Letter to a Teacher

I'm sitting in the Bellwood Bakery.

Drinking a cappuccino.  Eating a croissant.  Sitting across from a friend, Alice March, who asks me a simple question:

 

Do you remember a time when someone supported you in exactly the way you needed?

 

And then I remember a letter I wrote three years ago.

 

                         *     *     *

 

Dear Sister Sommers,

 

It’s a busy day of teaching seventh graders for me here in Los Angeles. 

 

But I wanted to take the time to send you this letter.  It's important you hear it.

 

I've often thought about that hot day in August 1969, when my mother brought me to you so that I could take the first-grade readiness test. 

 

My sixth birthday would occur after school began.  I was too young.

 

But you looked at my test scores.  My mother did too.  I was so eager to begin school.  So eager to read.  So tiny.

 

Did I want to start school?  I said yes.

 

So I went.

 

What an astonishing choice to give a six-year-old child.

 

                         *     *     *

 

I remember crying at recess.  Standing at the door to the playground.  In my memory, I see you there, comforting me. 

 

And you taught me to read.  To spell.

 

Do you remember when you caught me cheating on a spelling test?  I was so small, so scared of what I'd done, I wet my pants.  Yet you held me accountable. 

 

What a gift you had – being able to spark my love for learning.  How did you do it?

 

It took awhile for my grades to catch up to what I was actually learning.  In grades six through eight, I quit doing my homework.  Read instead.  Great novels, bad fiction, comic books.  I was passed to ninth grade on probation.

 

Yet my love for learningwon out.  In August 1999, I earned my master's in English.

 

                         *     *     *

 

In February 2001, a student nominated me for Teacher of the Year.  And that fall, I found myself in Los Angeles.  Writing stories.  Teaching seventh graders.

 

                         *     *     *

 

Recently, I learned that 99% of all learning occurs subconsciously.  A lot of what I don’t think I’m teaching is what is really being learned. 

 

It made me think of you.

 

You thought you were teaching me to read books, solve math and science problems, and memorize historical facts – yet I remember little of that.

 

Today I teach and write because I am inspired by your love for learning.

 

You changed my world, Sister Sommers.  Thank you.

 

                        *     *     *

After I finished this letter, I sent it to my mother.  Asked her to take it to my first-grade teacher.

Sister Sommers sat slumped in a wheelchair.  Unable to speak.  Unable to respond.  Unable to use the gifts she had given to me.

So my mother read my letter to her.

                        *     *     *

Several weeks later, Sister Sommers passed on to the next world.

Mad Cat

I'm 86 pages into my third editing pass.

I keep telling myself.  I will cut it to the required page length, I will cut it to the required page length, I will cut it to the required ...

And I will.  So far, I've cut 116 pages.  I'm down to 117.  I've got 27 pages to cut before I start on the last act.

                         *     *     *

I'm worried.

Yesterday, I catch Sir Knavely pounding away at the keyboard. 

I open the apartment door, and there he is.  

I could have sworn that he hit SAVE.  Just before he bounced off to his water bowl. 

I stand at the computer and stare.  There's the screen.  There's Sir Knavely eating from his bowl. 

And I've just gotten home from work. 

I look down at the mail I've just pulled out of my mailbox.  Only seconds ago.

So I set everything down.

I sit down at the computer.  I open up search and run all the files.  There's no document saved under Sir K, Knavely, Sir, whatever.

                         *     *     *

It's impossible.  The idea that he could even type. 

Bah. 

Humbug.

                         *     *     *

But last night, I kept having the same dream. 

I'm sitting at the foot of a large desk.  Above me, a gigantic cat sits at a keyboard.  He's pounding away.  Occasionally he looks down at me.

I shake my head and I'm looking over his shoulder at the screen.

Omigod.  He's writing a letter, telling all the gory details of what it's like to live with a screenwriter.

One who's who's writing a horror film about the French Inquisition.  Eternal love.  A Vampire Priest.

This all sounds very familiar.

                         *     *     *

As if I'm ever going to believe it. 

No cat can actually type.  Or write.

And my life is far too uninteresting to reveal. 

I've obviously been spending way too much time alone.  Time to get out more.

                         *     *     *

Last night, when I wasn't dreaming of a Vampire Cat, I kept getting a whiff of a certain brand of cancer sticks.

