Lights…Camera…Action! by Hudson Owen

Wednesday, February 17, 2010 – David and I arrived early at the Players Theatre Loft, in Greenwich Village, and waited outside for the space to clear so that we could get started.  A tall woman walked past us into the loft, Jessica Savage, the dancer, who did not recognize us.  She had been unable to meet with David Fletcher, Malou Beauvoir and me prior to the shoot, as planned.

Jessica lists fan dancing as one of her special skills.  But there is nothing of the burlesque queen in her demeanor as she warms up.   She turns gracefully, like a ballet dancer while I give her notes.  She asks if I want a slow or fast dance, and I say slow.  I have not seen her dance, but she has an impressive resume and I have a good feeling watching her.  Malou texts me that she will is five minutes late.  Good.  We will have plenty of time to shoot this 4-5 minute film.  Or, so I think.

This is my second film to promote my show Paris – A Musical of the 1920s.  With two characters, it will be a highly condensed version of the Bricktop scene in the Second Act.  Bricktop was a favorite of the literary set in Paris.  The F. Scott Fitzgerald’s drank and danced at her nightclub.  Did you know that T. S. Eliot gave her a birthday card?  Bricktop was known to the royalty of Europe.  When King Edward abdicated the throne and ran off with Wallis Simpson, he and his lover stayed with Bricktop awhile.

Malou plays Bricktop.  Malou Beauvoir is an American who traveled with her parents from America to France at an early age.  She enjoyed a globe-trotting career in business before turning to singing.  And what a voice she has!  She has sung in top clubs in Paris and Europe.  She is a star with a gorgeous voice, and I am lucky to have her.

David sets up his camcorder.  He has prepared a tape of incidental piano music to go over Malou’s dialogue and music for the song itself, “Café au Lait.”  The theater sends up a staffer to man the sound-light booth so that I can concentrate on directing.  He sets up some stage lighting and says he needs to run an errand and will be back shortly.

Malou arrives with her several dresses.  I make a choice, and she and Jessica go backstage to change.  Fifteen minutes go by…twenty…David and I make noises at the curtain…twenty-five minutes.  Finally, my actresses emerge in costume.  Jessica requires half an hour to change and put on make-up—time I had not allowed for.

A new crises arises.  When we first met for this film, David and I discovered that the lead sheet, written years ago, reflects an earlier version of the song and does not match the CD version.  This means that Malou and David had to learn the song, separately, by ear from the CD.  So, should Malou follow the tape David has prepared?  Or should David follow Malou’s singing on the baby grand piano in the loft?  Words fly back and forth.  David is an experienced musical theater director and has his own band, Washington’s Best.  As producer and director, as well as writer, I make the call for David.

Where is the staffer to man the booth?  With less than twenty minutes of rental on the space, we shoot our first take, with David at the piano and me behind his camera.  We get in another full take and one aborted take.  I see time running out, and lock the loft door.  I call places for a third take—and hear loud banging on the door.   It is the staffer who, ages ago, had promised to man the booth, and now he wants us out.  David and I descend on him like wolves.  “We’ve been waiting 45 minutes for you!” David, a mild-mannered man, hollers.  Okay, we get five more minutes and one more take.  Will that be enough?

I leave with Malou a short time later, hurrying past a dreary looking theater troup waiting to get inside the loft.  She is hungry, the evening is young.  We stop in at Panchitos down the block on MacDougal Street.  It’s just like in the movies: producer and star.  We slide into our warm booth by the window.  Outside, the real world walks by in the cold.

The young waiter appears to ask if we want drinks.  Casually, effortlessly, I say: “We have just wrapped a film.”  Ah, those magic words.  The waiter glances over at the fabulous singer.  A smile slides across his face as visions of fame and glory dance in his eyes.

You can catch “An Evening at Bricktop’s” on YouTube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HbB8L6LcnyE

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Genre – Essay

Rating – G

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Website https://hudowen.wordpress.com/

White Chalk - Pavarti K. Tyler

Chapter 1

Troy Christiansen came for me.

