About DIALOGUE

     In a recent discussion group for playwrights, the conversation turned to the subject of how dialogue should look on the scripted page. One individual stated that dialogue on paper should please the printer, i.e., the words are spelled correctly, and the sentences are grammatically correct. Another individual concurred, adding that improperly spelled words would automatically be corrected by the proof reader, and, if uncorrected, would draw attention of the reader to the seeming error rather than to what the playwright might actually be saying.

     I absolutely disagree with both of these viewpoints.

     First, let’s take a look at how thoughts are communicated in spoken words. (And spoken words, as playwrights, are our stock in trade.) Spoken words and written words are not the same. In normal day-to-day conversation, generally a speaker will say only enough to get his or her message across, and then stop speaking. Most of what is being said may be in complete sentences, true enough, but a part of this rhetoric may also be in fragmented sentences. Indeed, portions of what is being “said” may not be in words at all, but in gestures and body language. Further, people rarely say combinations of words the way they are written. For example, if you were to tell someone you are going to the store, that’s how you would write it – “I’m going to the store.” If you were telling someone, you might say “I’m goin’ t’ th’ store.”

     Another misapprehension is that playwrights create characters. They do not. Actors create characters. Playwrights suggest characters. The choices of words, the rhythm of the words, the pace, the slang, the actual number of words in a sentence, the phonetically (as opposed to incorrectly) spelling of words – all these things help an actor visualize a character from whom these words, gestures, and thoughts, would believably flow. (You don’t believe me? Take a Shakespeare soliloquy, give it to an actor, and have him read it back to you. Then give the same soliloquy to your next-door neighbor. In both cases the words are the same. Who created the character?) Perhaps this is an unfair comparison, but the point is this; words flow from character, not the other way around.

     And so – simple enough – when a playwright places dialogue on paper, he or she is communicating directly to the imagination of the reader, asking that reader to hear the words being spoken the same way the playwright hears them. Toward that goal, there are no rules, no uniform structure, no ridged grammar. Whatever works is what works.

     Thoughts?        

Transitions

     I am being called again ...

     I look over the past few years and realize with a growing clarity that I have missed my mark. I don't know how it happened. My goals certainly were clear enough, and for a period of time I was meeting them on a regular basis.

     Perhaps that was the problem. I never had a real struggle - doors always opened for me, and I had a lust for achievement that sent me down a number of most interesting paths.

     And I still lean heavily toward those activities in my life that have always been enjoyable, notably, directing stage plays. I joke - and it's true - that the best therapy in the world is to yell at people and constantly tell them where to go ... and they thank me for it. Apparently I have skill to some degree. I have one room filled with awards, certificates, engraved commendations, and on and on and on. Nice, but constantly in need of dusting.

     Would you like to know my secret? I'll tell you my secret - actually three secrets.  And I will give them to you - no charge.

     When you cast a show, bring in the very best people you can find, and then have the good sense to stay out of their way while they do what they are supposed to be good at.

     In herding actors around the stage, make pretty pictures with people.

     Never ever ever ever bore your audience. Pace a play fast, so that the people watching your production will still have time for a drink or two after the show.

     That's it. All my secrets. Now go out there and direct something!

     ... because I won't. Maybe I'm finally growing up. I went to see a show the other night that had several talented friends in it. I couldn't wait for it to end so I could leave and ... and ...

     Ah, the mark I missed. I am directing plays I should be writing. I have a number of works in progress, inching painfully forward. It occurs to me that since I bill myself as a writer, perhaps I should actually take some time and write something.

     And there is a chance that I will.

     j
     

MORGAN update

In February of 2010 I submitted a post regarding the (then) present disposition of a play I had written years before, but until then had never released. The play is titled MORGAN and to this day remains a passion in my life.

It’s funny how some things come into being. My young daughter and I had been watching one of the many dreary King Arthur movies on television, when she turned to me and asked, “Morgan le Fay? Who is HE?”

I answered as best I could, but in the back of my mind I was already envisioning a play that would justify that question.