Morley's.

This morning, I found a crumpled pack of them outside my door.

Okay.  So I've been watching too many episodes of The X Files. 

So why did The Cigarette Smoking Man's face appear in the mirror when I tried to shave this morning?

I thought I'd come back in the next life as Mulder.  Or maybe Scully.

Not Cancer Man.  Help!

                         *     *     *

There's an old joke that ran in The Los Angeles Times today. 

Three men show up at the Pearly Gates:  Bill Clinton, Dick Nixon, and Pope Benedict.

St. Peter meets them.  He points to Clinton.

"Slick Willy!  In my office.  Now!"

Bill disappears into the office with St. Peter.

Four hours later, Clinton stumbles out, tears running down his cheeks.

"How could I have been so wrong?" he cries.  He walks into heaven, living proof of Christ's mercy.

St. Peter next crooks a finger at Tricky Dick.

"You.  Now!"

Nixon walks into the office.  It's EIGHT hours before he comes out, exhausted, drained, crying.

"How could I have been so wrong?"  An angel leads him off to heaven, another miracle of God's mercy.

"RATZINGER!" cries St. Peter.  "In my office.  Now!"

So Pope Benedict XVI goes in. 

Twelve hours later, St. Peter comes stumbling out.  "How could I have been so wrong?"he cries.

                         *     *     *

She emailed me yesterday.  A former student, Shannon Howard.

She did an internship her in Los Angeles at E! last summer, and she was calling to let me know she's moving back to Brentwood for the summer on May 16. 

Hopefully to do another internship in the business.

She's also looking for a job. 

I told her about a producer I know who might be interested in hiring her.

She was happy.  I was happy.  Whoever gets her is going to be very grateful.

Shannon was my drama club president when I ran the drama program at Hoover High School in North Canton.

In twenty shows, I've never directed a better comedic actress.  Her timing is impeccable.

Second Pass Complete

What would I do without my expert proofreader?

Sir Knavely. 

The world's first feline copy editor.

                         *     *      *

I've completed the second editing pass.  I'm down to 132 pages.  5 pages away from my goal:  I really wanted to hit 127.  Grr.

One more editing pass to go.  This one will cut the script to 90 pages.

                         *     *      *

So I've got 42 pages to go to reach my goal.

Time to tear out chunks that slow the story.

Anything that doesn't move the plot forward has to go.

All that cute dialogue.  Those side stories.

                         *     *      *

Tough decisions coming up.  I'm trying to gear up for them..

It's no more than I demand of my students.

Granted, they're dealing with paragraphs.  Not an entire screenplay.

But.  Same principle.

                         *     *      *

Country music tonight.  Have I mentioned that Reba rocks!

                         *     *      *

Up at 5 AM this morning.

I finally worked out again.  First time in months.  Stairsteps, pushups, situps. 

Endorphins that transform my emotional energy.

                         *     *      *

Does anyone gets the same amusement from Sir K that I do? 

I'm not referringto my cat per se.  I'm referring to the character in my journal.  In the photos.  And in the reactions people experience to that character.

Is it possible that some people think I'm looney enough to believe what I write about Sir Knavely?

The dignified cat living in the Westside of Los Angeles.  Who's undergoing therapy for the abuse he suffered when he was a child.  Before I took him in. 

A cat who has talent and education.  I mean, come on.  He graduated from Lincoln College, Oxford University, Class of 99.  Graduated with a 4.0.

And the boy has superb taste.  Granted, he's been getting a bit arrogant, lately.  Hard to live with.

                         *     *      *

I get the same amusement when I watch my students react to conversations I hold with ATM, the stuffed dog who helps me teach in the classroom.  Along with an entire zoo of creatures.

Stuffed animals my students have fondly named.  Alfonzo, for example.  What's up with that?  A little rubber duckie with a purple mohawk? 

No wonder these characters are in therapy.  The STRESS of a Westside education.

That's funny.

And very revealing.

Second Pass: Par Deux

I'm at page 129.  40 pages of editing to go.

The overall page count of the first 3/5 of the script has dropped from 233 pages to 140. 

I'll lose another 13 pages on this pass, putting the page count at 127 pages.  Then my third and final pass will land it at 90 pages. 