I knew it the moment he first walked into Northwoods Secondary School. I watched, transfixed, as he glided right through the crowd of popular kids who hung out by the front door—like someone used to being ignored, slicing through the throng like a ghost. He had a black Mohawk pulled tight into a ponytail, and smelled like cigarettes and delinquency. A black T-Shirt and long-sleeved hoodie clung to his hunched shoulders.

Something about him looked so perfectly fragile.

He looked up only once and, by the smirk on his wide full lips, I knew I’d been caught staring. It didn’t really matter. I’d fallen instantly and obsessively in love, but not the kind of teenage drama crap you might expect. No, this was the real soul-wrenching kind of love. I’d never be the same again.

The whole school trilled with gossip. Morgan heard he’d moved here to live with his dad after his mom got arrested. Sebastian said he’d been in Juvie and just got out.

I knew better, having spent that entire day wandering the high school between classes, getting more tardies in one afternoon then I’d received so far that year. But I didn’t care. I was determined to figure out a way to talk to him, whatever it took. Something about the way he’d looked at me, the way the world fell away, taking with it the dread sitting in the bottom of my stomach. Like getting shock therapy, or jumping in the lake in winter, suddenly I felt alive—thanks to him.

Two days later at lunch—one of the few events not segregated by grade—I finally saw him.

I’d been held after class in Algebra; too many days of missing homework. Teachers seemed to think we possessed this unlimited amount of time between getting home and going to bed for all this work, and every one of them gave enough homework to fill the whole night. This assumed I bothered to even try. Between cleaning up the house, trying to keep the reality of my life from caving in, worrying about Dad coming home drunk or Ma crying over bills, Earth Science homework just didn’t seem like that big of a fucking deal. At least I didn’t have to worry about homework in History—it paid to be Mr. Harris’ star student.

When I finally got out of there, I trudged down to the cafeteria, ignoring the insults the boys tossed, or their occasional moo call. Fuck them. I retreated to my usual spot in front of the vending machine, looking for something sugary before finding Morgan on the front steps with her friends.

Cheetos or cupcakes or a Rice Krispies Treat… the options for processed fat and sugar proved endless.

“The machine gave me two, you want one?” A low rumble came from around the corner.

I stepped to the side and looked around the clunky machine blocking my view. There, on the ground with earbuds dangling around his neck and one hand offering up a HoHo, sat Troy Christiansen.

“Umm, Yeah.”

I took the treat and shifted my weight to the other foot. I wanted to tell him I’d seen the way he’d looked at me, that this place didn’t suck too bad, that I could be something—maybe something special—if he wanted. Instead, I just crinkled the plastic wrapper between my fingers.

He shrugged, put the earbuds back in, and picked up the book on his lap—something old, with tan pages and a cracked spine.

Dejected, I turned away.

“You can sit here if you want,” he said, without looking up.

A swelling in my chest made it difficult to breathe, and, for a minute, I floundered. I wasn’t even sure if I could find the strength to sit, but when he glanced up and raised one eyebrow, I shivered and stepped closer.

“Um… yeah… sure.” My mouth went dry and my tongue felt stiff as a diving board, but my legs managed to lower me to the floor without falling. Little miracles shouldn’t be taken for granted.

The waist of my jeans cut into my middle and made it tough to figure out just how to sit, but I didn’t want to fidget too much. With one leg bent and the other curled under me, it wasn’t comfortable, but I couldn’t cross the other leg. I left it bent, my knee poking out at an angle.

“Thanks.” I peeked through my hair, afraid to look right at him. When he smiled, a thrum of excitement started in my chest, speeding up my breath.

“What’s your name?”

“Chelle.”

He nodded. “I’m Troy.” His eyes shone in the florescent glare of the cafeteria, and he passed me one of his iPod’s earbuds. When I took it, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, not bothering to eat the HoHo balanced precariously on his knee.

The earbud was still warm, and shrill, fast music crashed into my brain. It clamored around in my head, abusing the parts of my mind normally reserved for coherent thought, but I didn’t care. Troy Christiansen and I listened to the same thing, shared the same sensations.

I didn’t eat the HoHos he’d given me, despite a tingling at the back of my mouth anticipating the decadent mixture of chocolate and cream. I leaned against the wall, enjoying how every breath he took moved the air around me. The hairs on my arm reached out to him, and I vibrated with the fantasy that he might touch me.

