I don't know if I mentioned it, but my critique partner/friend and I are working on a collab novel together. At the moment it's at a bit of a standstill, as he's always buried in schoolwork and I am too (one more week of school- and these heinous essays- and I'll be freeeee!) Anyway, this is a bit of our novel that I wrote, and a few of his edits have been applied to it, though I'm not sure how many.
To get you up to speed on what's going on before this moment, let me give you some background. The novel takes place over one day. The MC, Lexi, is a successful interior designer in Philadelphia, and when she goes to work, she finds out that her friend and competitor Carrie has died. This has special weight because all through the scenes before this, Lexi has been pining for an assignment that she really wanted, but was given to Carrie, and she thinks that perhaps if Carrie can't do it for some reason, Lexi might get the job. Then the news is broken, and this is afterwards. (Oh, one more thing- Lexi doesn't use clocks. Ever. She doesn't even allow them in her designs.):
Lexi stepped outside of the conference room, but didn’t go further than that. She couldn’t seem to remember where she needed to go. People squeezed past her, standing in the threshold, and finally she moved forward. Which way should she go? She chose left just to get out of people’s way and to be doing something. It was the correct way, she realized as she caught sight of her desk in the next room. Her desk- if she could just make it to that familiar world, she would be fine.
“Three… four…five…” a quiet voice was counting as she walked, and Lexi realized it was her own. She was counting her steps as she made her way to her desk. It made her look crazy, she was sure, but she didn’t stop.
“Thirty-four,” she announced quietly to no one as she reached the desk’s corner. She looked down at its surface, the row of Post-its, the pencils in their cup, the paperclip dispenser with its neat multi-colored circle arranged in the order of the color wheel, and her laptop open to her designs, all in the exact same place she had left them, and suddenly she couldn’t stand to see it anymore. How could anything possibly be the same as before? Surely something had to change with the absence of Carrie. The world had to stop, at least for one minute, and take in the absence of its former resident.
Desperately, Lexi pulled her gaze from her desktop and it roved around the room, searching for something, anything to anchor her and help her think clearly again. Her eyes did find something- the clock on Taylor’s desk across the aisle, creamy numbers framed by blocks of black, telling her the thing she wanted to know less than ever. The time was 8:03.
She jerked her gaze away as suddenly as it had landed. God! When was the last time she’d actually looked at a clock? Her eyes were caught by the circular analog that sat watching over the rows of cubicles like a task master. Agonizingly, the red second hand crept over the stolid numbers scorched into the whiteness of its face. Somewhere, as if in another world in another office where Carrie Pritcher was still alive and time had no ordinance, a telephone rang. Entranced by the foreignness of the passage of time, Lexi was barely able to move her lips as she whispered, “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone…” But she trailed off.
Seeing this moment in her life— never to be a moment in Carrie’s— reported to her so blatantly shook her. She dropped down into her desk chair, looking for anything except that mark of time.
People in the office were starting to busy themselves at their own desks, their faces set determinedly. Lexi tried to do the same. She glanced back down at her desk and was overwhelmed. Suddenly, there was so much to do. But that knowledge of time, how constricting! When she hadn’t know what time it was, she had felt a whole day stretching before her. Now a mere eight hours ebbed and flowed—a tide washing away her stability, her stamina, her strength.. So what to do first? Those finishing touches on her designs before meeting with Sandy in half an hour. So many more plans to see to, though! To spend precious minutes on something that was already presentable—what waste, what a crime when time is so valuable. And now her half hour trickled away into an ocean of worry. The weight of that ocean crashed its waves against the shores of her consciousness, and her face fell into her outstretched hands. Maybe she should just ask to go home. Twenty four hours away from this would be enough… she hoped. Yes, she’d ask to go home, promise to show up early tomorrow, ready to go.
Showing posts with label WIP. Show all posts
Showing posts with label WIP. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
WIP Wednesday
This is a piece I wrote very quickly for an English assignment last week. It's semi-autobiographical up to the point after her agent calls. To the actors who might read this, I apologise if the film stuff is incorrect. It's shamefully been years since I've been on a real film set. Enjoy!
When people think of actors, they think of movie stars- Tom Hanks, Kate Winslet, Steve Martin. Or sometimes they think of Broadway performers- Kristin Chenoweth, Idina Menzel, Hunter Foster. Who they don’t think of are people like me- those at the bottom of the food chain, so to speak. Today, however, is my first step toward changing all of that. I plan to knock today’s audition out of the park, nail the role, and get my name in lights… or at least in the credits.
I locate the office of the Gilmore Group, a brand-new casting agency here in town. It’s very small, but the interior is like most casting offices I’ve been to: sparse and stylish with posters of past projects on the wall, usually signed by the leading actors. The posters here are for movies I don’t recognize, probably small indie projects filmed somewhere in Colorado. But hey, I’m not knocking it. I would give my left arm to be doing one of those. In order to do that, however, I need to focus on today’s audition.
What everyday people (as we term them, “non-actors”, or sometimes just “normal people”) don’t understand about films is that every single little part is laboriously auditioned for by people like me. In a huge movie, when the main character enters an office building and asks for the office of Mr. Smith, the woman behind the desk who says only, “Just go down the hall and to the left,” had to come to a casting agency just like this and sweat over how to make those nine words interesting enough for the directors to choose her. It’s not easy. The amount of time I’ve spent pacing around my tiny apartment saying single lines like, “I’d recommend the salad special,” and “She came by a few minutes ago,” over and over, trying to get just the right inflection, is embarrassing. But it’s also necessary for the reason that I see when I walk into the lobby of the Gilmore Group.
There, sitting on the various couches and chairs, are twenty girls who look exactly like me. I tried to mix it up this time- the character description said that the role I’m trying out for (Girl Walking Dog) could be either funky or conservative, and I went with the former, thinking that the cool red blouse I got would be perfect. Apparently, however, every other 5’5” not-as-slender-as-we-should-be dishwater blonde in the city also had the same idea, and we’re all sitting in the same room. I should have gone conservative…
I try not to let it bother me as I go over to the sign-in table. I find my name on the list, write in my arrival time and the title of my agency, and hand over a copy of what is my only identity in this world: my headshot and resume. In the picture, I actually do look pretty. The hair and make-up lady easily tamed my hair in a way I never seem to manage and my blue shirt brings out my eyes. I should have worn blue today! That would have made all the difference! Well, no going back now. I see the assistant on the other side of the table reading over my resume. Hm, a raised eyebrow. Is that her being impressed by my long list of theatre credits, or is she silently scoffing at the fact that my “big” TV appearance was as “Mennonite Girl” in a Lifetime movie?
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. My resume is my resume and I’ve worked hard to get it in the shape it is now. I take one of the few remaining seats among my doppelgangers and fish around my bag for my script. It takes a second as my hand selects, then rejects, the emergency make-up, the extra headshots and the cell phone, finally locating my lines. I pull them out and skim over the words highlighted in yellow. I have to get this right. This is the kind of audition I’ve been waiting for since I started acting ten years ago. Because this isn’t a try-out for a one-liner. No. No, this time, I have five lines. Five! That’s enough to pass as a “featured” role! It might seem paltry, but this is the stuff of dreams for people on my level. I can’t screw this up.
While some of the girls around me are sitting quietly- some reading over the same lines, others listening to music- most are doing that actory thing that I detest: “chatting” with their competition while slipping in the titles of companies and people that they’ve (supposedly) worked with. Personally, I don’t think any of us has much bragging to do, because if we did, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now, waiting to prove just how naturally we can speak. I try to block out the inane one-upping game and turn my attention back to my lines.
