For the past four years, I’ve been the head mentor for an organization called Young Storytellers where I lead their script-to-stage program at an elementary school in Burbank. The program is simple enough: ten fifth grade students, chosen by their teachers, are paired with an adult mentor, and over the course of seven weeks we teach them the basics of storytelling and screenwriting. We drill into them that every good story has a beginning, middle, and an end. Stories take place in a setting. They have a protagonist that wants something, a goal, but the goal is not easily achieved. Obstacles get in their way. Sometimes the obstacles are people, called antagonists. The story builds to a climax, the most exciting part of the story, and then resolves when we learn if the hero achieved his or her goal. Usually, the story conveys a lesson, either for the characters or the audience. The culmination of the program is the Big Show. After the stories are written, we invite professional actors to perform the scripts on stage in front of their classmates, family, and friends. While I’m proud of all the kids that participate in the program, this past Spring session had one especially memorable student. Kristian was shy. That’s not unusual. A lot of the kids are shy when we first start. But over the weeks, the kids warm up, and before long it’s hard to get them to stop talking. But Kristian was different. He was a serious kind of quiet. During the first couple weeks, he barely participated. On week three, his mentor told me he wanted to speak to me. I sat down with him and asked him what’s up? He said he didn’t want to do the program. He didn’t want to write a story. He didn’t want to do the Big Show. He was adamant, “I wasn’t asked if I wanted to do this.” I sensed it was the Big Show that was the stumbling block. He didn’t want to be on stage. I get it. Public anything can be scary and downright terrifying for some. I told him not think about the Big Show. We’ll figure that out later. I encouraged him with Young Storytellers mantra that “Every child has a story worth telling.” I tried to convince him that it was important that he write a story. I used phrases like “unique voice” and “original ideas, ” but it didn’t inspire him. It was tough going. “I don’t know” was the answer to every question I asked him about his ideas for a story. I’d never had a kid not finish the program, but I thought to myself he might be the first. We have agreements in Young Storytellers that we come up with in week one. The agreements cover a range of topics that we think will make our time successful, such as don’t be late and treat other ideas with respect. It also addresses the content of our stories. We all agree that the students will write an original story. They can’t copy a story from a book, movie, or video game. We also agree not to use violence to solve problems. Characters cannot physical fight their way out of their problems. Week 4. Kristian’s mentor asked him if he’d talked to his parents about participating in Young Storytellers. He said he told his mom he didn’t want to do it, but his mom said he had to. By this time, most students have the logline and an outline for their story and are beginning to write their scripts. Kristian was still working on an idea. At the end of the session, he had his idea: a war story based on his favorite video game. Sigh. I decided I wasn’t going to tell him that his story was in conflict with our agreements. At least he was participating, sort of. We went around the room, and I asked on a scale of 1-10, how do you feel about your story. There were a lot of 9s, 9.9s, and a couple of 10s. Kristian said 0. Week 5. Kristian had resigned to the fact that he was not getting out of this, so he told his mentor that he would write the story, but would not do the Big Show. Baby steps. As they worked on the script, he kept asking about page count. He wanted to know how close he was to being finished. His mentor wisely cheated the margins and format to make it appear that he had written more than he had. “See you’re already on page three. Let’s keep going!” His mentor was great. She matched his energy with the opposite energy. When he was quiet, she was encouraging. When he thought his idea was stupid, she thought it was great. Her positivity was contagious. I caught him smiling a couple of times. At the end of the session, we again went around the room. I asked the kids to tell me a color that best describes how they feel about their stories at this point. There were several reds, yellows, and blues. Kristian said black. Week 6. Kristian and his mentor continued to work on his story. I see that he is talking more. His “I don’t know” knee-jerk answer was replaced with some “maybe this.” I let his mentor work her