Before I put a single word on paper, I spent three years reading every novel, history, and commentary I could find regarding the literary Arthur Pendragon and his estranged half-sister, Morgan. (There’s reasonable evidence to suggest that an “Arthur” actually lived, and that he was so far removed from the legend as to be almost unrecognizable.)

I made a couple of interesting discoveries.

The first – a somewhat humbling realization. In 6th century England there were both crude and sophisticated civilizations, religions, and codes of conduct. Intelligent thought was in evidence. My country has yet to HAVE a 6th century. During the time of Arthur, where I live was swamp lands – Indians hadn’t even reached here.

The other discovery was more to the point. Throughout most of the narratives, there is a recurrent theme along these lines; Morgan was evil, a schemer, a witch, jealous of her half-brother, and constantly plotting his downfall for never fully explained reasons. Eventually Arthur “wins,” but only after prolonged struggle and cost (including his life.)

I soon realized the problem started with Arthur. He was ultimately the winner, and history is almost always written by the last group standing. The truth, as I discovered, is that Morgan was the victim in every sense of the word. As a child she witnessed her lands taken away, her father killed, and her mother raped. To put it in modern terms, Morgan witnessed a terrorist attack.

So that became Act I of my play.

Act II chronicles Morgan’s rise to power. It seems reasonable (as literature) to suggest that Druids existed at that time, that Merlin was a Druid High Priest, and that they wielded real mystical power. Morgan, being a woman, realized her only opportunity to effect justice was by embracing black arts. She became second only to Merlin, and outlasted him.

Act III follows her descent into madness and the suggestion of recovery. She became an absolute power, and “absolute power corrupts absolutely.” She became Hitler at his worst. With the death of Arthur she loses her powers and there is an implication that she could eventually regain a degree of sanity.

The play ends with an irony. Without her constant prodding, Arthur would have been nothing. If left in peace, he would have been an insignificant king of a lackluster kingdom, one in a long line of dusty footnotes. Instead of destroying him, she directly and indirectly created the legend.

Now you have the picture. It’s a large and complex work. No theatre I know is capable of producing it. (Key words here are “I know.”) About a year ago I was discussing the language in the play with a friend who produces mainly Shakespeare plays. She asked to read it, and a month later asked if I would allow the work to be considered for production by them.

I agreed, made note of it in a blog, and then forgot about it.

A couple of days ago one of my favorite commentators asked for an update. Here it is.

In November the Shakespeare producer contacted me and said her company would produce the play if I would direct. Since at the time I was neck deep in the RICHARD III production, I postponed answering.

And that’s where I am now. I don’t know if I want to do this.

I just don’t know.


j

Lucy, I'm home!

I discovered YouTube. I watched stuff. And more stuff. And more stuff. I glutted on stuff. Wow. Sam? I'm disappointed you didn't tell me. Is there anything else out there I should know about?

Julie, my often writing partner, showed me a book about tiny houses on wheels, so for the past while I’ve been mentally touring Europe, stealing chickens from rich people, and watching sad-eyed women dancing around the evening camp fire. Sometimes I think I was born about 400 years too late.

I discovered comments from you were no longer coming to my email, but were now being stored in an inane section of my blog called “comments.” I published everything I read, and sent Blogger a few comments of my own in the best tradition of Mel Gibson. (Speaking of which, Kari, you are absolutely correct. I wasn’t trying to excuse anything, just pointing out that we love to rush to judgment. Malmesbury, you constantly enrich my blog with your visits. I’m humbled by your astute observations.)

And I’ve been busy with what is supposedly my vocation/avocation (depending on who’s paying at the moment.)

My play on commission is finished. I hate parts of it with a genuine purple passion, but in re-write I’ll improve the work and annoy actors at the same time. It’s a win-win situation.

The other play I’m writing is going much slower. This is a work of love, so I’m purposely caressing it, sometimes with one single word nestled carefully behind another.

For those who tuned in late, I’ve been hired to direct a production of RICHARD III for a local theatre in November. Rehearsals will start in a few weeks, and already a number of performers have started breathing heavy. (It’s going to be a truly scary play – several of the characters carry real daggers. Hopefully they will only stab each other or themselves, and not anyone who paid to see the show.)