“Taryn Kinsley?” We all fall silent as a casting director’s assistant opens the door to the audition room. “Is there a Taryn Kinsley here?” No one responds as we all look around for the absent actress. Who on earth would miss this opportunity? Finally, a girl across the room, who has been listening to music, starts and pulls out her ear buds. “Did you say Taryn? That’s me, that’s me, I’m coming!” She drops her iPod in her bag, takes her script from a side table, and hurries over to the assistant. “Emily Davis, you’re on deck!” the assistant calls just before the door shuts behind Taryn.
Upon hearing my name, I sit up a little straighter on the couch and make sure that my hair is not frizzing out. Taryn will spend approximately three minutes in that room and I need to be ready for my respective three as soon as they summon me.
It passes both too slowly and too quickly. When the assistant opens the door to dismiss Taryn, I stand, the script shaking in my hands. I should have memorized it, then my nerves wouldn’t be so apparent. Oh, well, they know I’m nervous anyway. We all are. And not just today; the fact that we’ve basically chosen a life of unemployment makes us all perpetually anxious.
I step past the assistant and into the small room. Squeezed into it is a big TV monitor, a camera, a table and three chairs, at which the casting directors are sitting, a cameraman, and also a potted plant, which I guess is supposed to make us feel more comfortable but only makes the space even more cramped.
The assistant reminds the agents of my name and one of them reaches her hand across the table. “Hello, Emily. Thanks for coming in today.” I shake her hand, hoping she can’t feel it shaking. “If you could just take your mark, we’ll get started.”
My gaze automatically drops to the floor as I seek out the tape that will show me where to stand. There are a variety of markings, each meaning something different, and finally I locate today’s: a blue ‘T.’ I step over to it and place my feet on either side of the T’s base. That film acting class might have cost a fortune, but I’d have looked like a moron just then if I hadn’t learned stuff like this.
“Okay, Emily, you’ll be reading with Frank today, so whenever you’re ready.”
I look down at the script and for a second, the words look foreign to me. But then I take a deep breath and remember the time I put into this. I practiced these lines. I gave my character a name. I even gave her a backstory, for God’s sake! I probably know more about Girl Walking Dog than the people in front of me. Now I just have to prove that to them.
Frank and I read through the short scene in less than two minutes. It’s not exactly plot-furthering material, but I get a laugh on the third line about the pigeons from the guy sitting to the right. That’s something, at least.
“Good.” It’s the woman talking again. “That was great, Emily.” There’s a pause, something that usually indicates that a “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” is forthcoming. But just as I start to utter the requisite “thank you” that comes before an exit, the man on the left- who didn’t change expression during my entire read- sits forward.
“Can I see that again… Emily?” he says, his eyes straying to my resume to check my name. “But can you do it with a French accent? And maybe make her a little more dead-pan?”
I say “Sure!” as I give myself a second to internally celebrate. Getting direction is like gold. Direction is like getting a “maybe,” and a chance to turn that “maybe” into a “yes.” But my inner party dies down when I recall what he just said. “You wanted a French accent?”
“Yes,” the man says. “We were thinking it might be funnier if she weren’t American, and I see that you have ‘French accent’ on your resume.”
Crap. I knew I should have taken that off. I used to be able to do a great French accent, but the last time I used it was years ago. I don’t even want to know how rusty it’s going to be if I haul it out now. But there’s no saying no at an audition. Fake it ‘til you make it, as some say.
I clear my throat and hold the script up a little higher. ‘Think Marion Cotillard. Think La Vie En Rose!’ Why didn’t I watch that movie more closely? Well, can’t fix that now. Frank says the first line and I respond with mine. And to my surprise, my accent isn’t too bad. I slip into something that sounds like British/Spanish at one point, but overall… not cringe-worthy. At the last minute, I remember that the casting director wanted it more dead-pan and rather than giving my pigeon line the usual comic nudge, I just say it without inflection. The guy on the right chuckles more heartily than last time and as the reading comes to a close, I’m delighted. I did it! And they liked me! Sally Field, I understand your speech now!
“Nice job, Emily,” the woman says as the cameraman. “We’ll let you know.” And then I’m escorted from the room. This is a little disappointing; I had been hoping to be offered the part then and there, but again, I’m not Kate Winslet. But as I pick up my bag and head for the door, I feel great. I did what I came here to do. I give the girl behind the desk a cheery wave as I breeze through the door.
* * * * * *
I didn’t get it. The audition was two weeks ago and my agent hasn’t called. This is so disappointing. No, cut the professionalism- this just sucks. I worked so hard. I thought they liked me. But I guess one of my identical competitors was what they wanted.
I’ve been on a few auditions since then, but none of them went as well. Maybe I’m just not cut out for film and television. I’ve always considered theatre my strong point anyway, although I haven’t been getting any of those parts either. I used to get parts all the time! I used to be in three shows at once! What happened? Did I peak in my teens? Oh, God, that’s depressing.
I return to the spreadsheet I’ve been making for my boss. He always tells me how good I am at my job, so I guess I could just keep doing this for the rest of my life… But I don’t want to! I’m trained to be an actor! I want to do that- I have to do that, I don’t have any other skills (making spreadsheets doesn’t count.)
On the floor, my bag starts to vibrate and my heart can ‘t help but jump. Could it be-? No, it’s ridiculous to hope that it’s my agent about the audition after two weeks have gone by, but try and tell that to my heart. It pounds as I frantically dig for my phone. I finally pull it out and look at the screen. It is my agent! I press the ‘answer’ button too many times in my hurry and worry that I’ve hung up on him.
“Hello? Hello?!”
“Emily!” My agent, Bill, sounds cheery as always. I feel like he uses that voice to counter the cutthroat business we’re in.
“Hi, Bill,” I say nervously. “Do you have an audition for me?” That can be the only other reason he’s calling.
“Actually,” Bill begins and my heart tries to pound out my chest. “I’ve got some good news for you. The Gilmore Group just called and they want you to be their Girl With Dog.”
“Really?!” I squeal, abandoning all pretense. “Oh, my God, that’s great!”
“It sure is,” Bill says. I can hear his smile under his bushy moustache. “You’re filming tomorrow. Be at the Paramount lot by five a.m, and make sure to bring that accent. They loved it! I’m having a messenger bring over your pages and parking permit tonight. Great job, kid, and have fun tomorrow.” He hangs up.
My hands are shaking. I did it! I’m Girl With Dog! Me! I immediately run to my boss’ office and ask for the next day off. If you wonder why actors are always working boring paper-pushing day jobs, this is why- we won’t be missed should be actually get to live the dream for a day or two.
The next morning at 4:45 a.m., I pull into the Paramount lot. I feel like a star as I flash the guard my permit and pull into a parking space. I feel even cooler as I sit in the hair and make-up trailer with a cup of coffee, trying to wake up as they powder my face and style my hair.
Before I know it, I’m standing in the middle of a backlot park, surrounded by trees and benches. I’m wearing a stylish jogging suit, my hair swept up in a simple yet somehow flattering ponytail. When we start to film, the animal trainer will hand over “my” dog, an adorable huge, friendly Golden Retriever named Boris.
“Hey.”
I turn and my mouth immediately goes dry. Because standing right in front of me is Brian Greene, a new but wildly famous actor and the star of this movie. Though I read with Frank at the audition, today I’ll be exchanging lines with the real thing.
“H-hi,” I finally stammer.
Brian smiles perfectly. “Have you done much film work before?” he asks as a make-up artist swoops in to take the shine off of his forehead.
“Uh… a little.” No need to bring up what the roles were.
“It’s great isn’t it? Nothing like it.” He smiles again, but before I can answer, the director shouts, “Quiet, please. Actors to places!” Brian and I situate ourselves over our respective tape marks. “Okay, we’re going for a take!” The animal trainer hands me Boris’ leash as another man snaps a slate in front of the nearest camera. “Scene thirty-four, take one.”
“Background action! Sound!”
“Rolling.”
“And… action!”
