Scripts

I talk a lot about stories, poems, and movies, so there seems to be one big piece I'm missing here. Scripts. There are a lot of similarities to stories and dialogue, but the focus shifts a lot from trying to make the plot clear to trying to make the dialogue and interactions clear. Here's a bit of a script I wrote, more for feedback then teaching purposes, since I'm still learning a lot about scripts as well.

Setting; two middle-age men sit on the corner of a busy street in New York, 1975.

Bill;

So, you feeling like getting a nice lunch today? We could get a couple sandwiches down at the Salt and Pepper.

Greg;

I would, but I ain’t got the cash.

Bill;

Aww, that was sounding so good though! A nice warm Rueben or something. Those were always the best back in the day.

Greg;

Stop bringing it up. I’m hungry as hell too, but I ain’t had the cash for that in years, and you know that. Not all of us can find a job like you.

Bill;

Yeah, yeah, I know that. Just wishful thinking I guess.

Greg;

Well that’s good and all, but wishful thinking doesn’t put food in my belly or cash in my wallet.

Bill;

What about a guy like that? He can’t fill your stomach but something tells me he could give you some green.

[Greg leans forward, looking down the street]

Greg;

Real city slicker like that, I bet he could. He’s sure got a nice suit and a pair of shiny shoes.

Bill;

Let’s grab a few bucks then, yeah? Maybe pull the ol’ shoe shine on him?

Greg;

Nah, he’s a younger guy, late twenties I’d say. Too young and well-off to have seen any action. Let’s give him a story he’ll remember, ya?

Bill;

Story time it is then!

[Bill and Greg wait for the man to walk up to them. Bill pulls of his hat, holding it upward like a bowl]

Descriptions For Character

I've shown you guys before about how you should use descriptions to emphasize an emotion while building setting, but another good way to use descriptions and imagery is to improve on your characters. Here's a little excerpt for you guys. Think about the character and who she is, and then try to link that to the descriptions.

                The woman was a bust made by Michelangelo: her face was frozen, forever in a rocky stillness; every line was prominent and emphasized; every curve was artistic and seemingly made with purpose; her skin was chalky white, a stark contrast to her midnight black hair. And, like a statue, she sat at the wheel completely still, her hands at ten and two and her eyes looking out into the dark summer night. The only sound in the small two seating car was the patter of warm rain on the windshield and, underneath that, muffled almost, a soft murmuring. Unintelligible whisperings that just barely met your ear.

                The lone woman, breaking out of her stone-like stare, glanced over at the passenger seat. There was only a plain cardboard box, unmarked and unlabeled, covered in wooly navy blanket.

                The woman gazed at it for a while, her eyes only flickering to the road every second or two to correct her steering. Almost reflexively, the woman began reaching down with an angelic smoothness.

                Her hand over the clutch, only centimeters away from the box, it froze. For a moment it hung there, suspended in the air. Then, slowly, the hand drew back, instead going to the small ordainment that hung from the rear-view mirror.

                Dressed in a white gown and adorned with a ribbon was a small angel. It had two plush wings, its frayed string that held it up sprouting from in-between its shoulder blades. Coming off of its head was a small, hardly noticeable wire, the halo it used to hold up being broken off long ago. Although the small face of serenity –eyes closed and small smile on its face- was still well intact, its outfit was more than well worn, its sleeves splayed and its dress adorned with drab stains. In its hands was the ribbon that stretched across the angel’s body, the small, faded print saying ‘Believe in Miracles.’

                The woman spun the toy around, so that it faced her, then put her hands back on the wheel. The woman took a deep breath in through her nose, holding it there as she cocked her head back, before she let it slowly tumble out through her mouth. Gently she turned the wheel, pulling into a small parking lot. She cracked the door open, letting in the wash of rain and the rumble of distant thunder. 

Layering Scenes

Now, I've talked a lot about dialogue and it's importance. It's a vital aspect of just about any book, but that being said there are a lot of aspects that go into it and other tricks you can do with it. One really fun thing to do in your writing, especially when you feel your dialogue is to straight forward or doesn't get the point across enough, is to layer your scene. Add a second interaction, either conscious to your characters or not, that adds to their interaction and follows a similar motif. Take a look at this piece I did for example, and take note of the second interaction that happens and how it goes together with the dialogue.

“The doctor’s said you’d be alright,” Alex said over the noise of the heart monitor. Brody looked out the window into the small hospital waiting room, in which there was a lone woman sitting, back straight, chin up, clutching an old, faded pair of army fatigues like her life depended on it.

                “Not for long,” Brody said.