This same theatre has now asked me to direct two other plays. The first is called ZACK, scheduled for production in May of 2011, and – to my surprise – one of my own plays, to follow in August of 2011. Okay …
And that’s about all for now. I feel greatly unburdened. Thank you so very much for hanging in there with me.


j

Comments On A Mind Set.

In the Spring of this year I was invited by Theatre Vault website to submit an article listing areas and directions where Community Theatre (in a general sense) could stand improvement.

I responded, pointing out my favorite picky details that have slightly dented a 55-year love affair with good and great theatrical experiences.

Apparently my article was acceptable to the regular readers of Theatre Vault. (Nobody was breathing heavily at my front door.) And, a few weeks ago, the Editor of the TV website invited me to submit another article along the same lines.

This time I hesitated. For one thing, I felt I had adequately covered the subject the first time around. There’s a fine line between constructive criticism and theatre bashing, and I’ve been on the receiving end of spurious attack enough times to not wish to inflict that on anybody else.

But I changed my mind. In response to a recent less than glowing review of mine, a reader pointedly reminded me that I was “reviewing a community theatre production, and not Broadway’s latest and greatest.”

I found this comment to be demeaning, not only to the theatre group he supports, but also to the community of non-professional theatres as a whole.

And I’ve heard it before. “It’s just community theatre.” To imply that one standard should or does exist for professional theatre and a lower one exists for community theatre is to suggest that the many incredibly gifted performers in community theatre are not good enough to stand equal to their paid brothers and sisters.

In fact, almost the opposite is true. There are over 40 theatrical organizations in this city, all fighting for the same dollars and patrons. No group is going to survive without constantly challenging the others to improve. Furthermore, many years ago the area went off the “A” list for professional touring companies, simply because they knew they couldn’t compete with both the quality and quantity of local presentations. Only in the areas of elaborately staged large musicals will you see much in the way of professional theatre here, and even these groups don’t always make a profit.

The bottom line is simply this; there’s only one standard. As an audience member, if you like a show, it’s good. If you don’t, it isn’t. It’s as simple as that. Your judgment should be based solely on taste and experience, without qualifications. If you are working on a show, and have the mind set that it’s “just community theatre,” the show is dead already. Make it the best it can possibly be, and settle for nothing less. Invite – even dare – comparisons to anybody. A positive, rather than defensive, attitude is everything.

j

Soft You Now ...

Script Frenzy has ended. They wanted 100 pages in 30 days, they got 104 pages in 28 days. They gave Julie and I a logo saying that we are winners (as opposed to the one that simply concedes that we would be capable of covering a good sized wall with words ..

I have mostly sort of completed casting for the production of RICHARD III that I'm scheduled to direct in the fall. It was a surprise, then, when I stumbled across auditions mentioned on Facebook. Oops - auditions are for another company. I forgot that THREE productions of the play are scheduled to open within weeks of each other. (Who came up with that idea?)

I just finished seeing RENT, and writing reviews for A THOUSAND CLOWNS and I NEVER SANG FOR MY FATHER. My fingers hurt.

I am unaware of any politicians doing anything profoundly outrageous so far today, resulting in no heavy breathing on my part (and no cause for consternation and/or bemused interest from friends who live in civilized countries.).

Julie is off swatting at the windmill down the street, and the gauntlet Q threw at my feet I will pick up - tomorrow.

For the moment, then, the sun is shining and the weather is balmy warm. I'm going to take my drink, sit in the lawn chair I should have taken in last fall, and just smell the dandelions.


j

Day 19 of Script Frenzy. The last dozen or so pages are pretty good. Hmm. We may have something beyond blah blah blah. Wouldn't that be funny? 

 

Day 2 of holding auditions for Richard III. I can easily cast Lady Anne, Queen Elizabeth, and Queen Margaret. I still have no Richard and would like stronger male supporting characters. In the theatre there seems to always be more talented women than there are men. With the men I have so far, their female counterparts would eat them for breakfast.