When the warning bell rang, chairs scraped against the linoleum floor as everyone rushed to finish their conversation, stuff in one more bite of processed meat, and dump their trash before heading to class.

Troy and I just sat, him with his eyes closed, me trying desperately to look at him… without looking. His sharp features were symmetrical, and sitting side-by-side, we weren’t too different in height. But my figure was thick, his lanky, and where I curved, he stuck out in angular points. He wore the same tight jeans as the first day I saw him. His lip ring dangled from the center of his bottom lip, pulling it out into a pout that made me shiver and look away.

The class bell rang and even though I couldn’t afford another tardy, the mere idea of moving away proved inconceivable. I’d spent all week searching for him; no way I’d get up first. Every minute we sat—the cafeteria now cold and barren—the knot in my stomach grew. I tried not to fidget, to keep my hands still and not worry about needing to go to my locker before class.

Finally, he opened his eyes and pulled out his earbud. He set the iPod on the ground before standing up and stretching.

From where I sat I could glance at the swatch of skin above his pant line, pale and smooth. I fumbled with the earbud and gathered the cord around the iPod to keep from staring.

“You smoke?” He stuffed the iPod and uneaten HoHo into his bag.

“Yeah.” I scrambled to pull myself up as he slung it over a shoulder.

“You didn’t eat. Aren’t you hungry?” He pointed to the HoHo in my hand.

“Nah, I’ll eat later.” I hoped he couldn’t hear my stomach growl, or the crinkling of the plastic wrapper as my hand shook.

He shrugged and walked away, out of the cafeteria and down the long hall leading to the main door.

“Aren’t you going to class?” My voice reverberated in the empty hall, too loud as I rushed to keep up with his long legs.

“No. Why would I ask you to smoke if I was going to class?” His response made so much sense, I felt stupid for asking.

“Well, you can’t go out front,” I offered, lowering my voice a little, trying to make it sultry or something. I knew something he didn’t, and despite the fact I was essentially skipping class for the first time in my life, I desperately wanted him to keep me around. “We have to go out back, behind the loading docks. None of the teachers bother going there.”

“I don’t give a fuck what the teachers do.” He glanced down at me, his eyes cold before softening into a teasing smile. “But if you do, we can go.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, embarrassed to have cared, to assume he would care about getting in trouble. He was a junior—he didn’t have to give a fuck.

We turned and walked back past the cafeteria, beyond the foreign language hall and out the side door. He followed me, not speaking as I jumped over a pile of unmelted snow left over from the last storm.

He chuckled—laughing at me or with me? Didn’t really matter, given the smile that brightened his face.

When we rounded the shed to the unofficially designated smoking area, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply. His thin face appeared even more drawn as he held in the smoke before exhaling through his nose.

I rubbed my hands on my pant legs. I didn’t have my bag with me, so no cigarettes.

Troy didn’t seem to notice, though. He just gazed out over the parking lot, tapping his foot as he smoked.

I wrapped my arms around my middle, trying to keep warm.

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Genre –  Literary Fiction/Coming of Age

Rating – R (15+)

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Website http://www.fightingmonkeypress.com/

Questions & Answers with Pete Clark

What scares you the most?

Wyverns.

What’s your greatest character strength?

I suppose it would be that I don’t get discouraged easily. If I don’t sell or if I get a bad review

or someone says that they don’t like something, it doesn’t really bother me. If I am happy

with something I have written, then it is pretty tough to get me down on it.

Have you always enjoyed writing?

Yes. I have been writing stories since I was very little. I wrote chapter tales of varying levels of death and destruction when I was about eight or so. They were terrible and usually involved me killing off people I knew but didn’t like. It wasn’t that serial killerish though; there was a bit of a plot.

What writing are you most proud of?

I have written a few plays and in particular, there are several monologues that I wrote that I am happy with.

What books did you love growing up?

I loved fantasy and adventure books. Some horror starting in middle school. I was also obsessed with choose your own adventure books. I would read those until I‘d seen every ending several times. The best one ever: The Badlands of Hark. Only one safe passage among all the endings. Go get you some.