Brian leisurely speaks his first words and I respond, accent and all, while patting Boris head like he’s my own dog. Since I only have a few lines, the scene is over in just a few seconds. The director pronounces it fine, but we do another one for safety. This is thrilling- my dreams are coming true!
But every thrill must come to an end, and this one does much too quickly. Before I know it, Boris is being led away by the handler and Brian is giving me one last smile before he goes off to get ready for his next scene. I’m quickly escorted to wardrobe to change into my own clothes and then it’s time for me to go. I’m told that the movie is expected to be released in seven months and to watch out for it.
Ten months later, I’m watching TV and suddenly, there’s the trailer for the movie. I sit bolt upright and immediately call my best friend and make a plan to go see it on opening day. Maybe it’s narcissistic, but I want to see myself on the big screen!
At the cinema, we settle into our seats, soda and popcorn at the ready. I have only a vague idea of when my scene might be, as I never saw the full script. But as soon as I see Brian jogging in a familiar-looking park, dressed in the same suit he was wearing when we filmed together, I nudge Chloe. “This is it! This is it!”
Brian jogs around a corner and I know that any minute, he’s going to approach onscreen me. But then he makes his way over to a police officer, exchanges a few words with him, and jogs off. The next shot is of him unlocking his car and climbing in.
“Where were you?” Chloe whispers. “Did I miss it? Is it coming later?”
I’m so confused. “I don’t get it… we filmed in that park. He was wearing that same outfit…” I trail off, realising that my scene has met the dreaded cutting room floor. I shake my head at Chloe and sigh. I had always known that the scene could suffer that fate, but I’d hoped that my incredible and Oscar-worthy performance (I’m kidding, of course) would make it worth keeping.
“Well,” Chloe says. “At least you got to film with Brian Greene. And hey, maybe it’ll be on the extras!”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, taking a handful of popcorn. I’m pretty disappointed that I didn’t get to see myself onscreen, but Chloe’s right. I got to exchange real and fictional words with a major movie star- who proved to be a nice guy. The $1500 check didn’t hurt either. I make a plan to buy the DVD as soon as it comes out. If anything, I can put the scene on my reel. I smile, sit back in my seat, and watch the rest of the movie. One day- one day for sure- I’d see myself up there.
When people think of actors, they think of movie stars- Tom Hanks, Kate Winslet, Steve Martin. Or sometimes they think of Broadway performers- Kristin Chenoweth, Idina Menzel, Hunter Foster. Who they don’t think of are people like me- those at the bottom of the food chain, so to speak. Today, however, is my first step toward changing all of that. I plan to knock today’s audition out of the park, nail the role, and get my name in lights… or at least in the credits.
I locate the office of the Gilmore Group, a brand-new casting agency here in town. It’s very small, but the interior is like most casting offices I’ve been to: sparse and stylish with posters of past projects on the wall, usually signed by the leading actors. The posters here are for movies I don’t recognize, probably small indie projects filmed somewhere in Colorado. But hey, I’m not knocking it. I would give my left arm to be doing one of those. In order to do that, however, I need to focus on today’s audition.
What everyday people (as we term them, “non-actors”, or sometimes just “normal people”) don’t understand about films is that every single little part is laboriously auditioned for by people like me. In a huge movie, when the main character enters an office building and asks for the office of Mr. Smith, the woman behind the desk who says only, “Just go down the hall and to the left,” had to come to a casting agency just like this and sweat over how to make those nine words interesting enough for the directors to choose her. It’s not easy. The amount of time I’ve spent pacing around my tiny apartment saying single lines like, “I’d recommend the salad special,” and “She came by a few minutes ago,” over and over, trying to get just the right inflection, is embarrassing. But it’s also necessary for the reason that I see when I walk into the lobby of the Gilmore Group.
There, sitting on the various couches and chairs, are twenty girls who look exactly like me. I tried to mix it up this time- the character description said that the role I’m trying out for (Girl Walking Dog) could be either funky or conservative, and I went with the former, thinking that the cool red blouse I got would be perfect. Apparently, however, every other 5’5” not-as-slender-as-we-should-be dishwater blonde in the city also had the same idea, and we’re all sitting in the same room. I should have gone conservative…
I try not to let it bother me as I go over to the sign-in table. I find my name on the list, write in my arrival time and the title of my agency, and hand over a copy of what is my only identity in this world: my headshot and resume. In the picture, I actually do look pretty. The hair and make-up lady easily tamed my hair in a way I never seem to manage and my blue shirt brings out my eyes. I should have worn blue today! That would have made all the difference! Well, no going back now. I see the assistant on the other side of the table reading over my resume. Hm, a raised eyebrow. Is that her being impressed by my long list of theatre credits, or is she silently scoffing at the fact that my “big” TV appearance was as “Mennonite Girl” in a Lifetime movie?
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. My resume is my resume and I’ve worked hard to get it in the shape it is now. I take one of the few remaining seats among my doppelgangers and fish around my bag for my script. It takes a second as my hand selects, then rejects, the emergency make-up, the extra headshots and the cell phone, finally locating my lines. I pull them out and skim over the words highlighted in yellow. I have to get this right. This is the kind of audition I’ve been waiting for since I started acting ten years ago. Because this isn’t a try-out for a one-liner. No. No, this time, I have five lines. Five! That’s enough to pass as a “featured” role! It might seem paltry, but this is the stuff of dreams for people on my level. I can’t screw this up.
While some of the girls around me are sitting quietly- some reading over the same lines, others listening to music- most are doing that actory thing that I detest: “chatting” with their competition while slipping in the titles of companies and people that they’ve (supposedly) worked with. Personally, I don’t think any of us has much bragging to do, because if we did, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now, waiting to prove just how naturally we can speak. I try to block out the inane one-upping game and turn my attention back to my lines.
“Taryn Kinsley?” We all fall silent as a casting director’s assistant opens the door to the audition room. “Is there a Taryn Kinsley here?” No one responds as we all look around for the absent actress. Who on earth would miss this opportunity? Finally, a girl across the room, who has been listening to music, starts and pulls out her ear buds. “Did you say Taryn? That’s me, that’s me, I’m coming!” She drops her iPod in her bag, takes her script from a side table, and hurries over to the assistant. “Emily Davis, you’re on deck!” the assistant calls just before the door shuts behind Taryn.
Upon hearing my name, I sit up a little straighter on the couch and make sure that my hair is not frizzing out. Taryn will spend approximately three minutes in that room and I need to be ready for my respective three as soon as they summon me.
It passes both too slowly and too quickly. When the assistant opens the door to dismiss Taryn, I stand, the script shaking in my hands. I should have memorized it, then my nerves wouldn’t be so apparent. Oh, well, they know I’m nervous anyway. We all are. And not just today; the fact that we’ve basically chosen a life of unemployment makes us all perpetually anxious.
I step past the assistant and into the small room. Squeezed into it is a big TV monitor, a camera, a table and three chairs, at which the casting directors are sitting, a cameraman, and also a potted plant, which I guess is supposed to make us feel more comfortable but only makes the space even more cramped.
The assistant reminds the agents of my name and one of them reaches her hand across the table. “Hello, Emily. Thanks for coming in today.” I shake her hand, hoping she can’t feel it shaking. “If you could just take your mark, we’ll get started.”
My gaze automatically drops to the floor as I seek out the tape that will show me where to stand. There are a variety of markings, each meaning something different, and finally I locate today’s: a blue ‘T.’ I step over to it and place my feet on either side of the T’s base. That film acting class might have cost a fortune, but I’d have looked like a moron just then if I hadn’t learned stuff like this.
“Okay, Emily, you’ll be reading with Frank today, so whenever you’re ready.”
I look down at the script and for a second, the words look foreign to me. But then I take a deep breath and remember the time I put into this. I practiced these lines. I gave my character a name. I even gave her a backstory, for God’s sake! I probably know more about Girl Walking Dog than the people in front of me. Now I just have to prove that to them.
