The Good, The Bad, And The Reasonably Competent

"Until it is demonstrated, one forgets the really great difference that exists between the merely competent amateur and the very expert professional." -- Linus

A few weeks ago, a Classic Peanuts comic strip ran in the Sunday paper featuring Snoopy and Linus playing a game of catch with a little red ball.

Linus throws the ball, Snoopy walks out casually and retrieves it, then spits it out into Linus' hands.

Linus then throws the ball again as Snoopy watches dispassionately. He, again, walks out, retrieves the ball, and adds a flourish by spitting the ball out, then turns around and bounces the ball of the heel of his foot and kicks it back into the hands of Linus.

It is then Linus states the unspoken (and oftentimes unseen) obvious.

I have my own similar version of this philosophical nugget by stating "it's hard to know what is 'good,' but it's easy to know what is 'bad' when it comes to all forms of artistic expression."

To be honest, I've been called "brilliant," "talented," and "a genius," and all that.

But, frankly, I don't believe a word of it. And the instant I do is the day I lose my objectivity. I also don't consider myself an amateur by any means, although I will refer to myself as simply "competent."

Now I've seen both the competent and professional in action. I was once approached by someone who is a competent amateur (at best) and I've approached the professionals.

The truly professional are still writing papers and theses in the university system, but the truly talented I've seen are the ones who are not writing. (You know who you are.)

Then there are those who are amateurs, and nowhere near truly competent. Sure, they can string the words together in a coherent form, and one day they could very well elevate themselves to competence, but they've listened to the praise their works received and went forward far too soon.

It's sort of like Trevor Kane's statement in Jimmy Buffett's novel "Where is Joe Merchant?" Her quote follows:

"That is bad writing at its best," she muttered aloud. "They all come down here thinking they're Hemingway. That's what's wrong with the fucking world these days. Nobody wants to put in the time it takes to be legendary. Mythology is not fast food."

-Trevor Kane, pgs 118-119

Jimmy, and Trevor of course, are absolutely correct.

And this person I speak of came to me approximately this time last year, having tracked me down through various means, proclaiming he'd just published his first novel, heard I was pretty much "the best" (in other words, "the only") screenwriter in town, and wanted my input on adapting his first release for the big screen.

My first response was "how'd this guy find me?"

I ignored his written request, too concerned over having been "found" when I prefer to maintain a certain amount of solitude out here in these vast stretches of land. I'm only well known in the local city, and only one person there has the slightest amount of contact information on me: my home email address.

Given this, I was truly concerned this was some kind of scam, because I certainly don't encourage these kinds of happenings.

Then I called my contact in town. Well, that was the starting point. He stated everything I'd expect him to: that I enjoy my "privacy," that I rarely head towards town (unless necessary), and other precautionary tactics, but he did not give out any specifics of where I live or such.

Then this recently published author must've performed a background search (the potential of which thoroughly annoyed me), and found my mailing address.

At least he didn't find the phone number. It is an unlisted number, after all.

But his letter was polite and, after conversing with my contact, I let it all slide. I officially began communicating with him by means of email, and said I'd buy his book and let him know what I thought.

It took some hunting, but I found it -- a self published work that barely scratched the 100 page mark.

Uh oh.

I read it anyways.

Actually, that's not true - I let a friend read it first to see what she thought, and then I'd read it.

Her opinion of it was...less than glowing.

I still read the book, ignoring her comments, because I might've seen it differently.

After finishing the final page a few days later I realized something terrible: my friend was absolutely correct on every count.

There was very, very little going on in this novel.

The Prologue was the best of it, yet it lacked historical accuracy, a very troubling thought to me as he proclaimed the "Trail of Tears" ended at the Arkansas River which it, in fact, did not.

He'd relocated the final stop for dramatic effect, and then tied it in with a few other historically somewhat accurate moments in the location's recent memory, and tried to blend it all together in what became a maudlin attempt at redeeming the city for its past sins.

The biggest strike against this was the fact that it was, by every stretch of the phrase, a "creative writing project." It read like a collegiate assignment, it had all the vitality of one, and it garnered the absolute praise of those who he shared a class with, such as "it reads like a movie," which is, of course, what led him to me.