Who is your favorite author?

Ray Bradbury is my favorite author. I used to joke that I would send him emails as he was getting older telling him to hurry up and write more before he died. Then he died. That was pretty depressing.

What book should everybody read at least once?

Even though the book really isn’t targeted to everyone I would say Dandelion Wine. It is such a perfect example of true storytelling and mood. Also if you connect to it, there isn’t a better book. And of course it is written to perfection, which doesn’t hurt.

Is there any books you really don’t enjoy?

I’m really not into any kind of erotica or romance. I also only tend to like realistic fiction if it is really well-written. My wife says I’m a book snob because I get hung up on writing style a lot.

What do you hope your obituary will day about you?

Thank goodness for Pete. He saved us from those dragons.

What is hardest – getting published, writing or marketing?

Marketing. I hate it. I don’t like forcing myself in people’s faces. But everyone says it’s what you have to do.

Do you find it hard to share your work?

Not at all. I love any type feedback. Even if someone hates what I wrote, I don’t mind as long as they have some explanation why. I’m not a fan of comments like: It’s good, or it sucks. I like detail.

If you could study any subject at university what would you pick?

Well, this question tells me you’re British. Anyway, I have my Master’s but I ended up focusing on writing and then education. But I only minored in psychology. I wouldn’t mind going back and learning more psych. Really anything, though. I would study most things. Except for math. I’m not a fan.

If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?

Tough call. I am torn between the Amalfi coast in Italy or somewhere in Scotland. I’ve only been to Edinburgh in Scotland but I loved it.

How do you write – laptop, pen, paper, in bed, at a desk?

I use my laptop. I have to. My handwriting is so astoundingly horrific that nobody can read it. Even I can’t read many of the notes I make to myself. As to where? Anywhere. But wherever it is, if I really get going, one of my cats will sit on my keyboard.

Tell us about your new book? What’s it about and why did you write it?

It is mainly about the American Revolution. But I have changed history to reveal that in fact, there were a great deal of supernatural creatures around at the time. The story follows a number of unheralded but real life heroes of the time as they war with the British and try to discover the mystery of where the creatures came from and how to stop them. Oh and it’s pretty funny at times. At least I think so.

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Genre - Alternate History

Rating – PG13

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Connect with Pete Clark on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://punchmyselfintheface.wordpress.com/

Kain (Elyon’s World #1) by Brie McGill

Glory

I.

The distant, steady beeping of an electrocardiograph machine roused him from the abyss and into a fuzzy state of consciousness. He knew they ogled the spikes and dips on the screen displaying his brain activity. He knew they used their machines to eavesdrop on his every breath.

During these delicate moments between waking and sleeping, Kain sensed their scrutiny most acutely. He knew they waited for something, they wanted something, but every time he woke, he found it impossible to remember.

“Skirra.” A rough male voice interrupted his thoughts; fingers snapped. “Increase the current.”

“Yes, Sir,” a timorous female voice responded. Fingers clacked across a keyboard. “Output is increased by twenty units.” Skirra tapped her foot against the tiled floor.

A harsh, electronic tone split through his head, cutting into his brain like a knife: in a burst of pain and confusion, his bubble of thought popped and disappeared.

“He’s primed.” The man approached with the clomp of heavy boots. “Inject him.”

“Sir... Commander Brigham? Sir... if I may speak...” Skirra’s limp fist thudded against her chest; she offered the customary salute. “The biomedical research team in the Nanotech Department submitted a recent study of the compounds for review, and--”

For a moment, neither spoke. The electrocardiogram beeped steadily.

She cleared her throat. “One of the primates in the experiment went berserk.” Pausing, she swallowed. “Sir, not that I am comparing your investments to a bunch of monkeys, Sir--” She vouched for her intentions with another salute. “I believe this experiment will bring Glory to the Empire, Sir!”

Rattling a rack of glass vials, Skirra poked through a clanging assortment of tubes. She selected one from the rack and popped the cap. Moments later, she tore a disinfectant pad from the wrapper.

Kain knew all of these sounds; they were routine.