Frank and I read through the short scene in less than two minutes. It’s not exactly plot-furthering material, but I get a laugh on the third line about the pigeons from the guy sitting to the right. That’s something, at least.
“Good.” It’s the woman talking again. “That was great, Emily.” There’s a pause, something that usually indicates that a “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” is forthcoming. But just as I start to utter the requisite “thank you” that comes before an exit, the man on the left- who didn’t change expression during my entire read- sits forward.
“Can I see that again… Emily?” he says, his eyes straying to my resume to check my name. “But can you do it with a French accent? And maybe make her a little more dead-pan?”
I say “Sure!” as I give myself a second to internally celebrate. Getting direction is like gold. Direction is like getting a “maybe,” and a chance to turn that “maybe” into a “yes.” But my inner party dies down when I recall what he just said. “You wanted a French accent?”
“Yes,” the man says. “We were thinking it might be funnier if she weren’t American, and I see that you have ‘French accent’ on your resume.”
Crap. I knew I should have taken that off. I used to be able to do a great French accent, but the last time I used it was years ago. I don’t even want to know how rusty it’s going to be if I haul it out now. But there’s no saying no at an audition. Fake it ‘til you make it, as some say.
I clear my throat and hold the script up a little higher. ‘Think Marion Cotillard. Think La Vie En Rose!’ Why didn’t I watch that movie more closely? Well, can’t fix that now. Frank says the first line and I respond with mine. And to my surprise, my accent isn’t too bad. I slip into something that sounds like British/Spanish at one point, but overall… not cringe-worthy. At the last minute, I remember that the casting director wanted it more dead-pan and rather than giving my pigeon line the usual comic nudge, I just say it without inflection. The guy on the right chuckles more heartily than last time and as the reading comes to a close, I’m delighted. I did it! And they liked me! Sally Field, I understand your speech now!
“Nice job, Emily,” the woman says as the cameraman. “We’ll let you know.” And then I’m escorted from the room. This is a little disappointing; I had been hoping to be offered the part then and there, but again, I’m not Kate Winslet. But as I pick up my bag and head for the door, I feel great. I did what I came here to do. I give the girl behind the desk a cheery wave as I breeze through the door.
* * * * * *
I didn’t get it. The audition was two weeks ago and my agent hasn’t called. This is so disappointing. No, cut the professionalism- this just sucks. I worked so hard. I thought they liked me. But I guess one of my identical competitors was what they wanted.
I’ve been on a few auditions since then, but none of them went as well. Maybe I’m just not cut out for film and television. I’ve always considered theatre my strong point anyway, although I haven’t been getting any of those parts either. I used to get parts all the time! I used to be in three shows at once! What happened? Did I peak in my teens? Oh, God, that’s depressing.
I return to the spreadsheet I’ve been making for my boss. He always tells me how good I am at my job, so I guess I could just keep doing this for the rest of my life… But I don’t want to! I’m trained to be an actor! I want to do that- I have to do that, I don’t have any other skills (making spreadsheets doesn’t count.)
On the floor, my bag starts to vibrate and my heart can ‘t help but jump. Could it be-? No, it’s ridiculous to hope that it’s my agent about the audition after two weeks have gone by, but try and tell that to my heart. It pounds as I frantically dig for my phone. I finally pull it out and look at the screen. It is my agent! I press the ‘answer’ button too many times in my hurry and worry that I’ve hung up on him.
“Hello? Hello?!”
“Emily!” My agent, Bill, sounds cheery as always. I feel like he uses that voice to counter the cutthroat business we’re in.
“Hi, Bill,” I say nervously. “Do you have an audition for me?” That can be the only other reason he’s calling.
“Actually,” Bill begins and my heart tries to pound out my chest. “I’ve got some good news for you. The Gilmore Group just called and they want you to be their Girl With Dog.”
“Really?!” I squeal, abandoning all pretense. “Oh, my God, that’s great!”
“It sure is,” Bill says. I can hear his smile under his bushy moustache. “You’re filming tomorrow. Be at the Paramount lot by five a.m, and make sure to bring that accent. They loved it! I’m having a messenger bring over your pages and parking permit tonight. Great job, kid, and have fun tomorrow.” He hangs up.
My hands are shaking. I did it! I’m Girl With Dog! Me! I immediately run to my boss’ office and ask for the next day off. If you wonder why actors are always working boring paper-pushing day jobs, this is why- we won’t be missed should be actually get to live the dream for a day or two.
The next morning at 4:45 a.m., I pull into the Paramount lot. I feel like a star as I flash the guard my permit and pull into a parking space. I feel even cooler as I sit in the hair and make-up trailer with a cup of coffee, trying to wake up as they powder my face and style my hair.
Before I know it, I’m standing in the middle of a backlot park, surrounded by trees and benches. I’m wearing a stylish jogging suit, my hair swept up in a simple yet somehow flattering ponytail. When we start to film, the animal trainer will hand over “my” dog, an adorable huge, friendly Golden Retriever named Boris.
“Hey.”
I turn and my mouth immediately goes dry. Because standing right in front of me is Brian Greene, a new but wildly famous actor and the star of this movie. Though I read with Frank at the audition, today I’ll be exchanging lines with the real thing.
“H-hi,” I finally stammer.
Brian smiles perfectly. “Have you done much film work before?” he asks as a make-up artist swoops in to take the shine off of his forehead.
“Uh… a little.” No need to bring up what the roles were.
“It’s great isn’t it? Nothing like it.” He smiles again, but before I can answer, the director shouts, “Quiet, please. Actors to places!” Brian and I situate ourselves over our respective tape marks. “Okay, we’re going for a take!” The animal trainer hands me Boris’ leash as another man snaps a slate in front of the nearest camera. “Scene thirty-four, take one.”
“Background action! Sound!”
“Rolling.”
“And… action!”
Brian leisurely speaks his first words and I respond, accent and all, while patting Boris head like he’s my own dog. Since I only have a few lines, the scene is over in just a few seconds. The director pronounces it fine, but we do another one for safety. This is thrilling- my dreams are coming true!
But every thrill must come to an end, and this one does much too quickly. Before I know it, Boris is being led away by the handler and Brian is giving me one last smile before he goes off to get ready for his next scene. I’m quickly escorted to wardrobe to change into my own clothes and then it’s time for me to go. I’m told that the movie is expected to be released in seven months and to watch out for it.
Ten months later, I’m watching TV and suddenly, there’s the trailer for the movie. I sit bolt upright and immediately call my best friend and make a plan to go see it on opening day. Maybe it’s narcissistic, but I want to see myself on the big screen!
At the cinema, we settle into our seats, soda and popcorn at the ready. I have only a vague idea of when my scene might be, as I never saw the full script. But as soon as I see Brian jogging in a familiar-looking park, dressed in the same suit he was wearing when we filmed together, I nudge Chloe. “This is it! This is it!”
Brian jogs around a corner and I know that any minute, he’s going to approach onscreen me. But then he makes his way over to a police officer, exchanges a few words with him, and jogs off. The next shot is of him unlocking his car and climbing in.
“Where were you?” Chloe whispers. “Did I miss it? Is it coming later?”
I’m so confused. “I don’t get it… we filmed in that park. He was wearing that same outfit…” I trail off, realising that my scene has met the dreaded cutting room floor. I shake my head at Chloe and sigh. I had always known that the scene could suffer that fate, but I’d hoped that my incredible and Oscar-worthy performance (I’m kidding, of course) would make it worth keeping.
