Wednesday, August 6, 2014

I am slate.

Another writing exercise from Lissa Rovetch.  For this one, we were supposed to use this opener: "Who am I?  Just a _____."  We had to write in first person from an object's perspective.  Some of the options were: plastic fork, slate rock, wood, toothbrush, tea bag, smooth and round rock, or an index card with a shoe on it.  Here's mine:

Who am I?  Just a piece of slate.  I have seen empires rise and fall, great lumbering beasts dominate then fade, the cracking and cooling of the earth.  I was born from the fiery womb of a volcano, ejected into the air and slammed into the dust far from my mother.  Her fertility faded and now she slumbers, a slumping hulk of what she once was.  Now grass and flowers grow on her face - they no longer burn at the sight of her intensity.  She deserves the rest, after ten thousand years of pain and heat and change.

But I wonder if she misses it, despite or because of the chaos.  If she pines for the glory and magnitude of her old self.  Or if she is content to let new life grow upon her, to support and nourish rather than destroy and create whole landmasses in her fury.

I don't know that I would miss it.  I like being a rock, the constancy of it.  The solidity, the dependability.  I don't need to change.  I can stay right here, on this spot, and never worry what I'll look like tomorrow or eons from now.  I'll look exactly the same.  The same plain face, the same uninteresting situations.  I'll never have a fall from grace like my mother.  I'll never have regrets.  Because regrets require opportunities.  And I have had none.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014


This story was prompted by a giant fuzzy circle of fabric from Ikea.  On the back it cryptically said, "Gilbert."

Gilbert was always punctual.  Wait, that's not right.  Gilbert was always punctuation.  A period, to be precise.  But not your ordinary, run of the mill tiny black dot type of period.  No, Gilbert was a wooly, dyed in the rough mountain man of a period.  He was a pioneer and sort of a prophet.

You see, Gilbert was the very first period to ever walk the face of God's green earth.  He was born in the badlands of Utah, the son of an eclipse and a wooly buffalo.  From a young age, he realized he was quite different from everyone else, so he just sort of leaned into that difference and set out to learn his purpose in life.  He never bothered to try to fit in to normal society because he knew if would be a strong and incongruous burden upon both them and him.

The thing about Gilbert was - you could believe him.  He never put on airs, never cared for deceit or deception.  He was who he was and he was fine with that.  People came to respect him, to value his integrity.  Townsfolk would seek out his opinion and whatever Gilbert said, well, that was the end of it.  Period.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Grand Gestures and Grand Canyons

A white tablecloth draped over a table on the edge of the Grand Canyon.  Bottle of wine and two place settings.  Perfect location to ask her to marry me.

Although it's kind of dusty.  And freaking hot.  Even though it's sunset, it must be 90 degrees.  I can't wait to see my beloved.  If she can even Google Maps her way here.  Her Mini Cooper summer tires may not be the best off-roading choice.  I told her to wear something elegant which probably means high heels which will not go over well on this scorched and cracked desert floor.  Oh, God - what if she got stuck?  She's probably wandering out there in the desert, broken heels and dirty dress, cursing my name.  Was that a coyote howl?

The sun is going down.  At least it will be cooler.  Too cool.  Now she's gonna freeze to death out there and it's all my fault.  When do the rattlesnakes come out?  Is it daytime or nighttime?  Or maybe I'm thinking of gila monsters.

Lori, I'll never forget you.  It will be tough, with many weeks, no, months of mourning.  But I'll find a way to carry on.  To feel again.  To eventually maybe even meet someone half as awesome as you were.  Maybe that cute barista.  We'll hit it off and date for a year or two (in your memory.)  Eventually I'll realize she's the one.  The second one, after you, of course.  And I'll take her out to a romantic dinner to propose.  Somewhere scenic and epic to show the grandeur of my love.  Maybe Hawaii.  Hmm, I wonder if I could get a table to the rim of a volcano.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

The Real Rules of Fight Club

The first rule of Fight Club is: don't be late.  We close the doors at 9 P.M. and the building owner will not let us stay open past 11 P.M.  NO EXCEPTIONS.  It's not fair to other people, some of whom may have driven long distances to be here, to wait to fight until you show up.

The second rule of Fight Club is: if you aren't current on your dues, you don't fight.  Lately there have been some people (I won't name names) who tag along with their friends and aren't really official members but they fight any way.  That's not cool to the rest of us dues-paying members, some of whom sacrifice buying 3-ply toilet paper to be here and ready to fight.