   

Day 1. Are you kidding me? Is it that time of year already? A-a-a-h-h-h-h-h!!!!

Script Frenzy, day 17

The object of the contest is to write a 100 page story in 30 days.

Julie Morrison and I are now at 60 pages, working at it with some but not great effort. Most of the time we have been ahead of the daily page number goals set by Script Frenzy.

We started with no plot nor outline. Simply, one of us would write a page or two, and then the other person would add to it, building a story as we go along. 

What started as a romantic ghost story has turned toward searing drama. Once again I, with the perception and sensitivity of a sea snail, am w-a-y-y-y out of my depth.

j

It's That Time Again.

Getting back to what I'm supposed to know what I'm doing.


j

Bringing You Up To Date

The 30th (and hopefully final) re-write of MORGAN is complete, and a copy of the 124 page play has been mailed to a producer who has expressed an interest in reading it.










Another play, ELYCE TIMES ONE, co-authored by Julie Morrison and me, is presently being considered by two local theatres. Both groups have promised to get back to me sometime in March, as to whether either is interested in producing it sometime soon. A third theatre has guaranteed production in the summer of 2011, if someone else doesn’t do it first. (Although the play is complete, it has been offered as a works-in-progress, with the idea of re-writes likely afterwards.) All three theatres are in favor of producing the play, because (1) it would be out of their regular season, (2) it’s a comparatively inexpensive play to produce, and (3) whoever eventually gets it will apply – and likely get – serious grant money.

Also in March my agent tells me one of my earlier plays is still scheduled to be produced at a theatre in Glasgow, Scotland. (No, I’m not planning to go see it. Just send me money – or pounds – or Euros. I don’t care, I’m not fussy.)

My next assignments to review plays for Theatre Vault are March 5th and 6th. I’m going to see TRACKS IN THE SNOW on Friday, and SIX DANCE LESSONS IN SIX WEEKS on Saturday.

Someone has asked to moderate my writer’s group in March. He’s going to lead a discussion on how to write action scenes. Good. Nothing here I need prepare for.

Julie and I have discussed another writing collaboration – likely to start in April.

I have no directing assignments until fall. Yea.

So.

What does this all mean? It means I have an entire week of writing or not writing. I have two works partially completed. (One is three-quarters done. I’m on the last page of the other one – I can’t come up with a good way to END the dumb thing!)

Or, I don’t know, maybe I’ll just do something silly, like – I don’t know – maybe I’ll read something somebody else has written, like a book or something like that. Is that too drastic? I could start with comic strips and work my way up. Do they still draw comic strips?

Or maybe I’ll take long walks. I used to enjoy that. And if I’m not boiling over a plot outline in my mind, I don’t get lost nearly as often.

Or maybe I’ll just sleep. I have a new pillow. I hate it. But I’ve been beating it regularly with a baseball bat, and I ran over it twice with the car, so it doesn’t feel so much like a truck tire in a pillowcase any more.

Or I could shovel the sidewalk … naw, forget that one.

I know! I’ll write a post on this blog explaining why I’m not … writing … anything.

Hmmm.

I know what I’ll do – I’ll think about it. That’s what Ill do – I'll think about it.

Tomorrow. Maybe.


jb


And how was your day?

MORGAN!

MORGAN is a biography of Morgan le Fay, King Arthur's half sister.

Re-write number 30 was completed today. I've been working on this play for almost exactly 25 years.

After the 6th complete revision, the work won a regional contest and received a public reading at a college in Southern Ohio.

I wasn't happy with what I had written. I withdrew the play, picked away at it every once in awhile. I never offered it to any theatre with the idea of having it produced.

I wasn't sure if any theatre would or could produce it. The language, so far as I could make it, is in antiquated English. And the setting is large.

But I kept working on it. Working on it was fun. I think I've created something that might actually be literature. (But please don't tell anybody.)

I stopped after the 29th re-write. The 29th re-write was still on a typewriter, and typing a 122 page play 29 times was not fun.

So it became something to be read.