“Well,” Chloe says. “At least you got to film with Brian Greene. And hey, maybe it’ll be on the extras!”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, taking a handful of popcorn. I’m pretty disappointed that I didn’t get to see myself onscreen, but Chloe’s right. I got to exchange real and fictional words with a major movie star- who proved to be a nice guy. The $1500 check didn’t hurt either. I make a plan to buy the DVD as soon as it comes out. If anything, I can put the scene on my reel. I smile, sit back in my seat, and watch the rest of the movie. One day- one day for sure- I’d see myself up there.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Success/Failure
Today was a huge day, writing-wise, because it was my first day of having my writing workshopped in my two major composition classes.
For Poetry & Fiction, we're required to submit our pieces the class day before our work is to be critiqued, and when I submitted mine on Thursday evening, I was pretty confident about what I was sending in. After all, it was just a continuation of what my classmates already liked. We weren't really encouraged to submit "past" work (though it's still a WIP), but we were allowed to if we so wished. I decided to turn in something I had already worked on because I don't write well on demand. I like to fine-tune things until I don't think they can be fine-tuned anymore.
So anyway, I turned this piece in and I was feeling good about it. I felt good about up until last night. Then I woke up this morning with butterflies. 'Why did I send that?' 'What if they hate it after they liked the other part?'
Of course, there was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable. They'd already read it anyway, so my worries were moot. I walked into class very nervous, sat through the first person's presentation very nervously. Then it was my turn.
And... they liked it. They liked the dialogue and the pace and a good number of other things. Of course, it wasn't all rainbows and flowers- there was critisism. My teacher's pretty good at asking probing questions that get the class and the writer thinking. So after this, the class asked me a lot of good questions and gave me suggestions. And while it was technically "critical"... it was incredibly HELPFUL. Like, there was some stuff that really got me thinking and will cause some big tweaks to be put into not only the scene I gave, but the larger story. It was great.
So because of this success, I was excited to go to my Play & Screenwriting class. My first scene, a five minute piece, would be read and critiqued. I put in a ton of work into the piece- it took me about a week and a half to get the structure that I wanted and I was pretty proud of how it went. So I skipped off to class this evening and had my scene read second.
Almost as soon as it started to be read, I knew something was wrong. When did the pace get so slow? Why were there so many run-on sentences for the older character? And why was there so little conflict in the beginning of the scene?
But these were only the minor problems. The further we got into the reading, the more the tension grew in the air. Part of our workshopping is that we start off with something we liked and you could just feel people going, 'What on earth am I going to say about this?!'
It wasn't that it was terrible written. It wasn't. But I guess I was so focused on making that certain structure work that I forgot about other important stuff, namely characterization, and it was a glaring problem.
When we finally, blessedly reached the end, there was a long silence as people desperately tried to think of things to say that were complimentary. Thankfully, they actually tried and didn't resort to things like, "Well, the paper you used is certainly... white..." But there wasn't much to be said.
My piece was (nicely) torn to shreds. But it wasn't even the critiques they made- it was that the things they felt were going on- that the older character was this evil, evil woman and the younger character was this poor overworked girl and the main theme was that the latter felt overworked... that wasn't what I was going for at all. When I wrote it, I saw the older woman as a person who was covering up nerves through bossiness and I actually worried that the younger woman would come off as ridiculously shallow.
I read a quote recently that if there is any confusion as to what's going on in a book, play, or any piece of writing, it's always the writer's fault that the problem is present- the reader's just doing the best they can with what they're given. So I wasn't upset with my class for not understanding what I was going for, because I'll be the first to admit that it wasn't there.
But to be honest, I was still shocked at how badly the whole thing went. I had set mysef up for success, so excited from the afternoon that I honestly hadn't even considered failure. So when it came, it was ten times worse. I almost cried in the middle of class.
Now I'm a little overwhelmed. Not only do I have to have the rewrites for this awful scene, which is going to be painful and due in two weeks, but I have a ten-page scene due next week, a new fiction piece in two weeks, and other stuff to memorize for, like, yesterday.
Sometimes, the things you love can be the things that stress you out the most.
For Poetry & Fiction, we're required to submit our pieces the class day before our work is to be critiqued, and when I submitted mine on Thursday evening, I was pretty confident about what I was sending in. After all, it was just a continuation of what my classmates already liked. We weren't really encouraged to submit "past" work (though it's still a WIP), but we were allowed to if we so wished. I decided to turn in something I had already worked on because I don't write well on demand. I like to fine-tune things until I don't think they can be fine-tuned anymore.
So anyway, I turned this piece in and I was feeling good about it. I felt good about up until last night. Then I woke up this morning with butterflies. 'Why did I send that?' 'What if they hate it after they liked the other part?'
Of course, there was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable. They'd already read it anyway, so my worries were moot. I walked into class very nervous, sat through the first person's presentation very nervously. Then it was my turn.
And... they liked it. They liked the dialogue and the pace and a good number of other things. Of course, it wasn't all rainbows and flowers- there was critisism. My teacher's pretty good at asking probing questions that get the class and the writer thinking. So after this, the class asked me a lot of good questions and gave me suggestions. And while it was technically "critical"... it was incredibly HELPFUL. Like, there was some stuff that really got me thinking and will cause some big tweaks to be put into not only the scene I gave, but the larger story. It was great.
So because of this success, I was excited to go to my Play & Screenwriting class. My first scene, a five minute piece, would be read and critiqued. I put in a ton of work into the piece- it took me about a week and a half to get the structure that I wanted and I was pretty proud of how it went. So I skipped off to class this evening and had my scene read second.
Almost as soon as it started to be read, I knew something was wrong. When did the pace get so slow? Why were there so many run-on sentences for the older character? And why was there so little conflict in the beginning of the scene?
But these were only the minor problems. The further we got into the reading, the more the tension grew in the air. Part of our workshopping is that we start off with something we liked and you could just feel people going, 'What on earth am I going to say about this?!'
It wasn't that it was terrible written. It wasn't. But I guess I was so focused on making that certain structure work that I forgot about other important stuff, namely characterization, and it was a glaring problem.
When we finally, blessedly reached the end, there was a long silence as people desperately tried to think of things to say that were complimentary. Thankfully, they actually tried and didn't resort to things like, "Well, the paper you used is certainly... white..." But there wasn't much to be said.
My piece was (nicely) torn to shreds. But it wasn't even the critiques they made- it was that the things they felt were going on- that the older character was this evil, evil woman and the younger character was this poor overworked girl and the main theme was that the latter felt overworked... that wasn't what I was going for at all. When I wrote it, I saw the older woman as a person who was covering up nerves through bossiness and I actually worried that the younger woman would come off as ridiculously shallow.
I read a quote recently that if there is any confusion as to what's going on in a book, play, or any piece of writing, it's always the writer's fault that the problem is present- the reader's just doing the best they can with what they're given. So I wasn't upset with my class for not understanding what I was going for, because I'll be the first to admit that it wasn't there.
But to be honest, I was still shocked at how badly the whole thing went. I had set mysef up for success, so excited from the afternoon that I honestly hadn't even considered failure. So when it came, it was ten times worse. I almost cried in the middle of class.
Now I'm a little overwhelmed. Not only do I have to have the rewrites for this awful scene, which is going to be painful and due in two weeks, but I have a ten-page scene due next week, a new fiction piece in two weeks, and other stuff to memorize for, like, yesterday.
Sometimes, the things you love can be the things that stress you out the most.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Taking the Plunge
Today was a day I've been dreading since my first day of Poetry & Fiction- the day that I had to compare a piece of my writing to an author that had influenced me. Though Libba Bray is my #1 favorite writer, I just couldn't compare my writing to hers, so I went to another of my favorite authors- Maureen Johnson.
Actually, MJ and I do have sort of similar styles, or at least the way we implement our comparable senses of humor into our work is similar. So even though I can only wish I was as good as her, I decided to do my project on that comparison.
When I got up in front of the class, I was shaking, I was so nervous. I always speed-talk, but when I get nervous, it's gets worse by about a thousand percent. So I sped through her history and why she ifluenced me and then read a short excerpt from Devilish, one of my favorites of her novels. And then I read my excerpt.