magic. At the end of the session, his mentor told me that he came in today with an idea that changed his story in a clever way. I got excited and thought to myself we might get a story out of him after all. Week 7. We played a “guess the movie tagline” game. Kids vs. Adults. Kristian got the final answer correct and won the game for his classmates. I’d never seen him smile so wide. It was a major confidence boost. At the end of the session, his mentor was all smiles. “We did it. We finished the script.” We talked as a group about the Big Show. I explained that each of them would go on stage with their mentor and answer the question, “What inspired your story?” I glanced at Kristian. He had no reaction. I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or bad thing. The Big Show. To be honest, I was a little nervous he wouldn’t show. A sick day maybe? But there he was, on time, with a new haircut. He dragged himself in with the look of a kid being dragged by his parents to the dentist office for a filling. His steps were slow and heavy. He collapsed in a folding chair. I decided that asking how he felt wouldn’t do any good. I knew he was nervous. He knew he was nervous. Why dwell on it? We give the kids VIP badges to wear around their neck. It gives them exclusive access to the red carpet. And yes, we bring a red carpet. We introduce the young storytellers one at a time, and they get to strut down the red carpet to the cheers of their peers and bulb flashes of their mentors and family members taking pictures. I called Kristian’s name, and he came through the door. He offered a slight hand wave then hustled down the carpet. I placed Kristian in the middle of the program so he wouldn’t have to go first or wait in agony until the end. The lights dimmed, and the show began. As the first story was being performed, Kristian’s teacher sat down beside me and whispered, “Did Kristian talk to you? He’s not going up on stage.” I was surprised to hear this. She went on, “He was in the principal’s office this morning. He was so stressed he was feeling sick. They made a deal that he wouldn’t have to talk and that he would watch the performance from behind the curtains.” I glanced over at Kristian, who was sitting with his mentor. “He looks fine,” I said. Of course, I was concerned. I sneaked back and took a seat next to him. “You good?” Kristian nodded his head with the subtlety of one in deep focus. I returned to my seat next to his teacher. “I think he’s fine. Let’s see what happens.” It came time for Kristian’s story to be performed. I watched in anticipation. He slowly climbed the stairs to the stage and took his place. Without a stumble or a hitch, soft-spoken but without a quiver in his voice, he introduced his script then took his place on stage to watch his story come to life by the actors. He nailed it. His script was called War History, and it is a story about two brothers reading a history book about WWII. All they want is to know what happens next after the Germans attack a secret military lab. But they can’t finish the story because they have to go to school. In math class, they get caught trying to read the book and are sent to detention. Their history teacher is overseeing detention, and in a surprising reveal, the brothers realize their history teacher was in WWII. They don’t need the book. He was there! The story ends with the history teacher recounting to the boys, “There I was surrounded by German soldiers…” At the conclusion of the performance, the audience cheered. Kristian took a short bow and made a beeline off the stage. After the show, I told Kristian I was proud of him and I asked if he would do it again. He said no. I believed him. _______________________ We make kids do things they are scared of all the time. In our adult wisdom, we know it’s not that bad, and in the end, it will be good for them. But as we grow older, we let ourselves off the hook. We don’t have parents telling us we have to do things we’re scared to do. We take a pass. What Kristian did was special. He stepped into a moment that terrified him, and he overcame it. In doing so, he became the hero of his own narrative. We can all learn from his example. Sometimes we have to stand up, take a deep breath, and say, “This is my story.” Kristian and his mentor at the Big Show.
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The new script is coming along. I’m still working heavily on the story outline. I know how it begins and I know how it ends. It’s the middle I’m still working through. It can feel overwhelming to think about how much work lies ahead. But it is also thrilling to create something new. In a couple of weeks, I’ll be meeting up with a close friend for a writer’s retreat. I look forward to having uninterrupted time to work.