Then it goes to my co-writer for development, while I continue with the last 2/5 of the script.

                         *     *     *

My co-writer should complete the extended treatment just as I finish the third pass.  That's good.  That makes me happy.

                         *     *     *

One of the places I've been editing the script is at the 50's Cafe on Santa Monica and Barrington Avenues.  It's a vintage restaurant with a great breakfast bar. 

If you like simple food, it's a fine place to eat.  Their cheeseburger and fries combo is excellent. 

The music all comes out of the 1950s.  I don't get tired of it.  Maybe I really am as old as my students think.

The coffee ain't Starbucks.  It's more like the stuff yo Mama made when I was young.

                         *     *     *

Sometimes my job just wastes me.  And then, no matter how how much "free time" I have, I can't find the energy to write. 

After last week, it took me until Saturday evening to recover my energy.

So what killed me?  Let's see.

Progress reports were due.  I had two parent/student conferences.  An event for fathers.  Plus two story conferences to help a writer prepare a pitch.  Then I had papers to edit and grade.  And student officers who needed my attention.  And a Friday-night dance to chaperone. 

Oh.  Don't forget my normal teaching load.

All this could have had something to do with my exhaustion.  Yeah.

Oh well.  A few hours -- okay, a lot of hours -- of reading and watching DVD's cured me and put me back to work.

                         *     *     *

I haven't been able to get Chaim Potok out of my head.  Specifically, his novel, My Name Is Asher Lev.

I spent a really wonderful evening this week rereading some key passages.  I've found this novel inspiring ever since I heard it on tape about 15 years ago. 

It was the first time my life made sense.

So I'm including a rather long clip below.

It's safe to say that no novel has had more of an impact on the way I see myself as a writer.

Perhaps it's one of the reasons I moved to Los Angeles.

You could probably read a lot into that comment.

Oh well.  So be it. 

Enjoy.

                         *     *     *

I remember the Rebbe's long burning gaze and the silence that filled the space between us.  He had read everything.  He had followed the papers and the magazines.  He understood everything.  He sat behind his desk, gazing at me out of dark, sad eyes.  The brim of his ordinary hat threw a shadow across his forehead.

                         *     *     *

Then he said, "I will ask you not to continue living here, Asher Lev.  I will ask you to go away."

I felt a cold trembling inside me.

"You are too close here to people you love.  You are hurting them and making them angry.  They are good people.  They do not understand you.  It is not good for you to remain here.

I said nothing.

                         *     *     *

"Asher Lev," the Rebbe said softly.  "You have crossed a boundary.  I cannot help you.  You are alone now.  I give you my blessings."

I came out of the Rebbe's office and walked past Rav Dorochoff's angry gaze and out of the building.  I walked for hours then beneath the naked trees of the parkway along streets that had once been my world but were now cold and gone from me.  Sometime during the walking, I stopped in front of a mound of snow and with my finger drew in one continuous line the contour of my face.

                         *     *     *

I looked at my right hand, the hand with which I painted.  There was power in that hand.  Power to create and destroy.  Power to bring pleasure and pain.  Power to amuse and horrify.  There was in that hand the demonic and the divine at one and the same time.  the demonic and the divine were two aspects of the same force.  Creation was demonic and divine.  Creativity was demonic and divine.  Art was demonic and divine.  The solitary vision that put new eyes into gouged-out sockets was demonic and divine.  I was demonic and divine.

                         *     *     *

Master of the Universe, will I live this way all the rest of my life?  Yes, came the whispers from the branches of the trees.  Now journey with me, my Asher.  Paint the anguish of all the world.  Let people see the pain.  But create your own molds and your own play of forms for the pain.  We must give a balance to the universe.

                         *     *     *

I came out of the apartment house.  It was cold and dark.  I looked up.  My parents stood framed in the living-room window.  I hailed a cab and climbed inside.  It pulled slowly away from the curb.  I turned in the seat and looked out the rear window of the cab.  My parents were still watching me through our living-room window.

                  - Excepts above taken from My Name Is Asher Lev, by Chaim Potok 

Second Pass

The screenplay continues on apace.

I've spent seven hours editing today.

On this second editing pass, I've reached page 45.  The screenplay has dropped 14 pages, from 169  to 155 pages.

At this rate, this pass will end at 127 pages.

