Play/Script

Two questions:

1. How visual should a play be? They've got to rely on the cheapest of tools, good dialogue. But I think visually. How can I put that in my script without stepping on the director's toes?

2. How big is too big, for a play? How many scene changes are too many? How many extras/characters? For a film script, my story is relatively small scale/low budget. But for a play...what's the proper scale?

The Value of Hulu

Fringe is my new favorite show.

Of course I tried it for an episode when it first began to air--but I kept forgetting when it was on, and the episodes I happened across were a little hit or miss.

When I ran out of House and Bones episodes on Hulu, however, I decided to give it another shot.

That episode was all right, though disgusting. But it was the only thing on Hulu that I was at all interested in, and the TV schedule is overstuffed with Xmas specials at the moment (blah).

So I watched the Season 2 winter hiatus finale--and it was AWESOME.

And it made me want to find out more about the show's mythology, so I bought Season 1 on iTunes.

It's great! The writers run their concepts right to the wall (such as: if someone lets out an thermo-electric charge when he's upset, it would create a ghastly snowball effect. Or, if you want to do a Monster-in-the-House plot, what better "house" than a plane? It's a microcosm of people, and you CAN'T escape!). And the acting is *phenomenal*, esp. from the three leads.

It's also fascinating for a Lost-o-phile like me, because the two shows have a lot of shared motifs: daddy issues, obviously, but also the "knowlegable older (maybe evil?) woman" and a certain back-alley depiction of medical science. There's also the first season's soundtrack which was apparently stolen from Lost wholesale--that's kind of annoying actually.

Of course, the scenes are super-efficient, the dialogue disarmingly good, and the show's found a perfect balance between procedure and mythological/character growth. Though it can be a little too light or slightly derivative at times, I'm hooked.

So here goes my third Fringe episode of the day!

must I speak softy or wear soft clothes or soften my image with domesticity

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/20/magazine/20Meyers-t.html?ref=magazine

How is this article supposed to make a woman feel?

The New York Times profiles one of the few (two? three?) well-paid female directors finding work in Hollywood, and the main thrust of the article is:

1. but she's so feminine!
2. and her success relies on creating "aspirational" home interiors! and that men *can* respect women for their accomplishments! Maybe!
3. but she wouldn't have made it if she hadn't had a male writing partner for the first TWENTY YEARS of her career.

Zero novels written by women break the year's top ten best according to arguably the most influencial reviewers in the country. Time Magazine hasn't had a female "person" of the year since 1986--back, by the way, when it was still called the "Man of the Year." And then there's this Salon article about how much easier it was for female freelancers to find work, respect, and higher pay after taking male pseudonyms:

http://www.salon.com/life/broadsheet/feature/2009/12/14/male_pseudonyms/index.html

At least Rihanna gets it

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKWT-h3pmDQ

Foreign Soiled

My boyfriend was reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao last month, and he said it would have been nearly impenetrable if he didn't know Spanish. On the other hand, what are the odds that all those award committee jury members spoke Spanish?

How much foreign language is too much?

My most recent story is set in a French-speaking country, so there are a few French words here and there (ie, "mon petit" is said at one point). I either made sure the words were obvious in their context (such as the above endearment, spoken from an adult to a child she's babysitting) or I provided a translation right away--and I never used more than one foreign word in a scene.

The more sophisticated ways I got around using foreign languages in a foreign country while maintaining authenticity were:

1. My narrator was American, so sometimes she couldn't understand what was being said, either.

2. When people spoke English to her, they were usually translating from French--so I figured out how to say their line in French *first* and then wrote the direct English translation of it. For example, I would use French-English cognates, even if a native English speaker would be more likely to use the cognate's synonym. Sometimes I would also change the order of words, if another order would be *much* more natural in French. I tried to never use American idioms or word order that would be *supremely* unnatural in French.

3. Once, when the narrator is out of commission and two French-speakers have to talk to one another, they exchange one French phrase. I don't translate the phrase, but it's one character asking another to do something--and the second character immediately does what the first asks him to do. At that point, the narrator is in a really hazy, bad place, so I figured a little confusion would be fine. The context definitely required that the characters speak in French, but luckily they didn't have to speak much nor about anything abstract.