In the meantime, I thought I’d share some with you some things I’ve been turning to for inspiration (and entertainment). Podcasts S-Town: What starts off as a murder investigation turns into something entirely different; a fascinating character study of a complicated man who doesn’t belong, but refuses to leave his rural Alabama life. Music Bon Iver’s 22, A Million – I’ve been listening to this album on repeat the last month. Like most of Bon Iver’s music, I don’t know what he’s talking about half the time, but it’s the way he talks about it that is so captivating. Television Crashing – HBO comedy about a former youth pastor turned (aspiring) stand-up comic. I had the chance to meet to Pete Holmes last week. He is a genuine and very funny guy with a unique story to tell. Silicon Valley – Back for its fourth season this week. The HBO comedy about a start-up tech company trying to find its legs in Silicon Valley is well-written and fun to watch. I see many parallels between the tech and entertainment industries. Movies Sing Street – Available on Netflix, this film is the story of a teenage boy in 1980s Dublin who forms a rock band to cope with his difficult home and school life. With great original music, this film is full of heart and joy that left me smiling for days. Silence – The best film of 2016 that nobody saw. Martin Scorsese offers one of the most thought-provoking films on the nature of faith: The story of two young Jesuit priests who travel to 17th century Japan to find their mentor who is rumored to have committed apostasy. This film sticks with you. I saw it back in January, and I still can’t stop thinking about it. Books Untitled – My sister wrote a novel and has been gracious enough to let me read an early manuscript. What I’ve read so far is great! I may be a bit bias, but I’m a huge fan. Once she comes up with a title, she’ll be all set. The Great Spiritual Migration (Brian McLaren) & Finding God in the Waves (Mike McHargue) are both books about faith in transition. They have been very helpful as I work on this new script, which deals directly with the issues of belief and doubt. The Great Courses This online source offers courses on a plethora of subjects. I recently finished The World’s Greatest Structures, and now I’m deep into a course on the History of the Ancient World. It's like going back to school; only it's on my terms. My Writers Group My writers group has been together for nearly ten years. Over that period, our members have transitioned from aspiring writers to professional writers. Several are now staff writers on popular network and cable television shows. We still meet to give feedback on each other’s work, encourage one another, and share insights into our industry. I’m so grateful to have this group. I was at work sitting in a film strategy meeting. We were going over the key marketing points – the most important things the studio wants audiences to know – for one of our upcoming movies. We talked about how, yes, the film is “epic” in scale with large set pieces and stunning visual effects, but we really wanted to convey that even though it has the spectacle, it is a surprisingly emotional film. We wanted audiences to know that the story has heart.
When I work with the 5th graders in the Young Storytellers script-to-stage program, I ask them on week one, “What makes a good story?” The kids are intuitive. They know it’s not the mere presence of wizards or mermaids (common characters that appear in the stories 5th graders write) that make a good story. Eventually, one of the students will say “action.” We unpack what action means and end up with another word: struggle. It’s the struggle that makes a good story. Heart and struggle. They are at the core of every good story because heart and struggle are at the core every human relationship. And every good story is about a relationship. Our relationship with ourselves Our relationship with one another Our relationship with our community Our relationship with the natural world Our relationship with God Our relationship with technology To be human is to be in relationship. We don’t watch the Olympics to see an athlete win a medal. We watch the Olympics to see if that athlete - the one who is grieving the loss of a loved one, overcoming a health problem, rising from a difficult environment, putting her faith on the line, or representing our country, our people - is going to win the medal. The difference between a bad story and a good story is that a bad story sets out to entertain. A good story sets out to reveal something truthful about our relationships, and in doing so, we are entertained. Sometimes these stories make us laugh. Sometimes they make us cry. They can have happy endings or doleful endings. What I think we mean when we say we like a good story is that we like a story that helps us make peace. We struggle to make peace with ourselves, peace with our neighbor, peace with our community, peace with God, peace with the natural environment, peace with the change that comes with the passage of time. A good story lights the way to peace. Regardless of whether we find peace or not, it tells us we are not alone in the struggle. I haven’t had much time to write for this site because I'm focused on the new script. In the meantime, I thought I’d share a glimpse at my workspace. California living is cozy living. Unless you're one of the "rich and famous" you probably live in a relatively small space. I live in an apartment where my bedroom also functions as my office. It’s where all the magic happens.
The leather recliner is a recent addition, a find on Craigslist. I call it my “thinking chair.” When I get tired of sitting at my desk and staring into the abyss of my computer screen, I’ll move over to my chair. It’s where I read, relax, and well… think. The desk I bought off a friend. I love it. Plenty of storage provides an ample and a sometimes clean desktop. The chair won’t win any awards for ergonomics, but it does the trick. As you can see, it is not glamorous. I have no view of the mountains or ocean to inspire me. In fact, because of the unit design, there are only a couple hours each day that I get any decent sunlight. But it’s what I have to work with, and it works for me. It feels odd to write the words “creative” and “process” next to each other. Creativity feels more appropriate in the company of words like “spark” “idea” “inspiration” and “wonder.” Whereas “process” would probably be more comfortable hanging out with words like “formula” “operation” “instruction” or “system.” But the two words belong together. Creativity without process is like helium without a balloon.