Now somebody is interested in reading it. This person runs a theatre specializing in Shakespeare plays and the like.

Hmmm.

So re-write number 30 just went by. On a computer.

I'll let you know if there's any breaking news.


jb

Has It Been A Year Already?

Guess so ...

jb

On Becoming A Writer

As the leader of a writing group, I’m often asked this question “what can I do to be a writer?”

I answer, “write something.”

“No no,” the person persists, “what can I do to be a good writer?”

“Write something good,” I respond.

Some people don’t know when to quit. “What can I do to become a successful writer?”

I rarely answer that question, because the price of success is too high for most people. Success (as most hopefuls define the word) could mean abandoning everything else in life – eating, sleeping, home, relationships – everything. The point of breathing is to write. It’s not just an attitude you wear one day like a coat. It's certainly not a job.

In her blog, My Inflammatory Writ, New York City playwright Kari poignantly expresses her understanding of what that means.

“By fifteen, (I was) a playwright, unleashing the voices in my head and my heart.

At twenty eight, I wonder why I ever thought I could be anything else.

Writing is the way to answer the unanswerable.
My way of praying.

When I know nothing else, I know that I write.

When I forget who I am, writing is my way of remembering.
Of finding my way back.

I can’t be scared of doing the only thing that brings me peace
in a world and a life where peace is impossible.”


Any questions?


jb

Searching For The Words

There are arrangements of words on paper which evoke responses from a pliant reader; “I’ve seen what has been seen, done what has been done, dreamed what has been dreamed. With slowing or race of heart I recognize – usually only when I have no precedent for what I’m reading – that I’m vicariously experiencing someone else’s perceptions.”

With that premise in mind, I offer the thought that every good writing begins with a descent into madness; depth is never the result of a casual glance, but rather an unblinking stare, no matter how blinding that stare might become.

And behind the initial impression is always the question – “How do I feel about this?
How do I feel, how do I feel, how do I feel?”

And there’s the problem. Sometimes I get tired of “feeling.”

On the one hand, discovery is a wonderful thing. What does this mean? What is the subtext? Where would this or that naturally lead? To suggest answers, a writer will often step outside him or herself – an observer, rather than a participant, in humanity. Like an
intruding spirit, silently watching. To interject – anything – would alter direction of the story. And the writer, without substance here, would never do this.

On the other hand, there’s the gypsy thing. For months, late at night, I’d hear what sounded like sleigh bells. No kidding. I’d dream about being in a gypsy caravan, going I don’t care where. A friend suggested that I wanted to travel or perhaps move. Could be. This sounded like a real possibility. Strangely, after I started directing the play HARVEY in July, the dreams stopped. I hadn’t thought about that until right now.

During the time I’ve been in rehearsal for one play and then another, even a pretense of observation became impractical. (Other than drinking heavily, nothing isolates you from the attentions of actors.)

Life moves from passive to active. And this is a good thing. Isn’t it? Problems are addressed, insecurities seem somewhat farther away … life is skittles and beer (Don’t ask me. I heard it somewhere.)

But then, with the veneer of humanity imposed, something happens to sensitivity, ya know? No matter how hard you try, the will … hardens, and …

The process starts all over again.

Unless …

Do you know something I don’t?

jb

The Life That Late I Led.

I’m still here. Not much voice, but I’m still here.

It’s been an interesting few weeks. Fortunately I’ve had Wednesday and Thursday off, as well as the week-end. (Good thing. Thanks to the dog I must now rip up what remains of the carpet on the stairs and upper hall.) I planned on refinishing the wood floors in about a year from now … The dog decided that now would be more appropriate.

(Have you ever heard of a dog that EATS carpet? I mean, for real?)

The play INHERIT THE WIND is moving along. (Okay, so that’s not the smoothest transition in the world.) I presently have 31 people in the cast. When you consider that the stage of this theatre is 26 feet wide, it makes for creative directing. (Contrast that with the show I just closed, HARVEY, with 11 in the cast on a stage 38 feet wide.) For the past couple of weeks we’ve been thrashing around in a rehearsal hall. Tuesday we move onto the actual theatre stage, and I’ll give you the blow-by-blow as it occurs.