“Then do it.” Brigham’s fingers drummed on a nearby table.

Cold fingers dug into the muscles of his arm, dabbing him with a cool swab, moist with an astringent-smelling chemical.

“That whole department is revolting. They have become so obsessed with transcending human limitations that they’ve grown disgusted with the body.” Brigham snorted. “It will forever retard their efforts.”

Skirra drove the needle into Kain’s arm.

“The will to live frustrates them because it is irrational, unquantifiable; there is no way to predict it, or to accurately compensate for it within calculations.” He hovered over Kain. “The body is an impressive machine: consider the possibilities in subduing that will, in bending its power to serve your goals.”

Skirra’s cold hand, bedecked with metal rings, gave Kain’s hand a firm squeeze.

“If we want to test his capabilities, we have to push him to the limits.” Brigham’s voice remained cool, scientific. “If we find his breaking point, we can control him. Once we can control him, we are free to utilize those capabilities to the fullest extent.”

Pressure surged through Kain’s head, overwhelming him. He lurched forward, restrained by thick, leather bonds on a metal chair. His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes fluttered open.

Skirra released her hand. “Sir, his vitals are stable!”

He squinted, blinded by the garish light.

“Let’s begin.” Chase Brigham, a sturdy man old enough to be his father, with waist-length silver hair, loomed over Kain and spit the booming command: “Aadima.”

Mind abruptly blank, Kain opened his eyes. He tilted his head to one side, feeling a metal helmet shift on his head. Posture stiffening without his control, Kain nodded, making a fist, unable to beat his chest in salute. “Commander Brigham, Sir!”

Brigham glanced at the winking display of computer monitors beside him, and then at his watch. “Thirty-seven seconds.” He nodded to Skirra. “Note it.”

Skirra fumbled with an electronic notepad, alternately typing notes and chewing her nails.

Kneeling down on one knee, Brigham signed an intricate series of hand gesticulations to him. “Greetings, Kain.”

Kain could think of nothing to do. Feeling nothing, wanting for nothing, he remained rigid in the chair.

“Dvitiiya.” Brigham paired his command with a symphony of motor signals. “Disable.”

“Secondary Dvitiiya functions.” Kain echoed him in an empty voice. “Disabled.”

“Kain.” Brigham climbed to his feet, sauntering behind the chair. “Tritiiya.”

Kain froze. His mind froze.

“Damn you!” Brigham grabbed a flat remote from his pocket, and pointed it at him.

Moaning as violent tremors wracked his body, Kain convulsed and flopped in his chair.

The unforgiving bonds subdued him, held him in place, subjecting him to further torture.

Skirra lifted her hands to her head, watching in horror as graphs spikes and numbers soared on adjacent computers.

“There are no uses for faulty machinery!” Brigham leaned into Kain’s face, hissing his words. “None. You remember that.”

Skirra glanced at the clock and chewed her nails.

“Kain.” Brigham cleared his throat. “Load Tritiiya.”

Shifting his posture, Kain’s breathing slowed, and he sat upright. He stared ahead with empty eyes and spoke in a monotone. “Tertiary Tritiiya functions loaded, Sir.”

“Kain.” Brigham waved his hand and spoke in a thunderous voice. “Load Caturtha.”

“Identification confirmed: granting access to restricted Caturtha systems.” Kain mechanically rotated his head toward the floor and closed his eyes. “Proceed with instructions.”

Skirra plunked an unwieldy pair of goggles over the bridge of his nose, fitting the frames one at a time over his ears with a gentle touch. Compulsively grabbing the tufts of flaxen hair that poked from his helmet, Skirra thumbed his temples affectionately before jerking her hands away. “Sir, goggles are ready, Sir!” She threw her hands into the air and blushed.

A hypnotic lightshow of flashing colors entranced him.

“Kain, do you recognize the image of this man?” Brigham drummed his fingers against the chair.

Amidst the lights, Kain saw flashes of an elderly man, with thinning hair and age spots. “Recognition affirmative, Sir.” Kain knew him: he was a senator.

“Spectacular.” Brigham joined his hands in a deafening clap. “Execute primary Caturtha commands, and target this man.”