                          *     *     *

In my first editing pass, I eliminated format issues and the most obvious excesses of dialogue.  The screenplay dropped from 233 to 169 pages.

Ever notice I'm too damn wordy?   

                          *     *     *

I have several tasks to fulfill during this second editing pass.

Eliminating plot redundancy. 

Deciding which minor characters get less screen time. 

Making descriptions powerful and sparse.   

Once I've cut as much as I can (hopefully by next Sunday), I'll do a third pass, polishing for style.  

                          *     *     *

It will take a third editing pass to reach my primary goal..

I'd like to get this first 3/5 of the screenplay to 90 pages.  Within the next three weeks. 

By the time I've done that, my co-writer Steven should have the rest of the raw material ready.   

At that point, we'll switch, and I'll go through the same process with the new material, eventually cutting that to 50 pages, resulting in a 140-page screenplay. 

Which we'll both cut to 120 pages..

                          *     *     *

Sir Knavely has been distressed this evening.  Sitting at the door, yowling.  Hoping I'll quit writing.  Let him out.  Anything other than what I'm doing, which is writing.

I let him out earlier, while I sat on the stairs with a drink.  He explored all the way to the bottom of the stairs.

I think this is called spoiling your little darling.

Maybe he just wants me to go to bed.  He really dislikes when I don't follow my normal sleeping schedule.  Right now, he's lying on my lap, quietly, switching his tail. 

I think he hopes I'll let him go so that he can go back to the door to yowl some more.  Or maybe he just wants to go to bed.

First Pass Complete

The first editing pass is finished.

The script's been cut from 233 pages to 169.  64 pages in all.

                        *     *     *

I'm going to celebrate ... by watching The X Files. 

Or seeing a movie.  

Or going to Starbucks and reading what I've written. 

Or catching up on my reading at Borders.

Maybe all of the above.

                        *     *     *

My first pass hardened down the dialogue itself.

Now the real fun begins.  Looking at the story again.  Seeing which scenes are unnecessary.  Folding scenes into each other.

Determining which characters need to be minimized to centralize the screenplay around our star:  Luc.

It's hard, when you're as much in love with your characters, as I have become, to eliminate scenes that sharpen their characters.  But that's where playing god of our world becomes necessary.  And tough.

                        *     *     *

I demand the same of my students.  It's so difficult for them.  They fall in love with their own writing and can't make the difficult choices. 

I feel the same way right now when I look at the stack of pages that is my first draft of the first half of the screenplay.  A lot of material. 

Hey.  At least I've got something to work with.

I have several weeks to continue editing, I suspect, before I get the rest of raw material from my co-writer Steven.  At that point, I'll shift back into right brain and continue writing the rough draft.  Hopefully, I'll edit more in my head and have to do less on the page.

Until then, I'd like to use the time to cut what I've written and polished over the past month down to 90 pages (at 169 pages, I've got 79 pages to cut).

If my estimate is right, the rest of the material -- when written and edited -- will make up the last 50 pages, bringing in our "First Shitty Draft" at 140 pages.  We can then sharpen the second and third drafts to 120 pages.

                        *     *     *

More than anything, I'm enjoying this process.

Editing Mode

I'm at page 94.

I've already cut 33 pages off the screenplay.

Spring break showed a learning curve.

I'm relieved.

                        *     *     *

Things learned so far:

1.  My style of writing changed over the course of the first 233 pages.  Sentence structures became crisp, more active.  Simpler.

2. There's a lot to cut.  For example:

Descriptions that belong in a novel.  Can't be photographed. 

Dialogue that doesn't pop.  Rambling, non-periodic sentences.

Instructions not needed (CUT TO, DISSOLVE TO) for the reader to visualize the story.  The editor doesn't need my help.

Paragraph breaks that take space.

Interpretive directions.  Actors don't want my help either.  I am only the writer.

                        *     *     *

Write action.  Write reaction.  Write dialogue.

                        *     *     *

Powerful film last night:  This House Is Condemned.  Sydney Pollack directed.  Robert Redford and Natalie Wood starred.

How sad, her death.  So beautiful she was.

The film was based on a one-act play written by Tenessee Williams, my favorite playwright.  He understood beautiful language.  And a primary character is always Blanche Dubois.

Wonderful little film!