I'll give him this much: the basic elements were there. It just needed fleshing out. A damned good fleshing out, over the course of maybe a year, and not the treatment he'd given his pet project, which consisted of just a month.

I know this because it said so on his website. He seemed incredibly proud of this fact.

Knowing all this, and the fact that "were-kangaroos" showed up at the end of his "novel," I still sat down and worked out the structure of what the movie might've been. I also took to the local book shops, searching out volumes on Native American magick, rituals, and culture knowing full well that his 100 pages was, as it was written, take up forty minutes of time on screen.

I also explained this to him diplomatically my concerns were these: it's a start, it needs to be fleshed out, but to be perfectly honest, no one wants to see a sort of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" offering in, of all places, Fort Smith Arkansas.

He replied diplomatically as well, stating that he didn't need a ghost writer, would share the script writing credit with me 60\40, and that I'd get the appropriate amount of residuals should the movie get made.

Things went downhill from there quickly.

Meanwhile he was going forward with the other two parts of his written trilogy, and I had a decision to make: I could devote all my time and creative energy to someone who hasn't fully reached the status he believes he's at and work within his parameters (while not getting paid for it), or I could just cut him loose and get back to my own work that needed a sizable amount of attention itself.

Given all I'd learned about him, his project, his level of expertise, I decided it would just be best to bid an amicable goodbye now and get on with my life, which is what I did.

I also then went to my contact in town and said "please, don't ever send him to me again"

Some time passed and I managed to track down his eventual sequel, and I thumbed through it briefly. It was thicker, nearly 200 pages, but it suffered the same faults as the first installment.

I have not searched for the third.

Sometime during this entire mess I tracked down the publishing house that accepted his manuscripts -- it was a self publishing house (which is fine), but when I told my friend this (the one that had read the first book), she laughed out loud and posed the question "he paid them to publish it?! That's the literary equivalent of tying a pork chop around your neck so the dog will play with you!"

And she was right.

But I tried to approach the whole situation with more optimism, I gave it a C Average rating, saying "this part here was very good," "this part needs work," and so on.

I also suggested he'd gotten ahead of himself by not waiting, and deliberately taking the time to polish it.

He wanted none of that, and continued to listen to those who said it was truly monumental, and he must've felt he was doing me a favor by saying he'd share the workload and the salary with me.

All one can really say about this is "it takes more than a month to write a book."

Also, don't listen to those who praise you. The reverse can be true for those who offer you constant criticism, but this seems to be more of a gray area at times, unfortunately.

I look back at the those projects I worked on in my creative writing course ten years ago, and double over in pain at the sight of them.

I'm still working on projects I'd declared "finished" five to seven years ago, knowing quite well that I can make them better, and that I must before I promote them.

Ultimately, I am the only one who can judge my work the most effectively, and that's only because I can say "the story is finished, there are no more potholes to fill in."

Once I fix those, then the general population can claim it's brilliant or that it sucks because, frankly, it's all subjective.

I won't say my works are good, but I can say (at the very least) they're not bad. And that is the highest self criticism I can offer.

I've had the great fortune of being made to take the time to truly work on something. Fate forced me to stay patient, stay objective, and I once railed against it with enough anger and pressure to form diamonds out of thin air, but Fate was right and I see that now.

Thank God, too.

I would've self destructed if I'd made it to Hollywood ten years ago.

The Hitchhiker's Guide To Hollywood

I hope Douglas Adams isn't spinning in his grave as I borrow the common phrase his great novel helped coin, but I feel I must say that there is one unlikely text among all those that I've read which serves as possibly the greatest lessons and provides the best inside information about the goings on behind the scenes at Hollywood.

I have it as a First Edition, when it was published back in 1994.

Over at Mania, The Movie Lord and I have made mention how we absolutely swear by this text.

And this oddly informative test is none other than William Shatner's "Movie Memories."

Yes, that Shatner.

Kirk himself.

Why was Trek I such a disaster, even if it was so profitable? What famous comedian was to be cast in Star Trek 4? Just what the hell was Bill thinking when he came up with the plot for Trek 5?

These are a few questions that are answered, but they're just the edge of the tip of the iceberg.

There's lots of studio glad handing, back stabbing, political maneuvering, people being fired, people quitting, people being rehired and others being unceremoniously kicked aside to make room at the top so the talent could get on with it.

And that's just "Trek 1."