Of course, little to none of this would have been possible if I didn't have a relatively strong background in French; I can't imagine doing it in any other language. How much background knowledge IS necessary, though? Was *all* my knowledge of French coming into play, or does one only need to have a feel for the language?

Critical Critiques

On "Ward Six" today, J.R. Lennon writes, "A good editor treats the story as something other than a masturbatory enterprise; she is trying to figure out how to make the world accept and enjoy your vision."

Sure, a writer must think of different perspectives--especially since after Draft 5 or so, it's pretty hard for a writer (or me, anyway) to have any real perspective at all. Trust in one's editor IS necessary if one is going to leap the chasm between writing as therapy/hobby and writing as entertainment/career; nobody can make it alone. But how much should one worry about the editor's personal biases?

I'm not at a point where I have a real editor--I just have literate, kind friends who are willing to read my work and talk to me about it. They've helped me transform my stories, but sometimes I feel as though their advice isn't representative of the general audience but just of their own personal taste/interests.

For instance, one of those friends is an actor who loves Spanish/South American literature. He has a taste for "archetypal" characters, unsolved mysteries, and a bittersweet tone; he also has a high tolerance for magical realism. Another of my friends is very into conventional fantasy, but shies away from explicit physicality, and she is a stickler for authentic, researched detail. Both of these friends are fantastic readers, but when the first says he "loves the characters" or the second says she doesn't understand why a couple had sex, alarms go off in my head.

Does he love the characters because they're love-able, or because he likes recognizable archetypes? Does the sex scene feel disconnected from the story, or is it just not to my friend's taste?

I guess the writer/editor relationship just takes a while to understand, but I struggle in deciding when to second-guess myself and when to second-guess my reader(s).

The ways I've found to get the most useful critiques possible:

1. Ask for problems, not solutions. As the writer, I know the story backwards and forwards by the time anyone else sees it. That means my eye glosses over the problems; I require fresh readers to catch them. But it also means that I'm best prepared to find solutions. Most non-writers are taught that constructive criticism means not calling attention to a thing unless they can offer an alternative to the problem. But while discussing possible solutions can lead to a fantastic brain storm, it's the writer's job to ultimately make a story work, not the readers'.

2. Reassure the readers that I will not ever, ever, ever get mad at them for any of their criticism. If a reader can't come up with a solution, he might think that either the problem he sensed doesn't exist, or that it would be unkind to bring it up. It's essential that the reader not be afraid to mention every little tingle of feeling for fear of the writer becoming defensive. I usually say again and again and again to the reader that this piece is *not* me--I will *not* take criticism of the piece to be criticism of me--and that every little thought the reader had was valuable. I also make sure to stay quiet and not explain anything while the reader is telling me what s/he felt--often listening to the reader figure out a piece out loud is invaluable.

3. Tell the reader what I want them to look for or talk to me about. Usually I have certain questions about the piece, and I'll ask the reader to think about them while reading. I try not to be too specific re: plot or research detail, because it's more valuable to hear what the reader picked up on or missed without any guidance. But when it comes to theme, I will ask them afterwards or on a second reading to think about specifics. And on the first reading, I tell them: I want every thought that comes into your head, and every tinge of feeling you get, too. I tell them to forget about me and think about the piece as though it were a stranger's. Most of my readers are people who yell at the TV during shows or parse movies after viewing, so once they get into the swing of the criticism, they usually feel like they're on comfortable, familiar ground.

4. Listen to what the readers *don't* say. Sometimes things I thought were huge holes weren't actually noticeable. Likewise, sometimes readers will all have misgivings about the same (unexpected!) thing. In my last editing experience, both my readers talked about a certain plot element with a kind of disgusted or confused tone. Though neither mentioned specific problems with it, their tone of voice signaled to me that something was wrong. I think neither mention problems with the element because they thought it was integral to the plot--they couldn't actually imagine the story without it. But based on their half-hidden disgust, I took out the element--and the story is MUCH stronger for it; the element wasn't as integral as it seemed to first or second time readers, and in fact distracted from the real story. Readers often seem loath to suggest big changes or problems with a story's core elements--but often their tiniest hints will reveal real problems with a piece. The hints readers give can often be more telling than their explicit criticism, because readers' instincts are often more sophisticated than their ability to articulate analysis.