                        *     *     *

As I was watching The Spy Who Came in from the Cold this evening, I realized why I appreciate the old black and whites.

The studio system nurtured terrific screenwriters.  Film was a writer's medium back then, not a product of the arrogant auteur.

I'm starting to respond to good screenwriting.  Is this "time spent alone in the desert" making an impact on my writing style?

                        *     *     *

Another teaching kudo today.  I was selected for inclusion in the ninth edition of Who's Who Among America's Teachers, 2005.

A sophomore -- I taught her in English 7, and now advise her independent study in business -- nominated me.  For privacy reasons, I can't publish it here first.

But it's nice when a student shows gratitude.

Reflective learning

Reflection mode. 

Ready to begin the editing process, starting tomorrow. 

                        *     *     *

Once I've edited the first half of the screenplay, I'll begin the second.

I'm hoping that it will come out tighter.  That I'll do more editing in my head.

That I'm learning something.

                        *     *     *

In school, I'm teaching the process of writing an analytical paragraph. 

Over the next month, my seventh graders will write approximately 20 first drafts.  Then they'll edit and revise and polish one of those paragraphs to perfection.

Each student will earn two major grades.

The first will be based upon the improvement she's made across the course of twenty rough drafts.

The second grade will be based upon her ability to edit and polish a paragraph successfully, using the grammar skills she's practicing in class.

                        *     *     *

I feel like I'm taking my own class.

I'm mastering the process.  The screenplay itself is secondary, I suppose.

                        *     *     *

Tonight, I've been refreshing myself with the rules of the form.

Tomorrow I will begin to analyze the rough work I've done over the last two weeks.  I will figure out what's working well, and what needs to be trimmed.

To prepare for this, I finally purchased (for the second time ... I left my original copy in Ohio with a friend two summers ago) what has become my second screenwriter's bible:  Denny Martin Flinn's How NOT to Write a Screenplay. 

Then I took it to a Starbucks and reread it, highlighting the points that stuck out to me.

Finally, I went home and codified what stuck out to me.

                        *     *     *

I taped this five-page document above my computer. 

I plan to master Flinn's suggestions as I work.

                        *     *     *

I feel the annoyance of having to shift out of right-brain dominance.  I use mostly left-brain skills to teach.

And edit.

I don't have a choice if I wish to 1) accomplish the editing task; and 2) teach and manage my students effectively.

                        *     *     *

Yup. 

Spring Break is over.

And I still feel off.

Sin City

231 pages completed on the screenplay for The French Inquisitor.  I've written up through the 34 pages of extended treatment written by my co-writer.

After I sleep, I intend to use my day to polish what I have written.  we'll see how many pages I can clip from this screenplay.  Technically, I'm only half done.

                         *     *     *

A movie -- when it produces box office magic -- holds up a mirror:  "This is what you might do if you were dressed up and placed in a very different world."

                         *     *     *

That was my experience with Sin City.

                         *     *     *

I saw it yesterday after I returned to LA from San Diego.  I expected to be influenced by reviews I'd read in The New York Times and Los Angeles Times.

                         *     *     *

My reactions to the film surprised me.

I came home, planning to write until early morning.  I couldn't.  Instead, I snacked.  Watched three episodes of The X Files.  Thought a lot about the movie.  Then finally gave up and went to bed.

                         *     *     *

A disturbing noir piece filmed in startling black and white (with designated splashes of color), Sin's roots are clearly found in Tarantino's Pulp Fiction. 

Primary director Robert Rodriguez hewed to three storiesfound in the graphic novels of Frank Miller.  Using a Pulp Fiction framework, he followed these stories, recreating what was drawn in the frames of the book.  Only with live people.

He used Frank Miller's dialogue and narration, reportedly.  Word for word.  The film clearly intended to mimic the experience of reading a graphic novel.  To do this, Rodriguez purposefully broke every classic rule of voiceover. 

                         *     *     *

Risky choices.  Did they work?  Have Rodriguez, Miller, and Tarantino together created a new genre of film?

Or is this a badly constructed film?

On first glance, the combination of narration and dialogue is laughable.  The voiceover shows little juxtaposition or irony.  Was that the point? Was the blinders-on narration intended to provoke an ironic detachment in the viewer? 

Whatever.  The film works.