But it is exceptionally informative, and should be read by anyone who wants to go out to the Dream Factory so they'll know beforehand that dreams are pre-formed and manufactured.

It really is a cautionary tale, unfortunately.

"Disc" Envy

One of my quiet little goals of making it to Hollywood entails a pet project of mine: adapting a Terry Pratchett Discworld novel to the big screen.

Personally, I'd like it to be "Wyrd Sisters" as I'm quite fond of the Witches-of-Lancre series of books which deal with the lives of Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg, Magrat Garlick, and Perdita X. Nitt.

But I may not get to, or have to, follow through on this little dream of mine. Apparently there have been animated movies following the exploits of Discworld and, more recently, two live action mini-series have been produced which also delve onto the Disc.

Last night, for example, the Ion Channel premiered "The Color of Magic." And, over a year ago, "Hogfather" debuted right before Christmas. The Disc had twice been brought to life, and wonderfully I might add: you can see the Great A'tuin in all its glory; there's the Unseen University, and its orangutan shaped Librarian. Plus you also get to see the Assassin's Guild, the Patrician himself, the completely incompetent wizard Rincewind, the loyal (but deadly) Luggage, the foreboding presence of Death, and so on.

In the past (for a giggle or two) I tried my hand at adapting my chosen story to the script format.

My first attempt was somewhat...well, it was the novel brought to life by just placing the characters in their setting and having them say what they've already said in the book which, of course, isn't the best way of adapting a book.

And then I tried again a few years later and, I feel, had something much closer to what it should be like. And here it is...

FADE IN:

EXT. SPACE

The vast emptiness appears before us, as we begin to slowly drift forward through the unending cosmos.

DEATH (VO)
(deep voice)
Here, among the unimaginable stretches
of time and space, is a world unlike
anyone has ever seen before: The
Discworld.

We rocket through the empty space, and come upon a planetary scene with a sun and a small moon at opposite ends of each other. We cannot make out the complete shape of the planet, yet.

DEATH (VO)
It is a world of magic. Magic that is
slowly generated by its slow rotation
as it is faithfully carried across the
cosmos upon the backs of four elephants
which, as it turns out, are also
supported on the shell of an enormous
star turtle: the Great A'tuin.

We pull back slowly to reveal the four elephants, and circle around to come around the right side of the giant turtle, and hang there as it stares off into infinity before returning to a scene above the planet and its means of supports.

DEATH (VO)
It is unclear as to the reason such a
world would exist, but one prominent
theory states that the gods of the
Discworld decided to do away with the
standard planetary models and have a
bit of fun for once.

It should be noted that this, apart from
being the most prominent theory, also
happens to be the only truly accurate
creation theory in all of existence.

We zoom down through the darkened sections of the Discworld, into a very rural and mountainous area known as The Ramtops. We glide along until we come across a large, majestic castle.

DEATH (VO)
But, even in a world as unique as
this, it must be noted that Death still
comes to claim his own charges when the
time is right.

We continue to glide across the landscape, and come across black, shrouded figure mounted atop a magnificent, white stallion. The figure holds a large scythe in one bony hand, and an old fashioned hourglass in the other.

Meet DEATH, a grim reaper of sorts. In his vacant eye sockets are tiny pinpricks of blue flame. Death considers the hourglass in his skeletal hand that is quickly running out of sand. Upon the glass are the words KING VERENCE.

Death places the hourglass back within his shroud and gathers his scythe about him.

DEATH
It is almost time. Onward, Binky.

Binky rears up, and gallops off across the landscape, headed for the castle. He then leaves the ground and gallops through open air.

DEATH (VO)
It should be noted that, on nights such
as this, evil deed are committed. Good
deeds as well are undertaken, but it's
mostly evil deeds on the whole.

If mine would be worth of Terry Pratchett's approval, I don't know.

I do know Pratchett has a "mucked about by" credit for the television adaptations of "Color of Magic" and "Hogfather."

And that's fine.

In fact, I'd invite him to muck around with my draft as well.

But, even if I don't get to be involved with the Discworld anytime soon, at least I know there are talented people out there who are intent on bringing at least portions of it to life, and maybe they'll get around to "Wyrd Sisters."

I'd settle for that.

After all, I've got plenty of my own stuff to be worrying about.