                “You’re alive, isn’t that what matters right now?”

                “Maybe,” Brody muttered.

                “We survived,” Alex said, “and I don’t care what comes next, that’s good enough for me.” The woman sitting in the window was visited by an even older, more faded looking doctor. The type of person who has the faint wrinkles and kind eyes that says he’s seen what this world has to offer, good and bad. He broke the news, his gaze never leaving that of the woman’s.

                “Alex, you don’t understand.”

                “No, Brody, you don’t understand,”

                “Alex! My lungs are done, you get it? Done! I have hours left before they die out-,” A fit of coughing over took him, sprinkling the hand that covered his mouth in blood.

                “For my lungs to kick out, here, now? You know what needs to happen next.”

                “A surrogate. You need your surrogate.”

                “Yes,” Brody said. Outside, the doctor handed the woman two or three dead medals to go with her army uniform. She sobbed, her small frame shaking rigorously with the fragility of a house of cards. She accepted the medals regardless; wiping a tear out of each eye before reaching out to take them. Without any further apologies or thanks, she left.

                “I… I never thought… I mean… I thought I would be able to live. I thought something like this would never happen.”

                “I know, Alex, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. And I have no right to ask anything of you.”

                “No,” Alex said, “I get it. I know what has to happen.”

Descriptions

One of the key points, as we all know, is your descriptions and imagery. Now, that can be a really fun aspect of writing, but the thing that most people fail to realize is that descriptions should be used in order to not only improve your story, but to move it along as well. What do I mean by that? Well, when you provide more in depth descriptions, it should provide one of three major things: further the understanding of your characters; further the plot of the piece; or create a better sense of setting or tone. Here are a few examples what I mean, try to get a sense of emotion and setting from the excerpts.

Anger

                The room was a shotgun spray of glass shards, all centered around one half destroyed bottle of Jack. Its opaque shrapnel was embedded in everything: the rugged and torn wallpaper that had been haphazardly painted over in some parts with a deep, deep red; the carpet that had been stained from the weathering of generations –deep browns, concerning maroons, and other suspicious yellows and greens- that were so long ago most didn’t care to remember anymore; and the flesh of the woman who’d been hit, her pale green eyes staring at the ceiling above. The empty bottle lay in a pool of her blood, like a gleaming glass castle in a scarlet moat.

Jealousy

                The frame was plain black, metallic and matte, making a perfect rectangle around the blackness that had once been a scene of two lovers. The glass cover was now shattered, a large crack going down the middle like lightning in the inkiness of a midnight thunderstorm. The top and bottom of the frame was layered, smothered in weeks upon weeks of dust, except for the sides. Both the left and the right of it was still shiny and full of clear fingerprints, being no stranger to late-night white-knuckled grips.

Happiness

                The book was plain for the most part: white cover; paperback spine; no intriguing design or eye catching patterns. Something about it though, this seemingly boring novel, drew you in and grabbed your attention. Maybe it was the way the sunlight gleamed off the golden lettering, giving it a warm feeling aura. Maybe it was the natural old book smell that drifted off its pages, throwing your brain back in time to late nights of reading and relaxation. Or maybe it was just the feel of its smooth matte cover and sun warmed pages. 

In Your Dreams

I think every writer knows that one of the biggest difficulties of coming up with new content is having the inspiration to come up with new and original ideas. Although those who consider themselves authors should be almost constantly creating new stories and editing old ones, a lot of times I think we find ourselves only writing new pieces when we're specifically inspired for that piece. That's a big difficulty, we, as creators, need to learn to push past that habit and start creating on a nearly daily basis, and one such way to do that is dreams.

Dreams are known for being crazy, terrifying, or beautiful. Sometimes they can be insightful, showing something about ourselves that we've subconsciously overlooked. All this is good and well, but my favorite feature about dreams is that they can be great starters for story ideas! On average, they're usually pretty fun and interesting, so they're easy to write about, and it's fun to retell the dream you so vividly remember and to change it however you want.

Now, if you're like me, you probably don't remember many of your dreams. That's why, although I don't personally do this myself yet, I would definitely recommend keeping a dream journal of some sorts. Every morning you can write down last night's dreams, recording what you remember before it fades away, saving it for later. It'll act as a sort of safe for story ideas, so that whenever you're feeling especially uninspired or facing some classic writer's block, you can just read through your own dreams and adapt one into a story!

I've done this once or twice myself, adapting dreams into stories, and for myself it worked pretty well actually!

The Usual Writing...

                Silently I came up behind her, my hand on the hilt of my gun. She barely came up to my knee caps as she sat there, her legs crossed. Her soft brown hair blew lightly in a non-existent wind, the little red bow moving with it.