“Target confirmed, Sir.” Kain remained hypnotized by the goggles. “Requesting variables of mission duration, Sir.”

Brigham pealed his final command. “Caturtha functions will terminate when his Glorious duties are fulfilled.”

“Parameters understood, Sir.” Kain twitched. “Caturtha, execution complete. Awaiting further instruction.”

Brigham waved dismissively. “Kain, I require no further services from you today.”

Kain’s eyes fell shut, and he slumped forward in the chair, still restrained by the leather bonds.

He felt himself drifting again... floating, fading...

Looming over him, Skirra placed a hand on Kain’s chest. She paused, and then quickly swiped the goggles, retreating behind Brigham.

“Skirra, send for Krodha. We’re finished today.” Brigham turned and strode toward the door.

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Genre –  Sci-Fi/Steamy Romance

Rating – R (18+)

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Website http://www.sexdrugsandcyberpunk.com/

Guest Post - What Makes Characters Believable by Amanda O'Dell

To me, there is no element more vital to the making of a good story than believable characters. As a reader, I may pick up a book because I’m intrigued by the premise of the plot, but what keeps me turning the pages is how well the author portrays their characters. In my genre, fantasy, this is especially important because readers are already being asked suspend their disbelief in the setting and/or the circumstances of the plot. A fantasy writer needs believable characters to help ground everything, to make the fantastic as real and accessible as a story that utilizes surroundings and circumstances more closely aligned with our everyday existence. When I read, I need to be able to relate to the characters I’m reading about; I don’t need to love them, or even like them necessarily, but I need to care about what happens to them, or else I’m going not going to bother finishing the book.

At this point, many of you writers out there reading this right now are probably rolling your eyes, going, well, YEAH. I know that. Everyone knows that. Which is good, you should already know how important your characters are, otherwise, why else would you be writing about them, right? They are already important to you, the trick is making them as important to other people who do not have the benefit of knowing them the way you do.

The key to writing believable characters is to start with an element of yourself. This rule applies for every single character. They might have all of two lines of dialogue in your book, or maybe even none at all, but you must inject them with some kind of personality or you’re going to wind up with a bunch of cardboard cutouts that distract from the characters you have invested some personality in. So pick something about yourself. Doesn’t matter what it is: it can be a flaw or a virtue, a physical trait or a personal predilection. Just pick something and slap it down.

As an example, let’s say you have a bartender you have to write for a particular scene. You decide it’s going to be a guy and he may have a few lines of interaction with your main character. You start with an element of yourself, so you pick the fact that you don’t like cockroaches. You want to play up this fact, so as your main character walks up to speak with this bartender you’ve just created, he uses the bottom of a glass to crush a roach scuttling across the bar. BAM! Right there, this bartender isn’t just an automaton taking orders and this isn’t a static environment. This is a pretty seedy establishment and that bartender hates roaches. You’re off to a good start.

Next, add an element of someone else. Again, same as before, just pick something. Maybe you saw a random person on the street with really funky facial hair, you decide your bartender is the kind of guy who would rock some scraggly muttonchops. Not only is that one little detail going to leave a distinct visual impression with the reader, it’s also going to trigger a ton of inferences in the reader’s mind. The reader might decide that this surly, roach-hating bartender who works in this seedy establishment and sports scraggly muttonchops is pretty poor about their personal hygiene altogether, or they might identify with this poor sap working a job he hates. Once you get the reader imagining details that aren’t even on the page, you know you’ve done your job in making a believable character.

Obviously, your main characters are going to have a lot more than just two elements, but every character you write should have at least two. Whenever I’m writing about my main characters, I find it helpful to keep a mental list of at least four core elements (working in the same formula, that’s two from you and two from elsewhere) that I use as the basis for their personality and appearance. That way I have an idea of how they’re going to react in a given situation, but there’s still enough variability left to give your characters room to grow. Just because one of your characters starts out with greediness as a core element, doesn’t mean they have to stay that way. Letting your characters evolve after you’ve established them is what allows them to remain believable.

