My age = 59. Born = 1953.
The cops are given the whole story right in their lap, which they disbelieve.
Then a huge part of the story is them acting on bad assumptions.
Try something else.
Writer’s Block
In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
===============Writer’s Block
And in the reflected light of the wan Parisian sunset reflecting off a boutique window, I could see up Elaine’s dress. And I could see the stilleto strapped to her leg. The same knife she had used on Gearhardt, her former SS Sugar Pappa.
Just stop. Okay? It is SO clichè. They are uniformly unrealistic. (oxymoron?) It is often filler, or a cheap way of foreshadowing a bit of plot.
There is some room for a dream sequence. Maybe the person is clairvoyant or has some other paranormal abilities.
I think it is drastically overused.
"Sexual trend spotting makes for big business. Want to give it a try yourself? First, you’ll need to make some sweeping generalisations: what a popular novel, for example, reveals about the fantasies of “working women” or, as an article in the UK Times declared, how “no one” (literally no one!) “under the age of 40 seems to have pubic hair”. Second, you should avoid doing too much actual research to prove your claims – forget the joke that “three examples makes a trend”, and instead try no interviews with flesh and blood human beings at all. Third, it must have broader implications. Your story isn’t about a single erotic novel, cult TV show, or video you saw on YouTube, but about the dark and hidden underbelly of human sexuality. Et voila! Instant internet traffic gold."
A trend spotter’s guide to female desire
My latest at Daily Life.
(via rachelhills)
////////////
Very good points. It’s also good to frame the headline as a question. “Is the lack under-40 pubic hair destroying our culture?”
I rented Rise of Planet of the Apes. I wish Mark Walberg had starred instead of James Franco. Franco’s acting is kind of a big zero.
I liked it as a cartoon without any weight.
We rented Hugo and watched it last night. I thank God I didn’t see it in 3d.
I liked the movie, and of course Scorcese did a brilliant job. I did, however think he was trying way too hard to make me feel his nostalgia and reverence, and romantic cuteness. Some of it was rather cliche. He kind of went Spielberg.
Chloe Moretz is amazing. I would like to see her in a remake of the Helen Keller story.
Ben Kingsly is a master actor. The woman who played his wife, Helen McCrory was wonderful.
I hated Sasha Baron Cphen’s character. I don’t hate him personally, but I hate everything he has ever done and I hate the sight or sound of him.
The kid who played Hugo did a good job for his age. Asa Butterfield.
Dairy state senators in WWII tried to blackmail FDR into dropping butter on Japan. They had even had studies commissioned and designed 1000 pound butter bombs with casings of cow intestines for easier handling
They threatened to have articles on his health published if the president did not comply.
FDR retaliated through the Draft Board, having every young male even remotely related to them drafted, including neighbors and members of their staffs. If their relatives were already in the service, they were moved to the front lines.
The senators relented, FDR forced them all to resign and cut farm subsidies to their states.
Do you swear, cuss, and curse? When you speak, does the air turn blue around you?
I have friends who never swear, and some who swear only when the occasion calls for it. I have other friends who punctuate every single sentence with profanity. Kind of like Dexter’s sister, Deb, on the…
——————
Great post. Thanks. I know people who use f-bomb regularly, and if writing about my 20’s-30’s the dialog has to be curse-ridden. Cheers.
Agent: Last name?
Applicant: Rabbitskeleton
Agent: What?
Applicant: Rabbitskeleton
Agent: What the fuck? Are you trying to tell me your last name is “Rabbitskeleton?”
Applicant: Yes, all one word
Agent: I suppose your first name is Jack?
Applicant: Do you have any fucking idea how many times I have heard that joke? Jesus - it is SO not funny! My first name is Howard.
Agent: Ok, fine - show me your ID’s
(agent looks at woman standing next to applicant)
Applicant: This is my wife, Bunny
Visualizing Internal Conflict
article by @easymoviemaking
#screenwriting #film #screenplay
“Your main character gazes forlornly into the distance… thinking of his lost love. Or maybe he’s just hungry. Or maybe he’s just trying to remember what he was supposed to pick up at the store. Or…
How the heck do you show what he’s thinking?……”
———————————
I don’t know, but this is one of the most powerful moments in film ever.
Today’s story…
The Lone Ranger and Tonto were moseying along a dusty trail somewhere between Feral Goat Canyon and the little town of Gizzard Bucket.
At the side of the trail, the Lone Ranger notices a writhing mass. (not to be confused with the town Writhing, MA.)
“Look Tonto, it’s a pile of exquisitely shiny ants,”
They pull over and stop their horses.
The ants seem to be arranging themselves into some crude semaphore which the Ranger finds indecipherable.
“Tonto, get down there and see what they are saying.”
“Yes, Kimosabe.”
Humoring his boss, The noble red savage dismounts and squats in the dust. The inheritor of thousands of years of native wisdom, he naturally understands the languages of animals.