The third rule of Fight Club is: if this is your first night, you have to wear a name tag.  It's hard to keep track of people with all the comings and goings, and this just helps all of us get to know each other better.  I know it's kind of dorky and singles you out, but you won't care when blood is spattered all over your nice Italian loafers and someone has ripped your shirt off to gut punch you more effectively.

The fourth rule of Fight Club is: well, this isn't a rule.  More of a suggestion.  If other people bring a birthday card for one of the members it would be nice if everyone signed it.  Not signing it makes people feel left out and unpopular.  Just scribble something banal and then you can stand under your moody swinging fluorescent light and growl like an animal to intimidate your opponent.

The fifth rule of Fight Club is: leave the basement how you found it.  Scar Throat Joe has been very kind to let us use his space for the past few months but lately he's been grumbling to me about blood stains and loose teeth he finds on the floor.  Treat the basement like you would the fighting pit in your own home.

The sixth rule of Fight Club is: if you use the last cup of coffee, it's your responsibility to brew a fresh batch.  I've left very clear instructions next to the coffee maker, so just follow those and you'll be all set.  By the way, this DOES include when you hurl the steaming coffee into your opponent's eyes.  You threw it, you brew it.

The seventh rule of Fight Club is: have fun!

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Chimp Heist

Another short story beginning from Lissa's class.  This one's about a kid who really wants a chimp.  I can't remember what the writing prompts were, except I believe they involved: every day, one day, and a detailed description of a veggie burger.

More than anything in the world, Melvin wanted a chimpanzee.  Every day, he asked his parents for one.  And every day, their answer was the same:
Well, sometimes it was a variation on that response:
"Are you crazy?"
"How would you feed it?" and:
"Do I look like I'm made of money?"
But basically, no.

So every day Melvin rocked on his rocking chair and schemed of ways to get his hands on a bona-fide chimp.  He couldn't go to the pet store, even in disguise.  For one thing, he was too young.  Also, he only had $37.23 to his name - stashed in his porky porcelain piggy bank.  He couldn't fly to Africa for the same reason.  He even tried some occult magic as a last resort, but he didn't really believe it would work and sadly was proven right.

Then one day as he was rocking his rocking chair, building a chimp out of Legos, he dropped a Lego onto the floor under his Dad's easy chair.  He reached his hand under the chair (very carefully, in case his occult magic had accidentally summoned some child-snatching demon.)  Mostly he came back with lint.  But he felt something else under the chair - some paper.  Pulling out the paper he saw the usual boring headlines about stock prices and pictures of grown-ups covering up their faces.  He was about to toss it when an ad caught his eye:

"Chimpanzees coming to the Grand Forks Zoo."  Chimpanzees.  They never came to North Dakota because it was too cold.
"This is a once in a lifetime chance," thought Melvin.  He immediately called his best friend, Sanders. "Hey, it's me.  We're gonna break into the zoo.  You in?"

Melvin and Sanders locked the door to Melvin's room.  They spread out maps on the floor, schematics, biology books on the feeding habits of chimpanzees.  They were prepared.
"Nothing can stop us," said Melvin.
"Boys, lunchtime!" yelled Melvin's Mom.
"We're busy!" said Melvin.
"Too bad, you need to eat."

They kicked the papers under Melvin's bed as his Mom wriggled the door handle.
"Why is this locked?" she said.
"Uh, we were eating Play-Doh," blurted Sanders.  He was a terrible liar.  Melvin opened the door.
"We were reading comics, Mom.  What's for lunch?"
"A veggie burger with avocado, bacon, lettuce, and tomato."
"Yuck," thought Melvin.  But he didn't say anything.  He was going to be the perfect child until he could get his hands on that chimp.  Oh, how he longed to play catch with it, to teach it how to breakdance, and use it to play pranks on his enemies, like Suzy Wormser.  That pickle-faced tattletale Suzy Wormser.  He'd dress the chimp up like a little boy, get Suzy to fall in love with it, then pull the rug out from under her feet.  That would teach her not to spread rumors about people's tendency to wet the bed.  Lily-livered Suzy Wormser.