The snippet I read was one I showed you guys a long time ago, from Q when Eliza and Jonah first meet. But something you guys probably already know is that sharing your work over the internet, to live yet invisible people, is completly different from standing in front of a bunch of people and reading your own words to them. I was terrified and shook a lot and kept my eyes on the paper only like you're not supposed to do. Finally, I reached the end of the page, looked up at the class and was astonished.
Because guess what? They all looked interested, some even impressed. And during the question and answer session, one girl asked me if I was still working on the novel and how far I'd gotten, and the girl after her said she really wanted to read it when I was finished.
Now I know. This praise from my fellow college kids is not the road to publication, necessarily. But I was on such a high afterwards that it almost felt like it. People liked what I'd written. They liked my little WIP baby!
This makes me a little (though not completely) less scared for next week, when I have to turn in ten pages of my fiction for a class-wide critique.
Tonight, another writing class! I've been working on the assignment (a five-page script) and am stuck on page three due to my determination to choose a really hard style of writing for my first piece. Someone save me from myself :P
Actually, MJ and I do have sort of similar styles, or at least the way we implement our comparable senses of humor into our work is similar. So even though I can only wish I was as good as her, I decided to do my project on that comparison.
When I got up in front of the class, I was shaking, I was so nervous. I always speed-talk, but when I get nervous, it's gets worse by about a thousand percent. So I sped through her history and why she ifluenced me and then read a short excerpt from Devilish, one of my favorites of her novels. And then I read my excerpt.
The snippet I read was one I showed you guys a long time ago, from Q when Eliza and Jonah first meet. But something you guys probably already know is that sharing your work over the internet, to live yet invisible people, is completly different from standing in front of a bunch of people and reading your own words to them. I was terrified and shook a lot and kept my eyes on the paper only like you're not supposed to do. Finally, I reached the end of the page, looked up at the class and was astonished.
Because guess what? They all looked interested, some even impressed. And during the question and answer session, one girl asked me if I was still working on the novel and how far I'd gotten, and the girl after her said she really wanted to read it when I was finished.
Now I know. This praise from my fellow college kids is not the road to publication, necessarily. But I was on such a high afterwards that it almost felt like it. People liked what I'd written. They liked my little WIP baby!
This makes me a little (though not completely) less scared for next week, when I have to turn in ten pages of my fiction for a class-wide critique.
Tonight, another writing class! I've been working on the assignment (a five-page script) and am stuck on page three due to my determination to choose a really hard style of writing for my first piece. Someone save me from myself :P
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
WIP Wednesday
I'm doing what I've always read that I should do as a writer, but never actually did: I am setting aside a few hours out of each day to devote solely to writing. Right now, it's at three per day, and I've scheduled them outside of my normal writing hours (9 pm- 3 am) so hopefully I can get some product in the beginning of the day by force and then continue working on that product when my brain is actually working. The curse of being a night owl.
So anyway, what I'm working feverishly on right now is my Peter Pan Inspiration, so here's a scene from it. All you need to know if that this is a teenaged Mrs. Darling after she ran away from Neverland after she had a big fight with Peter.
(MARY is in her room when she hears a tap at the window. She drops what she’s doing, runs over to it, and throws it open. PETER flies through and lands on the toy chest.)
PETER. Found you!
MARY. Peter! What are you doing here?
PETER. Where have you been, Mary? The boys all miss you so. Our house is such a mess.
MARY. I came back, Peter.
PETER. Well why’d you do that? (He looks around) It’s so dreary here.
(MRS. LIDDELL approaches on the other side of the door but stops when she hears her daughter speaking, apparently to no one.)
MARY. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again…
PETER. Here I am! You must come back right now- the mermaids and the boys are having a swimming contest!
MARY. Do you forgive me then, Peter?
PETER. Forgive you? For what?
MARY. Well… I left Neverland.
PETER. Well, you did break the rules of hide and seek, but you’ve always been a good hider. Of course I forgive you. Now come on!
MARY. No, Peter. I left because you were angry with me and I said… some terrible things. I’m sorry for that. I was just homesick and upset. I didn’t mean them at all.
(MR. LIDDELL comes through the hallway and MRS. LIDDELL silently motions for him to join her.)
PETER. (hardly acknowledging her apology) It’s fine. Now, I’ll just sprinkle you with some fairy dust and we’ll be off. The boys will be so happy I’ve found you! (He grabs her hand, but MARY doesn’t move.) What’s wrong?
MARY. I can’t go, Peter.
PETER. Yes you can. Just move your feet, silly. (He pulls on her hand again, but still she doesn’t move. He thinks she’s playing a game.) Ma-ary!
MARY. Peter, you don’t understand. I can’t go. My parents were so angry when they saw I had left-
PETER. Parents don’t know what fun is.
MARY. But they know other things, like how to send me away if I don’t act like a young lady.
PETER. (alarmed) They’re sending you away?! Where?
MARY. They won’t if I act like I should. But that means I can’t go to Neverland again.
PETER. Ever?
MARY. That’s right.
PETER. I hate your parents.
MARY. Peter…
PETER. Don’t you?
MARY. I- I…
PETER. I do. They’re mean and I hate them. I don’t want you to live with mean people. You need to come with me. Now.
MARY. (pained) I can’t…
PETER. Yes, you can.
MARY. (tearful) I don’t want them to send me away, Peter.
PETER. They can’t get you in Neverland! No grown-ups allowed! You’ll be safe!
MARY. I’m not going.
PETER. Yes you are.
MARY. No.
PETER. (stomping his foot) Mary!
MARY. (turning away from him) You need to go now, Peter. I don’t want my parents to hear me talking to you.
PETER. I’m not leaving without you.
MARY. You’ll have to. (She walks over to the window and holds it open for him. They stare at each other for a long moment.) Good-bye, Peter.
PETER. You’re wrong, Mary. You should be coming with me. They won’t be nice to you here.
MARY. I’ll miss you.
(After another long moment, PETER takes his leave out the window. MARY watches him sadly, but then closes the window firmly, latches it shut, and pulls the curtains over it.
Out in the hallway, MR. and MRS. LIDDELL look at each other in alarm.)
Lights down.)
So anyway, what I'm working feverishly on right now is my Peter Pan Inspiration, so here's a scene from it. All you need to know if that this is a teenaged Mrs. Darling after she ran away from Neverland after she had a big fight with Peter.
(MARY is in her room when she hears a tap at the window. She drops what she’s doing, runs over to it, and throws it open. PETER flies through and lands on the toy chest.)
PETER. Found you!
MARY. Peter! What are you doing here?
PETER. Where have you been, Mary? The boys all miss you so. Our house is such a mess.
MARY. I came back, Peter.
PETER. Well why’d you do that? (He looks around) It’s so dreary here.
(MRS. LIDDELL approaches on the other side of the door but stops when she hears her daughter speaking, apparently to no one.)
MARY. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again…
PETER. Here I am! You must come back right now- the mermaids and the boys are having a swimming contest!
MARY. Do you forgive me then, Peter?
PETER. Forgive you? For what?
MARY. Well… I left Neverland.
PETER. Well, you did break the rules of hide and seek, but you’ve always been a good hider. Of course I forgive you. Now come on!
MARY. No, Peter. I left because you were angry with me and I said… some terrible things. I’m sorry for that. I was just homesick and upset. I didn’t mean them at all.
(MR. LIDDELL comes through the hallway and MRS. LIDDELL silently motions for him to join her.)
PETER. (hardly acknowledging her apology) It’s fine. Now, I’ll just sprinkle you with some fairy dust and we’ll be off. The boys will be so happy I’ve found you! (He grabs her hand, but MARY doesn’t move.) What’s wrong?
MARY. I can’t go, Peter.