He grabs two twigs from a passing tumbleweed, presses them to his forehead, and leans over, lowering the other ends into the ant pile, taking care not to harm his six-legged brethren.
After he “listens” for a moment, he rises.
“Them say… Rustlers have stolen cattle from Bar Tab ranch and are hiding them in gorge near river.
Cattle are trampling on sacred ant hive of ant people, burial place of great-great 50 times great ancestors.” He continued.
“What type of ants are they Tonto, by the way?”
“Them Apache ants.”
“Do they bite?
“Apache ants bite like bastard, Kimosabe.”
“Let’s ride then. We must save those poor cows from a fate somewhat as bad as death.”
“What about ant?” Tonto asked testily.
“Them too.”
So they ride like the dusty wind across the sun baked plain.
As they near the scene of the cattle false imprisonment felony, they stop behind some suguarro cacti.
“There they are Tonto, do you see them?”
Tonto rolls his eyes, The cattle are a mere 50 yards away.
“What’s wrong with your eyes, my noble sidekick? They seem to be moving up and back into the socket a lot these days.”
“Dust Kimosabe.”
“You should have that looked at.”
“Tonto go to witch-ophthalmologist soon. What about cattle?
“Quick, where is my carrier pigeon, Bandoleer?”
“Here on my saddle, Kimosabe.”
“Oh, yeah, I didn’t see her. I need to enlarge the eye-holes in this damn mask.”
”Quick! Send her to get the Sheriff and a posse.”
Rolling his eyes, Tonto speaks to bird, and throws it up into the air. The Lone Ranger is looking the other way and doesn’t notice the hawk that swoops and takes the feathered messenger instantly.
Tonto doesn’t know what to say, so he watches cattle with his boss.
Suddenly there is an increasing buzz in the air. It increases.
“What’s that sound, Tonto?”
“Helicopter.”
“What? What the hell is a helicopter?”
“That.” Tonto says wearily, point to chopper about to land..
“What IS That? What the fuck? How can it fly? AM I dreaming? What year is this?”
Tonto is rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
“No Kimosabe, you are not dreaming. It is 1957. Remember those mushrooms, the one’s I told you NOT to put in your rattlesnake omelet?”
“Vaguely.”
“They were peyote. You are experiencing a spiritual journey we Apache call ‘Tripping.’
“There were no ants?”
“No, Kimosabe.”
“No carrier pigeon on your saddle?”
“Yes there was pigeon, but I don’t think it reached Sheriff..”
“How did you call the sheriff?”
“Well, Kimosabe, I call Air medevac on walkie talkie.”
“What about these cows? You can’t tell me they are not real.”
“They are your cows, Kimosabe.”
“Oy.”
The medics take the Lone Ranger away. He is screaming, dragging his expensive boot heels in the sand.
“No, No, I won’t get in that flying devil box! It’s 1882! AAIIGGHHH!
They fly off.
Tonto watches gravely.
“What an asshole.”
He gently grabs the reins of the mighty white stallion, Trigger. He removes the three thousand dollar saddle and tosses it by the side of the trail.
He mounts his own red roan and heads off west, leading the naked horse.
He turns to Trigger. “ How you like spend rest of days helping lady horse make foal?”
“Yeah, Baby!” Trigger replies enthusiastically.”
They ride in silence for a while.
“ Do you have a joint, my friend?” The naked white steed asks.
“Of course, Trigger. Tonto always have joint.”
Looking around at the faces in the room, it was easy to see the dew was off the scone.
Someone said “Well, I guess we’ll have start over from zero.”
A few minutes later the first haggard looking squirrel limped in through the pet door.
I handed her a tiny cup of hot black coffee.
I woke with a screeching hangover, at my desk, where I had passed out after downing a pint of vodkaine. I guess I was trying to drown my sorrows but at that moment, I couldn’t remember which ones.
While out, I dreamed I had an auto-immune disease that caused my white blood cells to devour my third eye. This fierce struggle behind my forehead brought with it cold-like symtpoms – esp. A runny nose.
After I blew my nose— and only in the dream was I the kind of person who would do this— I would look at the handkerchief. But instead of the usual product, the hanky would contain a viscous, smeary watercolor of one of my most embarraasing memories. This happened again and again in recursive prolapsed dream time Until I had snotted out my entire childhood.
Every day I beat my fist against steel
every day I beat my fist against steel
I beat until it’s bloody and I can’t feel
every day I beat my fist against steel
Every day I wreck my back for a dollar
destroy my spine while they beat me and holler
then drag me off with a leash and collar
every day I wreck my back for a dollar
Every night I beat my head against the wall
I hear it echoing down the hall
an angel speaks and my flesh begins to crawl
every night I beat my head against the wall
Merry Christmas to all.
Merry Christmas Santa
I’m waiting for you
You filthy old motherfucker
I’m standing by the fireplace with a butcher knife
Every day I beat my fist against steel