I’ve sat in a lot of writer panels and Q&A sessions and inevitably the question is raised: “What is your creative process?” I think we sometimes ask this question to see if there is a secret method – one we have yet to discover - that will magically make our craft easier. If you’re looking for easy, you’re going to be disappointed. I’ve learned the only creative process that matters is the one that gets you to the finish line. I took a screenwriting class once that expounded the virtues of note-carding. Note-carding is a process in which a summary of each scene is written on a single note card. The cards are then posted on a wall or board and organized by Act (Act 1, Act 2, Act 3). Using different colored cards to represent different characters one can easily map characters’ story arcs and ensure key story beats are hitting at the right places. I know a lot of writers who use this process. Once the story is mapped with the notecards, it’s just a matter of writing the scenes. It’s efficient, and if done right one can end up with a first draft that is pretty darn close to final. My process is a little different. It starts with my little black book. I jot ideas for characters, dialog, or scenes as they come to me. Worthy ideas eventually move from the black book to notecards. I do use notecards, but I do not map the entire story before I begin writing it. I notecard just enough to get me going. Currently, I’m note-carding the first 20 pages of my new script. Once I feel good about it, I’ll write it. Then I’ll notecard another 5-10 pages, write that, and so on. Mapping an entire story is a challenge for me. I don’t know exactly where a character is going end up until I’ve spent some time with him or her. I need to hear him speak and interact with other characters before I can understand what a character will say and do by the end of the story. This process if very much influenced by the years of performing and teaching improv. With improv, there is no script or outline. You make it up as you go. You discover who characters are as scenes develop. I like to write the same way. The notecard is like an audience suggestion. It gives me a direction for the scene, but I don’t know exactly where it will lead until I write the action and dialog and observe the choices the characters make "in the moment." Scenes build upon each other as previous scenes inform the next. This process works for me because it provides room for discovery along the way. The problem with this process is that it can easily lead to weak story structure in the first draft of a script. In subsequent rewrites, a lot of scenes will end up on the cutting room floor as I work to craft a tighter more cohesive story. That said it is my process. I’ve written almost all of my scripts this way. It provides space for creative spontaneity but employs enough structure to ensure my efforts are productive and driving toward my end goal. It's how I get to the finish line. I will tell you a secret. Well, it’s not really a secret, not in the scandalous way most people think about secrets. It’s a fact I prefer not to draw attention to. It is this: I haven’t written anything new in almost three years.
This fact has been nagging me and eating at my creative soul. Sure, I write an occasional post for this site, and I have spent a lot of time rewriting past scripts, but I haven’t written a new story in several years. I tell myself I’ll start on the next script after I finish one more rewrite of ________ script. Or, I’ll think I haven’t written a blog post lately. I’ll do that first and then start on something new next week. Or, I’ll justify the lack of fresh ink on a blank page by telling myself that my idea isn’t strong enough to start writing. I must think about it more. This didn’t use to be the case. In my “starving artist” years I wrote all the time and didn’t have any problem coming up with new ideas. In fact, I couldn’t keep up with the new story ideas that flooded my psyche. Urgency was a motivator. I was desperately trying to write my way out of the life I had. Over the years, my life changed. Today, I have a great “day” job. I have plenty of bread on my table and wine in my belly. My life is comfortable. The problem is… comfort is poison for the creative soul. There is a reason why the Arts District in most cities is birthed in the sketchy parts of town in low-rent neighborhoods and abandoned warehouses, not in posh communities. Struggling lives inspire art. Comfortable lives consume art. I do not confuse wealth for comfort, though I do believe wealth makes the allure of the comfortable life harder to resist. And I am not opposed to relief from pain or ease from turmoil. It is comfort as a destination that wreaks havoc. It’s when we reach the place where we stop saying, “I’m an adventurer, looking for treasure” (Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist) that we’ve lost our way. Writing something new is a struggle and that is exactly why I must do it. To fight with words and wrestle with characters, to quest into the dark shadowy wilderness knowing that dragons be loose carrying only the certitude that I am not sure if I have what it takes to slay said dragons. That is where my creative soul must venture. I know it is not a comfortable place, but it is rewarding. It’s where you find treasure. It was Valentine’s Day 2006. I had moved to LA six months prior and was still very new to the city and my new life here. To those who do not have a significant other, Valentine’s Day is just another day. This particular “just another day” was a Tuesday, not that that’s relevant to the story except to reiterate how ordinary the day began.