Tomorrow (actually later today) I’m going to Cleveland Ohio for a three day writer’s retreat. This is a good thing. Directing plays written by other people is fun (and pays well), but during these periods I write very little, if anything. I was reading The Inflammatory Writ the other day, and commented to the author that her subject matter would make a good play, with the implication that she should write it. She simply replied that everything is a play. That hit me, because she is so right. It also occurred to me that if I truly felt the material was worth developing, why was I asking someone else to do it? I need to get back to writing.

In mid October I’m conducting an acting seminar to benefit a struggling theatre in a city about thirty miles east of here. It’s a petite facility. Although they stage wonderful productions, they seat at most 30 people. Consequently, they are always hungry (And – let’s face it. They are interested in producing one of my plays, and if a seminar will encourage them in the right direction, well …) I received a copy of their ad for the seminar, and was jolted. They are charging 40 dollars a head for people to hear me speak for three hours. Uh … I, uh, certainly don’t expect to see many from the crowd I run around with …

And then there’s that. I miss the people I follow and those who follow me. They haven’t left – I’m the one who pulled away, to swat for a period at theatrical windmills. Suddenly I feel the loss. I do miss you, and I will be back …until the next flight of fancy takes me in another capricious direction.

But you know that, don’t you?

Okay, I wasn't gonna do this, but you forced me. The first twenty of my friends who respond will receive, at no additional cost, one slightly chewed square of carpet ...

jb

I'm free! (Well, maybe not free exactly. Cheap. Yeah, maybe that's a better word. I'm cheap!)

Whew.

I have a couple of days off.

I may take the afternoons and go to the theatre and work. The set construction is not progressing fast enough for me, and sometimes you can accomplish a lot when there are no distractions.



Or …

I may not do that at all.

I may take a day to mow the lawn and trim around flower beds and trees and other stuff that will not, with a sense of self preservation, jump out of my way.

Or I may take a day or two and sort (read mostly throw away) the dozen or so large cardboard boxes someone mysteriously placed in my den, effectively blocking the storage units this stuff is supposed to be in.

I could do that. I could. I really could.

But I won’t. I mean, just look at this stuff. Is this how you want to spend your free time? It’s depressing.

(You’re starting to detect a pattern here, aren’t you?)

I could work on the play I entered in a competition. I should do that – finish it. It would serve me right if somebody actually wanted to read it. Oh. I forgot. The manager of a local theatre DOES want to read it. Pressure. Hey! It’s my day off! Don’t give me pressure on my day off! (Besides. The dog won’t let me.)

There’s a charming restaurant on the Ohio river that serves the best pasta in the world. I’ve been thinking about that lately. Across the street is a paddle wheel boat with a tiny bar on the top deck. After a good meal you can sit comfortable in top deck lounge chairs and watch large ships waft up and down the river.

Only … both places require shoes. Not on my day off, Skippy!

Or … I suppose I could just post something. Yeah, that would be nice. I could write a paragraph or two. I've done it before. I can do it again.

Or not.

Ya see, the real problem here is

THE TEAPOT COLLECTOR

Back to working on the play ...

I have now written about 50 pages, and am keeping 36 of them.

Progress.

I am being influenced.

A couple of years ago a friend was commenting on a work at the time, and suggested that a particular description of an event was "blah blah blah." She said - correctly - that although the description was accurate, it had no heart.

BLAH BLAH BLAH is now my screen saver, a reminder to occasionally stretch myself as a writer.

THE TEAPOT COLLECTOR has become a labor of love, and a true stretch. No Pratt falls, no chase scenes, everybody stays dressed. It would be nice, for once, if the merits of one of my plays would center around actual character development and plot.

In an earlier post, I wrote about an actor who is as unlike me as two people can get, yet I deeply value his friendship. A comment on the post said that my friends were like "a bouquet of wild flowers." I hadn't really thought about it that way, but it's true.