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Genre – Fantasy

Rating – PG13

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DA Serra – Screenwriting Versus Book Writing

Sreenwriting Versus Book Writing

by D.A. Serra

Since I have worked in both fields, I am frequently asked in what way screenwriting and novel writing differ.  When I teach writing workshops I always explain that reading a script happens with the eyes, and reading a book happens with the ears.  What I mean by this is, when someone is reading a screenplay they must visualize as they read in order to understand the work, whereas when reading a book, most of us hear the words in our heads.  Aren’t you hearing mine right now? There are so many differences in the way one writes for these two dissimilar mediums: each has pros and cons, each has value.

For screenwriters, attention to dialogue is considerably more critical to success than it is for narrative writing.  While accepting that the visual depiction of location and setting carry some of the story’s information, and can certainly be an element in creating tone, the majority of the story, in film and television, is communicated out loud in dialogue.  There are no relaxed sequences inside a character’s head where we learn expositional facts or get emotional information.   This puts significant stress on the authenticity of the vocabulary and the legitimacy of the characterization, while depending on the deftness of the writer to transfer expositional information without it sounding like little paragraphs that are out of time and place.  Alternatively, a novelist can wander around patiently inside a character’s head while he or she considers choices, or feelings, or reviews a memory.   So, while the novelist can ramble on in lovely prose about a seminal childhood experience, the screenwriter has little time, and many constraints, and must hit-n-run with emotion and information that feels authentic.

There is more freedom in narrative writing.  Screenwriter’s miss out on the satisfaction of exquisite sentences with lyrical language; there is no call for, or appreciation of, a metaphor that makes the reader gasp, or that puts a fist in one’s throat.  If that’s going to happen it had better happen in the dialogue or visually to be successful.  Screenwriters envy the novelist’s freedom: the non-existent restrictions as to form, structure, time, place, and length.  Screenwriters create inside a box with extremely rigid sides.  It is challenging, but rewarding.

Novelists envy the screenwriter’s fulfillment and satisfaction as their creations actually walk and talk; it is a thrill to see your character embodied.   Also, I have spoken to novelists at conferences who mention that they envy the screenwriter’s reach: a great television show or successful film may grab an entire nation at the same moment in time. It can drive the national conversation.  It is a powerful phenomenon and considerably rare in the book world.  I’ve also been told that some novelists are jealous of the collaborative camaraderie with other creative people (directors, actors, set design) which can be a true joy (or a complete nightmare), and some do wish for the economic benefits of screenwriting, which can be much more favorable to dental appointments and new shoes.

It was interesting to write Primal first as a screenplay and then a novel.  I saw these craft differences in play on the page daily.  I have to say I enjoy both types of writing – although currently I’m much more focused on my novels — at least until I need another pair of shoes.

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Genre – Thriller

Rating – R

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The Sea and the Silence - Peter Cunningham

CHAPTER TWO

1946

Where I had grown up, in the Meath countryside more than an hour’s drive from Dublin, all our shopping had been done in the store of the nearby village. The Shaws, on the other hand, never shopped in Sibrille, but bought everything in Monument. Once a week, Ronnie drove me to town, where I handed in my grocery order at the counter of Wise’s, the grocers, and then made my way up into the teeming section known as Balaklava where at the tiny, fly-blown premises of Shortcourse, the butchers, I ordered our meat.

In those first months, being in Monument pierced me, but, in time, she became as I had thought of her on my very first visit: a port that was more Mediterranean than Irish, not just because of the sense of relative plenty in an Ireland that was striving to survive on war rations, nor because of the exotic faces one encountered when ships were in, but because Monument herself, in her architecture of terraces and arched doorways, her labyrinthine streets, lanes, courtyards and back steps and her almost Moorish churches discovered behind an ancient palisade or beyond a rusting portcullis might well have been forged in a distant land and floated in one foggy morning from the sea.

I made my way with Hector in by the never-locked backdoor of our lighthouse and climbed the curving stone steps. The child looked up at me and smiled in such a recognizable way that, for a moment, I was swept away on a flash flood of memory. Later, in the middle floor with its cheery fireplace, I sat with Hector on my knee and beheld the panorama laid out below. In Sibrille, we saw the sun down all the way to the sea horizon, and everyday the point at which it plunged moved so that I could measure off its progress on the windows of the lantern bay. The sea lay flat when the wind was off the land, as it was that day, allowing a glazed path of red to run all the way from the sun to the lighthouse. I felt tired much of the time, which was not at all unusual, I had been told, in the year that followed one’s first baby. I slept a lot and often when Ronnie was late, he spent the night downstairs on the big sofa so as not to wake me.