"Mom, Sanders and I need to be dropped off at the zoo for a field trip."  Melvin munched from his sandwich and tried to act casual.  His eyes met Sanders', who looked like he was about to explode.  Melvin casually stomped on his foot.
"Where's the permission slip?"
Sanders' eyes bulged.
Melvin slid a poorly-spelled permission slip to his Mom.
"These are the people who teach our children," she sighed.  Then signed the slip.  Melvin took another bite of his veggie burger.  He was darned if it didn't taste delicious.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Sense of Direction

I have a poor sense of direction, which often makes me lost or late to things.  Yet somehow I make it down to the Austin Film Festival every year for tasty BBQ, interesting panelists, and great friends.  They have fun parties, panels with pro screenwriters, and interviews with filmmakers like James Franco.  I'm also a planner, which is probably because that's the only way I would make it from point A to point B.  Every year I go to AFF, something wonderful happens that I couldn't have planned for.  In 2010, I stumbled my way to third place in the Pitch Finals and in 2011 I found myself at dinner with Michael Arndt.  In 2012, my favorite experience was getting lost.

Terry Rossio runs a rewrite workshop at AFF.  Terry is the A-list Academy Award-nominated screenwriter of SHREK, THE MASK OF ZORRO, and PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN, among others.  In his workshop, he takes one of your scenes and rewrites it live in front of a select group of fellow writers.  This is a practical way to see how the pros push to make a scene better.  He started the workshop in 2011 and I signed up as soon as registration opened.  I polished my scene, enlisted some help to convert it to Final Draft, and crossed my fingers that he'd choose my scene.  Alas, my poor sense of direction struck once again and I missed the panel I had wanted to go to so badly.

AFF 2012.  I sign up again for the rewrite panel and am one of the lucky 30 to get in.  I'm not going to let my poor sense of direction hamstring me.  This time I will make the workshop.  I cut out of lunch with my Pixar writing group early and dash to the Stephen F. Austin Ballroom to get a seat (with the help of Google Maps).

Phew, I made it to the room fifteen minutes early.  Kind of strange that I'm one of the few here.  Terry's a big writer and I'd expect the room to be pretty packed.  Fifteen minutes later, the event's supposed to start.  Yet Terry's not here.  There are more people in the seats but it's still half-empty.  Hmm, Terry must have been held up at lunch.

15 minutes pass.  I guess time management doesn't apply to big shot A-list screenwriters.  More people have filed in, but they don't look like the normal 30-40 year olds I've seen in other panels.  A lot of young people here, even high schoolers.  Odd.

30 minutes past the scheduled start time.  That son of a bitch!  Who does he think he is?  I could have been at four other interesting panels in this time slot.  But I chose to be here, to spend a week rewriting my scene, to trade several e-mails with my friend Susan trying to debug Movie Magic to Final Draft conversion issues.  All to be here on time.  I gather my things, about to leave in a huff--

When a lovely woman sits down next to me.  Her name is Simone and she's an actress.  She asks me why I have a notebook and I tell her it's because I'm a writer - I take notes.  Seems like kind of a silly question.  She notices my comedy screenplay finalist badge and tells me her husband was a finalist some years ago.  He's now a professional writer on TV shows and high-profile features.  We have a great chat and then the packed room buzzes.  Terry must be here!  Finally.

From backstage, in strolls-- James Franco.  What the hell?  It takes me a few dazed minutes to realize what happened.  Apparently, the Rossio rewrite workshop is in the Stephen F. Austin Assembly Room, not the Stephen F. Austin Ballroom.  I am a total idiot and apologize for all the bad things I thought about Terry Rossio.  I've never met him, but I'm sure he's a lovely and punctual gentleman.  I may be the only person in history who is disappointed to see James Franco.  While he is passionate and erudite, he doesn't talk about the writing process very much.  And now I realize why I'm the odd man out for having a notebook.

Later that evening, Simone introduces me to her wonderful husband, Steve.  It turns out we grew up in the same small Ohio town outside an Air Force base.  We hit it off and Steve has been a savvy and gracious mentor to me since then, helping to improve my writing and teaching me to navigate the murky waters of breaking in.

I went to see Rossio but got Franco instead.  But I needed to meet Steve and Simone, who have become good friends.  I never could have planned connecting with them, but it was one of my favorite experiences.  And it could only have happened at AFF.

I tried to sign up for the rewrite workshop this year, but it filled up within a few hours.  Someday.  But it doesn't deter me from returning to AFF.  I have no idea what good things will happen there this year, who I might find myself seated next to at the Driskill bar, or where I might get lost.  I wouldn't have it any other way.

