedback?  It’s a test.  It’s always a test.  

4. Number one rule of fighting is to avoid a fight at all cost: 

MA: Never, ever fight if you don’t have to.  Only fight if it’s absolutely necessary, and even then, just inflict enough injury to your opponent to give yourself time to get away.  Instead of looking for a fight, be aware of your surroundings. 

Writer: Every new producer, agent or editor who reads your work is a new fight.   But, you can avoid the fight simply by being patient and make your work shine before you ever send it out.   If you send it too early, be ready to defend your work and choices.  Believe me, the blow from a premature submission can be just as bad as one dealt you by a black belt.

5. Humility:

MA: being humble in and out of the dojo is a must.  Simply put, its what earns you respect from your peers.  A Master or comrade might kick the crap out of you in the ring, but at the end of the fight, he’ll always shake your hand and bow.   It’s an honor to be in the ring with a warrior.  Take your lickings and learn from them. It’ll make you better, in and out of the ring.

Writer:  No one wants to hear a writer say how great her work is.  The work should speak for itself.  When you sit across the table from a producer or agent who has just ripped your work to shreds, be gracious and reach across the divide, shake their hand and thank them for their time and thoughts.   It is an honor to have gotten the chance to be in the ring with a professional.  Their criticism isn’t a personal attack; it’s a gift of perspective.  Feedback is THE most valuable asset a writer has.  Don’t run from it; embrace it. 

The seven years I trained before becoming a black belt, my master always said, “It is the journey that matters, not the belt color.”  As writers, we’re so focused on becoming published or getting produced that we forget to enjoy the journey.  Every piece of work we put to paper is a chance to learn, grow and challenge ourselves, not just the ones that reach celluloid or book shelves.  Appreciate those early, horrible pieces of writing that will never see the light of day… and thank the heavens they won’t!  They taught you.  You cut your teeth on them. 

Above all, don’t give up.  As writers, we need to be prepared to pull our half-broken and bleeding bodies off the floor and have the last laugh.  I know I intent to.

What have you learned from your other passions in life that have brought your writing to a different level? 

what if...

After posting Kicking Fear’s Ass, many people have approached me, fascinated I gave up fear for Lent.  They want answers.  How can I be fearless too?  Are you ever terrified?  What do you do when you can’t imagine facing your fear? 

I may have faced fear head on, but I still have moments of terror.  Everyone does.  We’re afraid for our children’s safety and health.  We’re afraid we won’t get a job or do well at the job we have.  We’re afraid we can’t pay our mortgage.  We’re afraid world peace will never come.  We’re afraid of growing old.  You name it, we’re afraid of it. 

At this point in my life, there’s only one fear that drives me: I'm afraid I'll arrive at my deathbed and utter the words, “What if…?”  What if I had worked harder?  What if I had pitched that script to one more producer?  What if I had taken that writing bootcamp?  What if I had spent more time with my kids?  What if I admitted I wanted to change my life years ago?  What if…?  

Missing out on living my life to the fullest scares me far more than failure or rejection. 

“What if?”  We all need to be reminded of what the greatest dangers truly are in life... not living it. 

What are you afraid of?  What will you do to face that fear?  


*this post is dedicated to Alie Flierl @2degreesofalie* 

a disease diagnosed... an author born

November 22, 2008 is the day my life changed forever. Only months ago, I was an innocent 10-year-old running around carefree.  Then Crohn’s disease forced me to become a prisoner in my house.  I wouldn’t dare try to walk in fear that my stomach would explode. Lying down on the couch, watching old reruns of “Full House,” I dreamed of a book with a child’s perspective of Crohn’s with the hope of finding a cure.  Google was the only option to search for my dream book, but all I found were medical versions only adults could understand.

As time progressed, and tons of medicine ingested, my life began to return to normal… almost. Even though I was feeling better, I always felt a pang of guilt, running around playing soccer when I knew other children were still very sick.  

Flashbacks of my dream of a children’s Crohn’s book pushed me to think if nobody else had the “guts” to write one, why couldn’t I?? For two months my fingers were sore from typing my special story about a girl who has Crohn’s disease, and through her determination, she finds a cure. Madison popcorn, snickers, and cashews were finally reunited!!

I believe, children with this serious illness will finally have something to look up to and something uplifting to read while they are feeling down.  Being 12 doesn’t mean that I can’t follow my dream.

~Grace Wilgucki

Our brave niece, Grace, is participating in the 2010 Take Steps for Crohn’s and Colitis Walkathon.  Please CLICK HERE to help her reach her $500 goal and help the effort in finding a cure.

If any children’s book publishers or agents are lurking out there, please contact me if you’d like to read Grace’s wonderful book.  Email: jeannevb2@gmail.com

Love the Invisible

How often do you reach out to another human?

On Good Friday, I was at Penn Station.  A homeless man politely approached me and asked for money.  His pitch was eloquent, heartfelt, and with wonderful eye contact.  I was marveled by his intelligence. 

Liquor seeped from his breath, and a cane supported his frail body, but I couldn’t help but wonder what his story was.  If he were a character in my script or novel, what would I learn from him?  What would his arc be?  But this man wasn’t fiction.  He was real, and he indeed needed help. 

Instead of handing him a ten dollar bill that would have most certainly been spent on more moonshine, I offered, "Let me buy you lunch."  I wanted to take him into the restaurant so he could choose what most appealed to him, but he explained the homeless weren't allowed.  

As I stood on line waiting for food, I glanced back at him, propped against the wall.  People were passing by, as if he didn’t exist.  He was invisible.  Totally invisible.  My heart broke. 

With a bag of warm nourishment, I returned and held out his hot lunch.  As he reached for it, I looked him in the eyes and said, "I love you."  He was astonished.  A tear rolled down his cheek, "I don't remember the last time someone said that to me.”  I simply repeated, “I love you.”  A sweet smile rose across his parched lips as he declared, “I love you too."  

I smiled and walked away, never to see him again.  But for that one day, that one moment, I hope he felt loved.  Those three words were more nourishing to him than any amount of food. 

Try spreading love and see what joy comes back to you.