I had plans for my ordinary Tuesday. I would go to work, and then after work, I would meet an acquaintance of mine to watch shows at the IO West improv theater in Hollywood. My friend called me that afternoon and informed he would not be available to go to the shows that night. “No problem,” I told him. “We’ll find another time.” With my evening suddenly free I decided to do what many people do on an ordinary Tuesday night. I decided to do laundry. I packed up a bag of clothes, grabbed a handful of dryer sheets, and set off for the Laundromat down the street. Trips to my Laundromat were a cultural experience. I was usually the only gringo in the joint. Spanish speaking kids played hide-and-seek in the maze of washers and dryers while I watched the telenovelas on the television. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t speak Spanish. I could tell what was going on. She was mad at him. He was helplessly in love with her. She had to choose between the sultry man in the black cowboy hat or the charming man in the white cowboy hat. Lots of drama. I finished my washing and drying and folding and headed to my car when I noticed a dog running down the middle of the road. It was a busy street and I immediately thought to myself, “Stupid dog. Get out of the--” I turned my back to unlock the trunk when I heard a thump. Then whimpers. My shoulders dropped. My heart sank. I let my clothes fall. I heard a second thump and whimpering ceased. I stood there frozen. I couldn’t look. I welled-up with both pity and anger. Pity because of the poor dog. Anger because I had to witness it. Stupid dog. I closed the trunk and got in my car and drove home. I was unpacking my laundry, my mind in a death-pondering stupor, when my roommate entered my bedroom and made me an offer. It is important to know that I was renting a bedroom in a small condo from a young married couple. So my roommate wasn’t just a dude, he was the “Mister” of the household. “If I gave you $20 do you think you could disappear for the evening?” The Mister dangled a twenty-dollar bill in front of me. I snatched it before I fully realized what was happening. Then it hit me. It’s Valentine’s Day. I see. “What time?” I asked. “Midnight,” he said. I left my laundry where it was, grabbed my jacket and ball cap and was out the door. The next thing I knew I was driving and trying to figure out what I was going to do for the next five hours? There's Barnes and Noble, but I was just there the other day. I managed to kill almost an hour parking my car, walking around the block, changing my mind about where I wanted to park my car, then moving my car closer to the movie theater. I decided on a movie, but it didn't start for another hour. So, I ended up “that guy,” the lonely guy sitting by himself at a bar on Valentine’s Day. If this were a movie, I would have met another lonely soul. I would have told her about the dog outside the Laundromat. She would have said something profound about death that would have revealed her complicated past. We would have connected and shared an evening, then gone on our separate melancholy ways. But this was not a movie. It was just me, beer, and men in tights skating in circles as fast as the can. The Olympic Winter Games were on the television. Two pints later I had just enough cash left in my pocket to buy a movie ticket. I stumbled down the sidewalk to the AMC and purchased a ticket for one to see “Hoodwinked” an animated tale with a twist about Little Red Riding Hood. It was myself and three sets of couples spread out in an otherwise empty theater. I go to a lot of movies by myself. I don’t mind it at all. But the nature of this night made me self-conscious. I pulled my ball cap down to hide my face. It was during the previews that another couple entered the theater. They giggled their way up the stairs, entered my row, and slid past me and choosing seats just a few down from me. I glanced over and noticed that despite the ample seating available in the theater they opted to share the same chair. She sat on his lap. To each his own, I thought. It soon became apparent that the couple was completely plastered. They weren’t obnoxious or annoying, per se. They simply thought everything was SO funny. Not like cute giggly funny, but side-splitting I'm going to pee my pants funny. While the sober ones in the theater chuckled during the movie this couple was in hysterics, complete with hand clapping and foot stomping. At times they pleaded for the comedy to stop and I wondered if we were watching the same movie. A tiny bit of me wanted to be annoyed at how distracting they were being, but more than that I was envious. They had each other and they were having the time of their life. The movie ended and I headed home. When I arrived, it was twenty minutes to midnight, so I sat in my car and waited. I wasn’t about to return early. When the clock struck 12, I got out of the car and walked back to the condo. I ran into the Missus outside with the dog. She said, “Oh my god, he paid you?! I’m so embarrassed.” I laughed it off and thought to myself, “I wonder how much I could get for their anniversary?” Back inside the condo, I passed the Mister sitting in his boxers at his computer. “Thanks again!” He shouted. “No problem!” I said as I entered my bedroom to finish putting away my freshly laundered clothes. That’s my Valentine’s Day story. I realize that it is a bit anti-climatic and lacking the romantic feel-good tropes of a traditional Valentine’s Day story. But as the weeks, months, and years pass I often think back to that night, where in the span of just a few hours my life collided with death, loneliness, joy, and, yes…love. I have long pondered a word that adequately describes the whole of what I experienced that night. I couldn’t find one, so I created one: odditious. It means, “to rendezvous with the mysteries of life.” And let me tell you, my friend, Valentine’s Day 2006 was a very odditious night. I’ve had India on my mind lately. A year ago this week, I boarded an Emirates flight from LA to Dubai. After a 36-hour whirlwind tour of Dubai (a fascinating and audacious city) I hopped on another plane and arrived in India where I spent the next ten days in Bangalore and Kolkata. I was there to see firsthand the development work Compassion International is doing with children and families living in poverty and to meet, Reshma, a child that I have sponsored through the organization for several years. The trip has taken on new relevance in light of recent news. More on that later in this post.