And, because of that, THE TEAPOT COLLECTOR has evolved. It started out to be a study of a friendship between an old man and a young girl. It has now expanded to include his relationship with a mean-spirited relative and a former co-worker. Each individual is represented by one of the teapots he collects.

Sounds good. We'll see if it works out that way.

And that's where I am so far. I'm still trying to come up with a logo for the play, but so far no pitcher has come to mind ...

Sorry. I can only stand it for

so long.

jb


And how was your day?

For And About Q ...

I have this friend. She sends me studies and short stories from time to time. I tell her that as a writer she is a far greater artist than I am. She doesn't believe me. Here's a sample of her work. What do you think?

J

She had an unfortunate face. Too symmetrical and smooth of skin to be ugly; too fused in an expression of distress to be pretty. Not that the visage mirrored the inner affect. No, she looked the same whether bursting with joy or ready to jump. A distress borne of facial features passed genetically, parents to offspring. A rare combination of her mother’s saucy pout and her father’s bedroom eyes—the features that made them such an attractive couple, somehow, when combined produced an unpleasant melange. One had to study her for a moment or two to determine if she was in fact, going to be placed in the “pretty” or “ ugly” column. Two days before he marries her and he’s still not sure.

They sat opposite. He studied her face, as he often did, looking for the answer to the knotted question in his intestines. She studied the menu, trying to decide on a noodle dish from the photos displayed. The server came over and she began to interrogate him. “Which are the skinniest ones, dragging noodles or cutting noodles?” He winced, knowing she would never eat anything considered “fat”, whether due to caloric content or shape.

“Okay…so dragging noodles then. In soup. Chicken, not pork…okay? No pork.” She said this last statement as though the young Asian server were her aged Aunt Mim, hard of hearing and slightly demented.

He ordered the same, less of a problem that way. She was speaking to him but his eyes were fixed on her features, still trying to decide…

“Dan! Are you listening to me? We need to decide now, right now. Blue or black?”

He had no idea what she was referring to, having long ago conceded all matters pertaining to The Wedding to her. “Um, black I think.” Could be they were going to have a black car, black cake or black priest…he didn’t much care.

She punched numbers on her cell phone. He continued to study her face. As she talked her lips formed vowels and consonants somehow remaining in a perpetual pout. This should be good, he thought. That’s what the supermodels have, and the strippers he occasionally patronized before she clamped down on his recreational time. A pout is good. But somehow on her, it was the pout of a petulant child, not of a sexy siren.

Nose: small, straight, upturned. Cute. The kind of nose any plastic surgeon would be proud to display on his “after” page. Eyes: blue. No, grey. Maybe kind of green. Hell, what kind of fiancé doesn’t even know what colour his betrothed’s eyes are? Blue, definitely blue. But a smokey blue, like the haze in the bar after the lights come on.

But then there was the shape. No, maybe the shape was okay. It was the way they were aligned on her face. Yes, that was it. They sloped up at the inner corners, in a pleading, dismayed way. Always disappointed; always wanting more.

Those eyes. That’s why they were engaged. A year of dating. She was nice, but it was more that she was easy---not in a sexual way, although that wasn’t really a concern, but more in that she was like him. Same background, same circle. Nothing complicated here. He would have been content to continue with the weekend dates, the hot, sweaty release in his car or her parents’ house after they were asleep. But those eyes. They pleaded for more. And every time he looked at her he got the message that he wasn’t man enough, or mature enough….

So marriage it was. He thought his concession to marry would make those eyes turn up at the corners, stop demanding, pleading, judging.

“Dragging noodles in chicken soup”. The food arrived.

The Movie Bug

So ... I'm sitting there, innocently typing away on The Teapot Collector, with the (now fading) hope of getting the thing finished before somebody asks to read it.

And the phone rings ... (I don't like telephones. I have never liked telephones. If I wanna talk to you, I'd much rather drive over to your home ... or email. Yeah, I like email. Or posting on this blog. I actually feel pretty close to you on this blog. Is that strange? I dunno. But I feel comfortable by communicating this way, and you certainly don't appear shy in answering ...)