PETER. Yes you can. Just move your feet, silly. (He pulls on her hand again, but still she doesn’t move. He thinks she’s playing a game.) Ma-ary!
MARY. Peter, you don’t understand. I can’t go. My parents were so angry when they saw I had left-
PETER. Parents don’t know what fun is.
MARY. But they know other things, like how to send me away if I don’t act like a young lady.
PETER. (alarmed) They’re sending you away?! Where?
MARY. They won’t if I act like I should. But that means I can’t go to Neverland again.
PETER. Ever?
MARY. That’s right.
PETER. I hate your parents.
MARY. Peter…
PETER. Don’t you?
MARY. I- I…
PETER. I do. They’re mean and I hate them. I don’t want you to live with mean people. You need to come with me. Now.
MARY. (pained) I can’t…
PETER. Yes, you can.
MARY. (tearful) I don’t want them to send me away, Peter.
PETER. They can’t get you in Neverland! No grown-ups allowed! You’ll be safe!
MARY. I’m not going.
PETER. Yes you are.
MARY. No.
PETER. (stomping his foot) Mary!
MARY. (turning away from him) You need to go now, Peter. I don’t want my parents to hear me talking to you.
PETER. I’m not leaving without you.
MARY. You’ll have to. (She walks over to the window and holds it open for him. They stare at each other for a long moment.) Good-bye, Peter.
PETER. You’re wrong, Mary. You should be coming with me. They won’t be nice to you here.
MARY. I’ll miss you.
(After another long moment, PETER takes his leave out the window. MARY watches him sadly, but then closes the window firmly, latches it shut, and pulls the curtains over it.
Out in the hallway, MR. and MRS. LIDDELL look at each other in alarm.)
Lights down.)
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
WIP Wednesday
That whoosh you just heard? That was my sigh of relief.
I got home from work and the gym around three o'clock yesterday and I was determined that I was going to sit down and work on my novel revisions. I was quite frustrated because I was itching to work on it, but a mixture of fear and writer's block (or perhaps fear-induced writer's block) was only allowing me to open the document and stare at the screen blankly. I proceeded to do this for about four hours until suddenly, something in my mind cleared.
I guess a big part of the problem was that I wanted to make BIG changes RIGHT THEN to the novel. And while I did start planning out what some of those big changes might be, I started out much smaller- fixing a word here, tweaking a delivery there. Getting back in touch with the characters I haven't written about since November.
After working at these small adjustments, finally som of the larger peices started to fall into place. My novel needs to be expanded in the worst way; I'm only realising now how much I only have the skeleton of the story. This is both good and bad, for reasons I think I'll save for another blog. For now, here's the first small snippet of my NaNo novel, Remembrance. This is one of the parts I've not touched yet; I have a post it in the margins that reads "MORE, MORE, MORE!" so I hope to soon be expanding on the points that are briefly mentioned.
For a bit of background, my main character Ruthie has gone into a house owned by a possibly crazy couple because she got a clue that her friend Nora was being kept there with a bunch of other kids. This turns out to be true and at this moment, Nora is acquainting Ruthie with the inner workings of the house.
Nora led Ruthie down a make – shift cinderblock hallway and to a doorless threshold. The room inside was small but not cramped, painted a soft yellow and trimmed with flowered wallpaper. Nora’s hairbrush and a wash basin sat on the small night table. Slippers were tucked neatly under the bed and a quilt lay across the end. The sight of these touches made Ruthie stop short in the doorway.
“Are you all right?” Nora asked, rushing to her side. “Ruthie? What’s the matter?”
Ruthie could just shake her head, leaning against the cold stone of the entrance.
“Ruthie, talk to me. Are you dizzy? Do you feel like you’re going to faint? Here, sit down.” Nora grabbed her arm and tried to pull her to the small ottoman in the corner. But Ruthie couldn’t move. Or, more accurately, she wouldn’t move. Seeing those homey things, those little Nora touches, showed her something she had not expected, something terrifying. She swallowed, trying to calm herself down.
“Nora,” she said slowly, dreading the answer. “When did you give up hope?”
“What?” her friend looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
“This room … it’s like you actually live here.”
“Well … I do. I mean, I sleep here, but – what do you mean?”
“You’ve settled here, Nora, do you realise that? When did you begin to think you might never go home again?” She hadn’t realised it when it was happening, but her volume had risen considerably.
Nora took her hand off of Ruthie’s arm like she had been burned. “Ruthie, you’re scaring me. I know waking up in that room like that was not fun, but you came here voluntarily – to help the rest of us who weren’t so lucky. What are you worried about? They take good care of us here. And if things go as you say, we could be leaving soon.”
Ruthie could have stomped her foot. “It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s you! You talk about Gloria like she’s a nutcase, but looking at this place, you may not be far behind. When did you start referring in your head to this room as ‘my room’?”
“Stop it!” Nora spat. Her concerned look had been replaced by a glare. “You don’t know what you’re talking about at all. You have no idea how things work here. You came here by choice – Danny and Suzanne told you what to expect. You have no clue what it’s like to find yourself trapped down here, realising too late that you were too stupid or naïve to save yourself or even suspect what was going on. You think we don’t try to get out of here every day? Sure, the Gradys feed us and clothe us, but we don’t leave this basement. I haven’t seen sunlight since the day we went to the cinema. I have three dresses. We’re all miserable down here, except for Gloria. We all want to get out, but we’ve tried everything. And after weeks of trying every single thing you can think of, you start to wonder if you’ll ever find a way. So I haven’t given up hope, Ruthie, but I’ve started to be realistic. This place is like an interminable prison, and unless you really can get all of us out of here, we just might be stuck down here for who knows how long. I’d love to hear any plan you have after being here for half an hour. Because when you’re here for weeks with no escape possibility in sight, you can’t help but start to think that you might never get out. It’s not like we want to believe it, but when it comes down to it, should we spend all our time crying about not being home? Or should we face the reality and realise that this could very well be it and try to make the best of it?”
Despite Nora’s speech, Ruthie was still dumbfounded. “So you’re just going to forget your parents and everything else and become Nora Grady, just like Gloria?”
“Stop it!” Nora said again, and now she was shouting. “You have no idea what you’re talking about!” She looked like she wanted to throw Ruthie out of the room and slam the door in her face, but that was not an option. Instead, she turned her back on Ruthie and busied herself rifling through her nightstand drawer. Ruthie was still frustrated by Nora’s ridiculous standpoint, but at the same time, she realised that she also didn’t have anyone else.
“Nora?” she ventured.
“Just go away,” came the hard reply.
I got home from work and the gym around three o'clock yesterday and I was determined that I was going to sit down and work on my novel revisions. I was quite frustrated because I was itching to work on it, but a mixture of fear and writer's block (or perhaps fear-induced writer's block) was only allowing me to open the document and stare at the screen blankly. I proceeded to do this for about four hours until suddenly, something in my mind cleared.
I guess a big part of the problem was that I wanted to make BIG changes RIGHT THEN to the novel. And while I did start planning out what some of those big changes might be, I started out much smaller- fixing a word here, tweaking a delivery there. Getting back in touch with the characters I haven't written about since November.
After working at these small adjustments, finally som of the larger peices started to fall into place. My novel needs to be expanded in the worst way; I'm only realising now how much I only have the skeleton of the story. This is both good and bad, for reasons I think I'll save for another blog. For now, here's the first small snippet of my NaNo novel, Remembrance. This is one of the parts I've not touched yet; I have a post it in the margins that reads "MORE, MORE, MORE!" so I hope to soon be expanding on the points that are briefly mentioned.
For a bit of background, my main character Ruthie has gone into a house owned by a possibly crazy couple because she got a clue that her friend Nora was being kept there with a bunch of other kids. This turns out to be true and at this moment, Nora is acquainting Ruthie with the inner workings of the house.