I love to travel and the more exotic the better. (When I say “exotic” I mean different from what I’m used to, not weird. America would be considered an "exotic" place for many people in the world.) It is not only the sense of adventure and the heightened awareness that tingles down my spine when I first set foot in a new place, but it is the chance to leave my world for another. It engages my imagination. As a storyteller, that’s intoxicating. Travel has become an important part of my writing life. It forces interactions with people who see the world differently. It forces me at times to feel uncomfortable, to feel the weight of life - both the burdens and joys - press against my being in new ways. Yes, it’s about walking in another person’s shoes, but it’s more than that. It’s about going to places where the rules are different, and communication is hard, where at best I’m a welcomed guest and worst an unknown foreigner. Either way, I learn to trust, and in doing so I discover beauty in the world’s diversity. I always return humbled. My time here on earth isn’t about me at all. I could write a series of posts about my trip to India. It is a compelling place that gets under your skin: the vivid colors, the spicy food, the acute smells, the way the old world survives while the new world emerges, the sheer volume of its humanity, and, of course, the poverty. I found Bangalore to be a more hopeful place; the colors were brighter and the smiles longer. Yes, it was still India, but the growing number of high rises and the bustling city center had me thinking that if one could get an education, they might have a chance here. I met young a young woman who was excited to meet an American. She asked, “Do you know Target.com?” Her smile beamed in anticipation of my answer. I told her, “Yes, I know Target.com.” She informed me her job was customer service for Target.com. I hear this and suddenly my world gets smaller and I become more patient when I call a “1-800” number and a person with an Indian accent answers the phone. This is why I travel. I met my sponsored child, Reshma and her mother at a women’s center in Bangalore. She wiped tears from her eyes and in broken English said, “I’m so happy.” We exchanged gifts. I shared photos of my family with her and she shared pictures of hers. I told her I was proud of her. She told me she prays for me every day. After about an hour we boarded a bus and went to a park where we spent the rest of afternoon. At lunch, I noticed Reshma, her mother, and our translator were eating their rice and chicken with their fingers. I thought, “When in India…” I set my utensils aside and made a complete mess of myself finishing my meal with rice down my shirt and lap and all over the ground beneath me. I think they appreciated the effort. At the end of the day, Reshma and her mother returned to their lives and to the daily uncertainties and struggles that face the poor. I went back to my hotel and my iPad. My time in Kolkata left a deep impression on me. It is impossible to ignore the heaviness of life there. The colors appeared more muted and the faces wearier. Hope is not a commodity here. I visited Mother Theresa’s home and orphanage and I start to understand the incredible self-sacrifice this woman made. Truly humbling. Which brings me to the news I received this week. It is very likely that by mid-march the Compassion programs in India, serving 200,000+ kids and their families will be closed. The Indian government is no longer allowing fund transfers from foreign countries to many NGOs operating in the country. It’s a turn inward by the government that appears to be targeting Western non-profits that work in the areas of human rights and the environment. Compassion, as well as organizations like Greenpeace, Amnesty, and the Ford Foundation, have all been affected. The highest levels of both the US and the British government have pleaded the case to the Indian government to allow Compassion (and other NGOs) to continue their work. But so far hearts have not changed. I am grateful I had the opportunity to go to India when I did. I’m thankful I was able to meet Reshma and her mother. Their story is now a part of mine and mine a part of theirs. Our time together was not filled with lofty conversation (let’s just say our translator did the best she could). It was mostly us sitting together and smiling; a simple universal gesture that says, “I see you. And you are not alone.” I hope I never lose my courage to cross boundaries, to sit with a stranger, and smile. I’ve heard something lately that I haven’t heard in a while: genuine interest from a management agency in my work. I picked up an insight at the Austin Film Festival last October and when I came back to LA I thought try something I’d never done before. I sent a query letter.