                         *     *     *

The audience was edgy and tense.  Raw.  Aged mostly 20 - 35.  Mostly male.  They seemed ready to leap into the screen's world.  

                         *     *     *

Flashback to The Fast and the Furious.  North Canton.  2001.

Before the film, my friend and I realized we were the oldest couple in the theatre.  During the film, the audience screamed and whooped and became one with the action. 

After the film, we walked out to find a crowd that screamed and cheered on several hot cars in the parking lot.  Small trucks squealed and raced their oversized engines, spreading rubber, smoke, and exhaust fumes.

I'd never seen anything like it.

                         *     *     *

Present day.

The girls in the audience of Sin City were the minority.  Inevitably attached to boyfriends. 

I paused to watch one couple discreetly.  What bargain did they make?  Which ten  chick flicks would he have to see?

                         *     *     *

Moments in the film gave me chills:  I felt I was seeing something original and powerful.  The use of white blood -- except for designated touches of red and yellow -- made the unrelenting violence easier to absorb. 

Yet at other spots, I flinched.  Rodriguez, Miller, and Tarantino cranked up the violence -- men against men, women against men, men against women -- to an almost unbearable level.  Which, after you've seen Pulp Fiction, is saying something. 

In my head, I heard echoes of Tarantino's insane laugh as I watched the body disposal scene.

                         *     *     *

I'm inside the world of Sin City now.  The cityscapes and cars look dreamlike.  Night and winter prevail. 

Nature only echoes the violence humans do in this film.  

Nature doesn't seem to affect their ability to act.  Cars drive in the most impossible situations.  

Violence never actually kills anyone -- bullets, ropes, hack saws, knives, gun cartridges -- until the storyteller decides that it's the right time for the hero, villain, or victim to die.  There's no causal relationship between motivation, action, and result.  The film's a live version of the video game.  

Oddly enough, the ubiquitous cold have no effect on what the women wear.  They look perfectly warm in their skimpy, fetishistic outfits.

Only the passions in Sin City feel real.

                         *     *     *

Sin City.

A contemporary landscape of the American mind?

A raw, dangerous world where nothing is real except power, violence and fear? 

Where religion is only a political tool? 

Where those with true faith are vulnerable?

                         *     *     *

In The French Inquisitor, I'm not writing a story of medieval France.  Characters don't think like medieval Europeans. 

They're from today's world, dressed up in the clothes of medieval France ... and forced to make decisions under that society's rules.  They think like people today.

                         *     *     *

What would I do if I were Adrienne? 

A white witch living in medieval France.  Accused of witchcraft.  Standing before the Inquisition.  And being tried by a man you're in love with.

                         *     *     *

Today we pay people with Adrienne's skills a lot of money.  We make them heroes on our TV shows.  We call them scientists.  Lab technicians.  Doctors. 

Brave women like Adrienne in the middle ages explored the effects of herbs, roots, and healing techniques.  More sophisticated version of their spells -- psychic ability, hypnosis, medicines, formulas -- are legally used today by doctors, lawyers, and the police.

Funny what a few centuries can do.

Today, we use this same "white witchcraft" to keep people alive.  Evangelical and Catholic politicians argue that we need to use these skills to enhance a "Culture of Life."

In themiddle ages, the Church burned white witches atthe stake.  Thousands of them.  In the name of Christ.  They were so sure they were right.  In fact, last century, one of the popes made it official:  the doctrines of the Church are infallible, cannot be wrong. 

I suppose you could just write off that time period as an Era of Religious Extremism.  When people killed in the name of God.

I'm glad there's no chance that could happen today.

                         *     *     *

Ever experience this?

As you leave the theater after a good show, you look over your shoulder. 

And it hits you:  that was your world you saw.

Just in different clothes and a different time period.

Writing

203 pages completed on the screenplay for The French Inquisitor. 

I'm halfway done. 

I'm taking a break to go to San Diego tomorrow.  I need it.  It's been eight days of solid writing.  That's an average of 25 pages per day.

I've met my goal.

                           *     *     *

I'm writing this screenplay using a detailed treatment.  In the last month before my Spring Break, my co-writer fleshed it on his own.  Now I'm writing the first draft by myself, transforming that treatment into a detailed blueprint for the screen.