Nora led Ruthie down a make – shift cinderblock hallway and to a doorless threshold. The room inside was small but not cramped, painted a soft yellow and trimmed with flowered wallpaper. Nora’s hairbrush and a wash basin sat on the small night table. Slippers were tucked neatly under the bed and a quilt lay across the end. The sight of these touches made Ruthie stop short in the doorway.
“Are you all right?” Nora asked, rushing to her side. “Ruthie? What’s the matter?”
Ruthie could just shake her head, leaning against the cold stone of the entrance.
“Ruthie, talk to me. Are you dizzy? Do you feel like you’re going to faint? Here, sit down.” Nora grabbed her arm and tried to pull her to the small ottoman in the corner. But Ruthie couldn’t move. Or, more accurately, she wouldn’t move. Seeing those homey things, those little Nora touches, showed her something she had not expected, something terrifying. She swallowed, trying to calm herself down.
“Nora,” she said slowly, dreading the answer. “When did you give up hope?”
“What?” her friend looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
“This room … it’s like you actually live here.”
“Well … I do. I mean, I sleep here, but – what do you mean?”
“You’ve settled here, Nora, do you realise that? When did you begin to think you might never go home again?” She hadn’t realised it when it was happening, but her volume had risen considerably.
Nora took her hand off of Ruthie’s arm like she had been burned. “Ruthie, you’re scaring me. I know waking up in that room like that was not fun, but you came here voluntarily – to help the rest of us who weren’t so lucky. What are you worried about? They take good care of us here. And if things go as you say, we could be leaving soon.”
Ruthie could have stomped her foot. “It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s you! You talk about Gloria like she’s a nutcase, but looking at this place, you may not be far behind. When did you start referring in your head to this room as ‘my room’?”
“Stop it!” Nora spat. Her concerned look had been replaced by a glare. “You don’t know what you’re talking about at all. You have no idea how things work here. You came here by choice – Danny and Suzanne told you what to expect. You have no clue what it’s like to find yourself trapped down here, realising too late that you were too stupid or naïve to save yourself or even suspect what was going on. You think we don’t try to get out of here every day? Sure, the Gradys feed us and clothe us, but we don’t leave this basement. I haven’t seen sunlight since the day we went to the cinema. I have three dresses. We’re all miserable down here, except for Gloria. We all want to get out, but we’ve tried everything. And after weeks of trying every single thing you can think of, you start to wonder if you’ll ever find a way. So I haven’t given up hope, Ruthie, but I’ve started to be realistic. This place is like an interminable prison, and unless you really can get all of us out of here, we just might be stuck down here for who knows how long. I’d love to hear any plan you have after being here for half an hour. Because when you’re here for weeks with no escape possibility in sight, you can’t help but start to think that you might never get out. It’s not like we want to believe it, but when it comes down to it, should we spend all our time crying about not being home? Or should we face the reality and realise that this could very well be it and try to make the best of it?”
Despite Nora’s speech, Ruthie was still dumbfounded. “So you’re just going to forget your parents and everything else and become Nora Grady, just like Gloria?”
“Stop it!” Nora said again, and now she was shouting. “You have no idea what you’re talking about!” She looked like she wanted to throw Ruthie out of the room and slam the door in her face, but that was not an option. Instead, she turned her back on Ruthie and busied herself rifling through her nightstand drawer. Ruthie was still frustrated by Nora’s ridiculous standpoint, but at the same time, she realised that she also didn’t have anyone else.
“Nora?” she ventured.
“Just go away,” came the hard reply.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
What's In a Name? That Which We Call a Rose By Any Other Name...
(Yes, my Shakespeare class is proving helpful, LOL.)
Names are something I've always loved. Not even solely for writing- I just love names. And choosing names for characters in my stories/scripts can sometimes be an arduous process, as they not only need to match the character's personality, but they need to roll of the tongue, especially in a script. This includes their last name, and sometimes, on the rare occassion I bring up their middle name, that, too. It becomes more complicated if a character is married and for some reason I bring up their maiden name or they get married in the middle of the story (which I think I may have only done once. I write mostly YA, so marriage is not really a theme in my stories.) If they have siblings, their names must also sound good together.
Lately I've been getting lucky with names- my characters are just naming themselves! This is almost as interesting as carefully choosing names for them, as the names they pick are not ones that I would normally go for. For example, Pauline. Not a huge fan of the name, but Pauline wanted to be Pauline and so, she is. Same with Eliza and her friend Jonah. I never thought those two names would appear in my writing, but they're there with top billing in Q/Quarantined.
Here are some of my favorite names I've used over the years (mostly girls', as they tend to be my main characters):
-Marianne (script)
-Ruthie Halpert (Remembrance. I'd wanted to use the last name for years before I finally found a first name- and a character- that fit it.)
-Noah Halpert (Remembrance- Ruthie's little brother)
-Claire (script)
-Caleb (script)
-Adam (script)
-Amy (script- Adam's sister. It was not until the script was completed that I realised their names together were nearly the name of a currently famous actress [who also happens to be one of my favorites].)
-Lyddie Palmer (The Other Side of Light)
-Julie Palmer (The Other Side of Light, Lyddie's sister)
-Thomas Callum Flynn (Caroline. Yes, I had to put his full name, a) because it sounds so good and b) because I am in love with him.)
-Caroline Eberlee (title character, though the title will not always be her name.)
-Alexis Holt (script)
-Jack Brennan (same script. He dates Alexis.)
-Claire Medina (different Claire, different script.)
-Lexa Harris (last year's failed NaNo novel)
-Drew Donovan (same thing. Lexa's friend- and love interest.)
And those are just the main characters! What are some of your favorite names?
(I'm trying to get up the nerve to post something from a WIP tomorrow... I admire those who have the courage to post them more regularly.)
Names are something I've always loved. Not even solely for writing- I just love names. And choosing names for characters in my stories/scripts can sometimes be an arduous process, as they not only need to match the character's personality, but they need to roll of the tongue, especially in a script. This includes their last name, and sometimes, on the rare occassion I bring up their middle name, that, too. It becomes more complicated if a character is married and for some reason I bring up their maiden name or they get married in the middle of the story (which I think I may have only done once. I write mostly YA, so marriage is not really a theme in my stories.) If they have siblings, their names must also sound good together.
Lately I've been getting lucky with names- my characters are just naming themselves! This is almost as interesting as carefully choosing names for them, as the names they pick are not ones that I would normally go for. For example, Pauline. Not a huge fan of the name, but Pauline wanted to be Pauline and so, she is. Same with Eliza and her friend Jonah. I never thought those two names would appear in my writing, but they're there with top billing in Q/Quarantined.
Here are some of my favorite names I've used over the years (mostly girls', as they tend to be my main characters):
-Marianne (script)
-Ruthie Halpert (Remembrance. I'd wanted to use the last name for years before I finally found a first name- and a character- that fit it.)
-Noah Halpert (Remembrance- Ruthie's little brother)
-Claire (script)
-Caleb (script)
-Adam (script)
-Amy (script- Adam's sister. It was not until the script was completed that I realised their names together were nearly the name of a currently famous actress [who also happens to be one of my favorites].)
-Lyddie Palmer (The Other Side of Light)
-Julie Palmer (The Other Side of Light, Lyddie's sister)
-Thomas Callum Flynn (Caroline. Yes, I had to put his full name, a) because it sounds so good and b) because I am in love with him.)
-Caroline Eberlee (title character, though the title will not always be her name.)
-Alexis Holt (script)
-Jack Brennan (same script. He dates Alexis.)
-Claire Medina (different Claire, different script.)
-Lexa Harris (last year's failed NaNo novel)
-Drew Donovan (same thing. Lexa's friend- and love interest.)
And those are just the main characters! What are some of your favorite names?
(I'm trying to get up the nerve to post something from a WIP tomorrow... I admire those who have the courage to post them more regularly.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)