As we watched the sunset, I heard a car drive down the causeway. It was a long, sleek maroon car with enormous brass headlamps, I saw as I looked out. It pulled in before the house and Ronnie got out and straightened his hair with his hands and put his cap on. Because of the sun’s reflection on the car’s windscreen, I could not see the driver. Ronnie stooped forward, saying goodbye. I saw a woman’s hand reach out, a thick, gold band at its wrist. Ronnie held the tips of the fingers briefly, then as the hand disappeared, he straightened up and turned around and looked directly up at me.

We lived, in the main, independently of his parents, and, each evening, I prepared a meal and set a table in the lantern bay and we both sat down after gin and had dinner together.

‘How is my family?’ he asked, throwing his cap on a chair. He leaned to kiss me, then Hector.

‘We’re well, thank you.’

I watched as he poured us drinks, his steady hand, the long, reassuring curve of his back in its tweed jacket. There was no tonic to be had then, so we took our gin with water and a tiny drop from an old jar of bitters.

‘Cheers.’ He clinked his glass to mine and looked at me warmly across the rim of it as he drank. ‘You look lovely.’

‘What did you do today?’ I enquired.

‘The usual. Pottered here and there. Chased up a few contacts that may shortly have land for sale. Looked at a young horse in Eillne.’

‘I see.’

‘Reggie Blood’s. Good strong gelding, just broken. Popped a pole on him.’

‘And?’

‘Asked Reggie to have him dropped over.’

We sat, a pitcher of cold water between us. As he ate, Ronnie mewed with pleasure.

‘You know, when I told someone, can’t remember who, that you cook this, they didn’t believe me. They said, “Monkfish? You must be mad!”’

‘Mr Wise told me about it.’

‘I’ve seen the locals throw away barrels of them on the slip. Think they’re so ugly they shouldn’t be eaten,’ Ronnie said and grinned.

‘Goes to show that you should never judge by appearances.’

He looked up at me sharply, then resumed his meal.

‘Where’s your car?’ I asked.

‘Hmm?’

‘Your car.’

‘Oh, in Monument.’

We brought down the things to the kitchen. I put the kettle on the range and husbanded a quarter spoon of precious tea into the pot.

‘Why?’

‘Beg your pardon?’

‘Why did you leave your car in Monument?’

‘Oh, I see. Got a lift out, thought it might help the ration book.’

‘From whom?’

‘A client, or should I say, fingers crossed.’

‘Her car was big enough.’

‘Was it?’

‘Enormous, I would have said.’

‘American, so I expect it was.’

We heaped the plates and dishes in a pile beside the sink. Ronnie looked at his watch. ‘Fancy a turn out the rock?’

‘Who is she?’

‘Oh, just someone who wants to hunt and all that. The usual. Looking for a place.’

‘And have you got one for her?’

‘Showed her a few, yes.’

‘Married?’

‘Never asked, although she’s called Mrs, so I expect she must be. Now. How about it?’ he asked, putting his cap on.

‘I don’t think so, thank you.’

‘No?’

‘No!’

Ronnie’s eyes bulged. ‘Iz..?’ His mouth had dropped open. ‘Are you… you’re not… you don’t think…’

I turned away.

‘Oh, God,’ Ronnie said. ‘I mean, she’s just a client. She’s nothing. You don’t think..?’

My tiredness suddenly gained the upper hand. ‘Of course, I don’t,’ I said and sat down.

Ronnie lurched to his knees beside me and caught my hands. ‘You are so beautiful, I would die,’ he said.

I felt my tears rise.

‘Each time I see another woman I think how lucky I am to have you,’ he said. ‘If I thought that anyone might come between us, I’d sooner jump into the sea.’

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Genre –  Historical Fiction/Historical Romance

Rating – G

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