So the phone rings. It's Julie, my writing partner. Don't get me wrong,I enjoy writing on my own, but I also like working out stuff with people. In addition to everything else, I'm presently writing a play with Q - one line at a time! (Excuse me, it's a collaboration. Politically correct, that's me ... not.)


So Julie calls, and she says she has just accepted a challange from something called Script Frenzy. The idea is to complete (I assume) a 100 page script during the month of April. She intended to write a movie script, and graciously invited me to co-author, if that was something I'd like to do ...

And it was something I'd like to do. I've read a number of movie scripts, in fact edited a couple, but I've never actually written one.

I should, I suppose, point out a difference between Julie and myself. She enjoys challanges. We have just finished writing a play together - a pretty good one. This was something she had never done before. She also just finished a gruling competition where she was enjoined to post something every day for a year. So she enjoys a good challange. Me? I enjoy a good meal, followed by a good wine, followed by a good nap.

So we are writing a movie - a science fiction epic about time travel. If you would care to follow our progress, visit http://www.scriptfrenzy.org/eng/user/161690

And finally, I must confess that with my limited experience in movie writing, it seems to me we have enough material for several movies, a thick novel or two, certainly a computer game, and eventually toys that come with your double cheeseburgers.

I dunno. I'll think about it later - right after my nap.

jb

And how was your day?

You Know You Are Getting Old When ...

Okay. I'm now reduced to this; blatant stealing.

My friend Nicki posed the question on her blog - "You know you are getting old when ..." She commented on the new refrigerator that was installed in her apartment. It didn't have an ice maker. http://nickilovesdrama.blogspot.com/

I thought about that question. I thought about that refrigerator. (No, I am not seriously in need of a life ... at least not seriously. Not TOO seriously.) In case you don't know this fact about me, I'll tell you. At the moment I am deeply engrossed in writing a play. In short, there are people who think this play is completed. I have no idea why they think that. Well, maybe I might have a suspicion. In any case, I'm working away at this thing, and take a few minutes to breeze thru the blogs I enjoy. And there is Nicki's question - a distraction. So here's my secret. when I'm under self-induced pressure, I am drawn to distraction. The more pressure, the more I cling to distraction. It's like moss growing on the north side of a tree. (Does moss really grow on the north side of a tree? How does it know which way is north? I learned this bit of trivia from a John Wayne movie, so it must be true. John Wayne has never lied to me. Actually, I think it was William Holden who said it, but he was standing beside John Wayne at the time, and if it wasn't true, John Wayne would have corrected William Holden. I don't recall anybody ever correcting John Wayne.)

Where was I?

Oh. Yes.

Anyway, I was drawn to Nicki's question. I can easily remember a time before refrigerators HAD ice makers. Does that mean I know I'm getting older? (Don't tell anybody. When I was really young - I mean minus two or something like that - I can remember a friend of my parents who had a refrigerator that had no electricity. It was a big wooden box with ice in the bottom drawer. But that was in Chicago in the summer. In the winter they didn't even need the wooden box. They just put their milk and hot dogs out on the window sill, and whatever was out there stayed cold just fine. But that was Chicago - very progressive.)

In the meantime, I thought the question was a good one, and - being a writer, I'd love your response. How do you know when you are getting older? (And I'll make it easy on you - you don't have to talk about refrigerators, or even Chicago, if you don't want to. Personally, I think Chicago is a pretty interesting place, and I think there's plenty to write about, but not much of it makes me feel older. S0 maybe you shouldn't write about Chicago.)

On the other hand, I'm not at all suggesting that you CAN'T write about Chicago if you want to. I mean, if Chicago makes you feel old, I'd love to hear about it.

So. Ya got it? "You know you are getting old when ...

(And to make it even easier, the kind blogger people have provided a comment box for you. I'm not kidding. It's about three inches down from where you are reading at this very minute. If you don't believe me, go ahead and scroll down and see, and then come back. That's okay. I'll wait.

Do be do be dooooo ...

See? It's there - waiting for you. Ya ready? "You know you are getting old when ...'

Fun.

JB


And how was your day?