                The basement was silent. A single hanging bulb flickered above the young girl’s head. As I slowly circled her, I could see her childish features. Her cheeks were full and blushed, while her nose and mouth were small and gently rounded.  Her big eyes stayed closed though, hiding the emerald green irises I was used to.

                “Carolyn?” I asked tentatively and quiet. I resisted the urge to hug her, to just hold her tight and tell her everything was going to be okay.

                I inched closer, reaching out my hand to her face.

                “Please, Carolyn, tell me you’re okay.” Then room went cold in only a second. Goosebumps went up my arm and chills crawled down my spine. Her eyes flickered open, revealing pure black orbs inside. Her mouth was now a cruel smile, the teeth had transformed into rows of white incisors.

                “I’m fine, daddy, I promise,” she said sweetly, her voice threaded with innocence. I choked down a sob as I brushed a stray hair off her face.

                “I’m so sorry, Carolyn,” I said, my voice cracking and soft, “I know you’re in there somewhere, Carolyn, but this isn’t you.” I could see her weight slowly shifting forward, towards me.

                “What do you mean, daddy? Of course it’s me, I’m Carolyn,” the thing said.

                “No, you’re not my little girl, you’re a monster, a demon,” I asserted, starting to feel hot tears down my cheeks, “and you took my little girl from me.” Without warning, she leapt onto me, digging her long nails into each shoulder with her feet on my chest. A dark, horse cackle erupted from her, echoing throughout the small basement and up the stairs. I had to remember; this was not my Carolyn. I pulled my handgun from its holster. This was not my Carolyn. I flipped off the safety. Not my Carolyn. I pointed it at her chest. Carolyn. I pulled the trigger.

                The blast left my ears ringing as the two of us went opposite directions. I stumbled backwards, running into the brick wall behind me. Carolyn went flying backwards, landing square on her back with a bullet hole straight through her heart.

                I let myself slide down to the dusty ground as I listened to her last waking moments, her breathing was labored and sounded as if she was gurgling water. I let myself cry as she took in her last wisp of air, then went still.               

                With the last amount of will power I had, I went over and picked up her lifeless body from the puddle of scarlet. Her eyes were wide open, but they were now a dull green without any vibrancy or emotion. I was glad, strangely, for at least I knew that in the end my Carolyn had been set free. 

The End

Dave awoke to the pungent smell of freshly stirred earth, and the sight of Alec’s face silhouetted by the starry night above. It was a calm, almost peaceful look. His eyes, his golden brown eyes, shone with a gleam of interest, resembling that of a dog when it cocks its head to the side.

                “Alec, what… what happened?” Without a sound, Alec stood up and hopped out of the grave.

                “Hey,” Dave cried out, trying to get up. Tightly tied around his wrists, ankles, and chest were straps, pinning him to the bottom of the plush coffin.

                “Hey, let me out of here!”

                Returning to the edge of the grave, Alec peered down with his satchel over his shoulder and a shovel in his hand. He reached into his bag, digging for a bit before pulling out a small, black device. He tossed the device into the grave, right into the corner above Dave’s head.

                “It’s a mic, so I can listen to what you have to say.”

                “Listen to what I have to say? I’ll tell you now, just let me out of this damn hole!”

                “No. That wouldn’t work. You have to die for it to work.”

                “For what to work?” Dave asked.

                “My experiment. I’m doing work on how people act in their last moments.”

                “Well you don’t have to actually kill me! Just… just let me out, I’ll answer any questions you have, I’ll help! Just let me out!”

                Smoothly, Alec dipped his foot into the grave.

                “Too late.”

                He kicked the top of the coffin, causing the lid to slam shut. With a look of utmost relief, Alec took a deep breath through his nose, then sighed, smiling. The sound of screaming was dull, masked by the thick coffin lid. And, thankfully, the dirt was much easier to put back on top of the coffin rather than digging it up. It was only a minute or two of scooping before the screaming was completely muffled by the layer of dirt.

                Alec stretched out, cracking his knuckles and neck, before reaching into his bag for one last thing. It was a black notebook, weathered and well used. Slowly, with a clear look of satisfaction, he began flipping through the pages. Each one was labeled with a page number, and at the top was a name clearly written in large blue ink, followed by a scribble of notes. He went through two pages, five pages, ten. It wasn’t until number thirty four that he came to a blank page.

                He pulled a plain blue pen out of his pocket and popped off the cap. In clear, neat writing, he began writing at the top of the page: ‘Dave G. – The Grave Robber’.