Whew. That didn’t turn out the way I expected. It turned out better. As regular readers of this irregular blog may remember, I am working on a screenplay, too. Usually in the evening, I take the first draft, attempt to apply the lessons I learned from decades of writing and a quick read of the massive book, The Screenwriters Bible. (Not the latest edition, but what do you expect from an underpaid writer, someone who will pay full price for a new book. Bah! and Ha!)
My story struggles are different from a work of pure imagination. I’m telling the tale of my great-grandfather, and what happened when he, as a 14-year-old brat ticks off his grandfather and basically gets exiled from his country. One week, living in a mansion. The next Monday, he’s a cabin boy bound for Calcutta out of Liverpool on a tall ship with a load of salt. Imperial India awaits. Sudden maturation happens, too.
I have his notes, so the only imagination required was for filling in the gaps that a young kid would be oblivious to. ‘But something must have happened after the murder. The atmosphere aboard ship for several weeks had to be strained as someone onboard was a vicious killer. Right? It had to be more than just swabbing the deck.’
The greater task has been me understanding the industry formats, syntax, and expectations. Learning to speak that language is as difficult, and sometimes as anachronistic as trying to learn FORTRAN. (Yes. I’ve done that too – and got paid for it. A different long story.)
The power of perseverance meant that, instead of finishing around the end of March, I found my cursor at The End a couple of weeks early. Yay!
I hadn’t planned on having a cocktail this evening, but someone gifted me a bottle of whiskey for some cyber-handholding I did earlier this week. Cheers! (sip)
Every writer has their own style. Some polish every word, or at least every sentence or paragraph, before proceeding to the next. If they were making furniture, they’d make an exquisite chair leg, then three more. I blast through a draft, correcting as much as I can, take a break, then do that again. My chair would be wobbly and splintery after the first draft, and might even give a person a place to sit. The next draft would be sanded in general, some joints shimmed or glued or nailed – and much more sturdy. Eventually, there’d be a fine polishing and maybe lacquered or painted, or may never be as exquisite as my friend’s piece of art.
That’s okay. Give my friend a piece of wood and he’ll produce a sculpture. I’ll take two pieces of wood, nail them together, the repeat until I’ve built a chair or a wall or a roof but may never create a sculpture. That’s okay. I have more writing to do and there are doubts about how long I have to keep doing that.
This is a progress piece, a celebration. Others write authoritatively about Literature and Process and Marketing and … They produce something scholarly and useful. I’ve been told that I am dis-armingly open and honest, which is rare and therefore appreciated. Maybe that’s something to celebrate too.
Tonight, I finished the second draft. As part of my normal process I distribute backup files for safety. As a backup to those, I also print the work. Electronic copies are easy. Finding a printer that still print single copies of hundred page documents, double-sided, on three-hole punched paper is becoming more difficult. For now, that’s tomorrow’s task. – And I’d be happy if one of you found such a firm that is convenient, competent, and affordable.
Enough for now. Cheers!
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