I'm so thankful to my friends for being willing to read my stories, and for doing it so ably; without them, my most recent piece couldn't exist. Because of their feedback I could transform it from a weird waking dream into a meaningful story--and my best work to date.

Still, I'm not sure that I picked up on all of the story's problems. Should I have listened to my readers even more? Or just a little less? The story speaks to me now, and it speaks to them--but what about a wider audience, an audience outside of my loved-ones?

ALWAYS BE CLOSING, MOTHERF*CKER!

Tonight, I got very upset. My whole life this year has been about two sets of applications: getting a good spec together for the ABC/Disney fellowship, and getting a good story or two together for an MFA in fiction.

My first batch of MFA applications went out yesterday, and I sent a couple more today. By January 1st, every single part of the application process will be out of my hands, and the thought has sent me into a tailspin.

I always have a plan--ALWAYS. And usually B, C, D, and E plans besides. But now all of my eggs are in the "writing" basket--what happens if nobody likes how I write? What if I've been doing the wrong things this whole time? I cried and cried, and of course my boyfriend was there for me (like the amazing person he is)...

He said, "You're going to let a few people determine how you feel about your writing, and yourself? What makes their opinions so special?"

I said, "This is the entertainment industry I want to work in. It's all about opinion, and people *liking* stuff."

"So," he asked, "who didn't like your stuff?"

I came up with about fifteen people *total* who *maybe* hadn't liked my writing--the ABC people (apparently--I haven't heard a peep from them since I sent in my spec), and people from the few random places I've sent a few random pieces to over the years. But I realized--it wasn't that I was really getting hit with rejection right and left, but rather that I WASN'T SUBMITTING A GODDAMN THING!

So here I am, sniveling in the basement , and I realize: I'm setting myself up to fail.

If I don't like something of mine TOO much, I send it to about five places. Of course, I choose places that don't deal at all with things such as the piece I'm submitting. And so they write back notes like: we can't use this. Or: send us other work. And I trash that piece for good/stop sending *anything* for a very, very long time.

Meanwhile, I save the stuff I actually like, saying to myself: this is GOOD, but not PUBLISHABLE. Save it. Work on it some more. Needs more work, doesn't it?

WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING? This is called "fear of success" much as I try to dress it up as normal old fear of failure. Not to say that I *will* be successful if I send out pieces consistently and constantly, but that I'll then have at least a f*cking shot--something I don't have, btw, while crying about the masses of writing stuck on my hard drive and vowing to produce (and squirrel away) yet more.

So here I thought my New Year's Resolution should be about productivity and craft and blah blah, but now I think it will be:

SELL! SELL! SELL! ALWAYS BE CLOSING, MOTHERF*CKER!

Play Mate

I'm adapting the forty-page "short" story I wrote about yesterday into a play. In order to apply for the playwriting opportunity I'd like to, I've got to have the play done by Jan. 1.

The story is finished, so now I can start the adaptation process--but it's turning out not to be as tough as I thought. There have already been several pleasant surprises:

1. Structure. Though I didn't realize it, my story is already in perfect 5-Act structure. The relative act-lengths are even solid. That means that the story might be even stronger than I thought, AND that I've finally absorbed good story structuring!!!! I didn't outline this story, I didn't edit it with act structure in mind, BUT it came out well-laid-out anyway. That makes me unbelievably happy--because it means I'm learning, because it makes me more confident that the story is good, and because it will be relatively easy to adapt.

2. Scenes. My story is heavy on real-time scenes, as opposed to back-story and interior monologue. Not that it has no blathering or philosophizing, but it is mostly dialogue and action--which will translate well onto the stage. To me, constructing a plot using real-time scenes is a mark of professionalism--one I'm delighted to have! It also makes reading the story easier and more fun for the audience, and makes adaptation much easier, too.

So, turning this story into a play may be fun and rewarding--and DO-ABLE!--after all. Right now I'm most worried about the logistics of playwriting, ie, what *can* be done on a stage, what would look good on stage, the terms/shorthand people use, and play-script formatting.