Once I've written the first draft to the best of my abilities and skills, I'll hand it to him.  He'll attack it ruthlessly, revising and polishing.

As my co-writer edits my work, I'll shift my focus.  Kendrick and I will continue developing Teacher!  It's an idea for a television series.  Or maybe a film.  And still very much in conception.  Like The French Inquisitor was when it was born in April 2000.

Although I suspect Teacher! will develop much more rapidly. 

                           *     *     *

I know.  203 pages for a screenplay.  And only half done?

Am I crazy?

Okay, Okay, Okay.  So I'm way overwriting.  But that's how I work.  I get all the ideas down on the page during the rough draft.  Then I go back and cut it down to the exact length required (120 pages), saving only the best ideas.

Does anyone else work this way?  Tell me they do.

                           *     *     *

Working Thesis

The more material I create, the better the final, polished product will sparkle.  Writing works best when I use aprocess.

Over the past four years, I've learned to separate my writing process into two acts: Creation and Revision.  Two distinct steps of action.

Creation

Letting my right brain dominate, I pour out ideas, images, dialogue onto the page.

When everything's out, I take a break.

Analysis

Giving control back to the left brain, I look over what I've written.

And edit.  And cut.  And polish.  And proofread.

Then I listen to what others tell me about what I've written.

Then I repeat Step Two.  Several times.

                           *     *     *

The fever of creation.  All artists know it. 

When I shift from right to left brain ... and carefully read what I've written ... I'm always a bit surprised ...

I don't remember some of the things I've created ...  Some of the details I've dropped onto the page ...

The fever of creation.

                           *     *     *

This process helps me avoid Writer's Block.  Helps me stick to the schedule.  My co-writer doesn't use this process.

He edits in his head.

                           *     *     *

I ran into a friend today.  In the courtyard of my apartment complex.  A good guy.

He was with a friend.  Introduced us.

Then he asked me what I was doing.

"I'm writing a screenplay."

I saw him try to disguise his boredom.

Everyone in LA is "writing a screenplay."  Here, that's like saying you breathed last night.  All night.

Don't be boring, Steven.

So I changed the subject. 

"Nice weather we're having." 

The sun beat on our backs.  We both felt good, talking about our lives.

I went back inside.

Sat down at my computer.

Staredat the screen.

Wondered why I'd just spent most of my spring break writing..

                           *     *     *

No matter how much a woman loves children ...

No matter how much she wants them ...

No matter how strong her urge is to have one ...

The actual process of pregnancy and birth makes her question why she ever wanted to have a child.

                          *     *     *

Pregnancy is painful, all consuming, and overly emotional.

It makes a woman question everything, including every perception she's ever had about herself.

Whether she's beautiful.  Whether she's fat.  Whether she's ugly.  Whether her husband -- or her lover -- still ... loves her.

Sometimes she's silly, sometimes wise, sometimes stupid, sometimes empty of all meaningful thought ... except a dogged craving for her sanity and health.

The cycle drains her:  physically, psychologically, and spiritually.

And she can't ever expect a non-mother -- someone who hasn't been through the process -- to understand her.

The way she natters on about it all ... bores them. 

I suspect that only those who have been through the same experience -- other mothers -- can truly understand her.

Not even a husband can be completely understanding.

And giving birth? 

FuGITaboutit.

                         *     *     *

Of course, it's what comes after that makes the whole process worth going through. 

Seeing the-most-beautiful-child-in-the-whole-world ...

... take its first breath ...

... walk without help ...

... say mama ...

... kiss you on the cheek ... because he loves his mama.

Is that why mothers don't stop having babies?

Is that why civilization still exists?

                         *     *     *

I now understand why writers compare ...

... the process of writing a story ...

... to going through pregnancy ....

... and giving birth.

                        *     *     *

I haven't seen any of my stories reach the big screen.  Yet.

But I've seen them come to life on the stage.

That feeling of seeing a new story come to life:  take its first breath.

It's a feeling hard to describe.  Even for a wordsmith.

Is that what keeps me going here?

Is that why I just spent my spring break ... mostly alone ... at the keyboard?

Necessarily alone.

                          *     *     *

My mother had eight children. 

I am the fourth.

Four were girls.  

Three have given birth.

I've never understood why they do it..

Until now.

                          *     *     *

Yes.

I really get it.

Now.