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Pixar Writers Workshop

Disclaimer: This post talks about people who work at Pixar and write screenplays as a hobby off-hours.  It has nothing to do with the professional writers who are hired by Pixar to write screenplays.


For this post, I'm going to talk about our unofficial screenwriting workshop that we run at Pixar.  We'll cover the benefits of the workshop, the origin, how it runs, how it has evolved, and some intangibles.  The hope is that this will spark other screenwriters to organize their own workshops.


The benefits of the workshop include:

  • Getting live feedback on a script and its structure from other experienced writers.
  • Being guilted into producing more pages.
  • Hearing how your dialogue sounds when spoken by real human beings.
  • Insight into the process of other writers.
  • Learning more about the craft by doing.
  • Moral and technical support.


One of the many cool things about working at this amazing place is Pixar University.  PU provides classes on a variety of topics to let employees pursue technical and creative endeavors.  At least once a year they usually provide a multi-week Screenwriting Workshop.  It's taught by some wonderful screenwriting teachers from UCLA and USC, including Tim Albaugh (@timalbaugh), Linda VoorheesBarri Evins, and Bobette Buster.  These classes are typically a mix of beginning and advanced screenwriters, so they're geared towards learning the fundamentals of the craft and getting you started on writing a script.  However, the classes last a limited number of weeks and typically end with students having written the first act but with many more pages to write.  Several of the writers with works in progress decided to start our own workshop to keep our momentum and finish more scripts.

We've tried a couple of times to start an unofficial workshop but they always fizzled out.  This one seems to have stuck, as we've been doing it almost weekly since May 2011.  We've built a strong group that sharpens each other.  Our writers have placed in many of the toughest screenwriting competitions in the country, including the Nicholl Fellowship, Sundance, Austin Film Festival, CineStory, PAGE, and Scriptapalooza.  We all help each other get better.  There's a reason that writers have traditionally formed groups to get peer feedback, from the Inklings to the Algonquin Round Table, to Lucas/Spielberg/Coppola.

How it Runs

The workshop meets every Thursday night in a work conference room for 2-3 hours.  Typically our wonderful organizer Laura sends an e-mail out earlier in the day to get a roll call.  If she's out that day then someone else sends the mail.  We have to have a quorum of at least four people who can make it or we cancel for that day.  This is so that there are enough actors to play the different parts during a table read.  People respond with two things: 1) whether they can make it or not and 2) do they have new pages.  People with no pages are welcome to attend, as they can still read dialogue and offer feedback.

Writers typically bring 8-10 pages.  To determine the order, we usually have the person who hasn't gone the longest go first.  Otherwise, we pick an order.

The writer starts off by giving a little backstory to make sure we know where we are in the script.  E.g.  "This is right after Bob and Janice hook up for the first time, just after the midpoint..."  Then the writer casts the roles to have people read.  Typically, the writer will read the narration and pick up any small parts that weren't cast.

We read the whole thing out loud, which is enlightening for the writer.  Some things that read great on the page are difficult to pronounce or don't flow well when spoken.

After the read, people offer feedback to the writer.  Notes range from structural to dialogue to character to tone.  This can be hard for the writer to take, as writers are naturally defensive about their material.  But feedback and "plussing" are such an integral part of the way we work at our Pixar day jobs that they understand it's all in the spirit of elevating the material.


The workshop has evolved quite a bit from its origins.  We used to only workshop screenplay pages.  Now people bring in short stories, outlines, loglines, short films, and any other creative material to get feedback.  We've also done things like strategize on which Austin Film Fest panels to attend, prep writers for pitching, show and tell about our working methods, and do a Q&A session with Pixar's head of development.  People will even pitch a few ideas before they start writing just to see what people respond to.


Two of the reasons our workshop works is because we have an organizer and a dedicated core.  Laura organizes us: sends out the reminders, books the conference room, brings treats, etc.  Though we have about twenty people on our mailing list, there are a core of six to eight of us who show up most weeks. That group has become close and it's been really rewarding to see each other grow and take on new challenges over the past couple of years.

Speaking personally, it's hard for me to imagine writing a script without getting feedback from the workshop.  There's nothing like having a room full of talented writers help to make your script better and cheer you towards the finish line.  I love you, Pixar writers!