Query letters have been a tool for aspiring writers in Hollywood for decades. It’s a letter written to agents, managers, producers, or production companies that basically says, “I’m So-and-So and I have a script call ‘The Great American Screenplay’ and it’s about …“ For a myriad of legal reasons, very few companies accept unsolicited scripts. So the goal of the query is to pique the interest of the reader enough that they solicit your script. Before the internet changed everything, these query letters were old school, requiring ink and paper, a roll of stamps, and a lot of envelope licking. It was common for aspiring writers to send dozens of query letters with the hope that someone would take interest and respond. The problem, as you might imagine, is that all these companies and agencies are bombarded with queries every day and the likelihood of a response is very low. So, the general perception among writers is that query letters don’t work. I was somewhat surprised to hear from a literary manager speaking on a panel at the film festival that his agency still accepted queries via e-mail. I thought, my script pitches well, what do I have to lose? In early November, I sent three query letters to three different talent management agencies with a short pitch for “The Resurrection of Dennis Munson.” Two weeks later, I got a response from one of the companies. They asked for the script. So, I sent them the script. Their instructions are explicit: don’t follow-up. If we’re interested, we’ll contact you. The holidays came and I didn’t hear anything. To be honest, I kind of forgot about it. Last Friday, exactly two months after I submitted my script, an e-mail appeared in my inbox. “Thanks for sending your script to us – we enjoyed your writing and want to read more from you.” They asked if I had any other completed scripts that I could send a pitch, or logline, for. Fortunately, I did have another script called “The Tinker Dreamer” that I’m proud of and it’s a story that I think reflects my creative voice. I worked on the pitch over the weekend and sent it to them Monday morning. That afternoon, they replied and asked for the script, which was great, except for one big problem. The script wasn’t done. I thought for sure if I heard anything back from them it would take a week or two, which would give me time to finish it. I did not anticipate they would reply in two hours. Before the holidays, I started on a rewrite. It was a significant rewrite that I thought I’d have done, maybe, by the end of the January. I looked at the script sitting on my desk, bloodied with red ink. Oh crap, I thought. I have to finish this now. I rewrote the script in 36 hours. It was intense and to be honest kind of fun. I wrote late into the night and got up early to keep going. Tuesday night I finished the new draft and sent it off to my editor for cleanup. Amazingly, my editor, who lives on the east coast, had the script edited by the time I awoke Wednesday morning. I addressed my editor’s notes and submitted the script to the agency Wednesday night. Phew. Now I just have to wait and see what happens. I may never hear from the agency again. But then again, who knows? Anything is possible. Here is the pitch I sent them for “The Tinker Dreamer.” The Tinker Dreamer is a Capra-esque sci-fi drama set in rural post-war America of the 1950s, before Sputnik and the space race, in a time when mankind’s ideas of outer space were formed by science fiction comics and B-movies. Max, an inventive dreamer, comes of age longing to explore the outer reaches of the known universe, but entangled love and family loyalties keep his feet firmly on the ground. Max’s unconventional beliefs are put on trial after a mysterious machine he builds falls into the wrong hands. The town’s believers and cynics take sides as the fate of Max and those he loves rests on the flip of the machine’s switch. After I crossed the finish line, I was immediately greeted by a small army of race volunteers. A finisher’s medal was placed around my neck and someone asked, “Are you okay?” My answer would determine where I would end up: on a stretcher in the medical tent or a seat in the recovery tent. I said I was fine. They draped a towel over my shoulders and then a young man grabbed my arm and led me to the recovery tent. I took a seat at a table and the volunteer asked if I wanted some pizza. “Sure," I mumbled. In truth, I didn’t know what I wanted. The young man returned with a slice of cold pizza. I took one bite and thought I would vomit.
I was feeling nauseous. I looked over at the port-a-potties and thought maybe I should just throw up and get it over with. But that would involve walking and I didn’t have the energy for that. I pulled the towel tight around my body and laid my head on the table. I slipped into a slumber that wasn’t quite sleep and wasn’t quite awake. After about 20 minutes I recognized the voice of my friend Heather who had just finished, “Nathan, are you okay?” I opened my eyes and looked at her. “Let’s get our picture taken.” She suggested. I stood up, put a smile on my face and got my finisher photo. My legs were incredibly sore. Movement was slow and deliberate, but I was feeling better. The nausea had dissipated. I made my way out of the recovery tent and found my support crew at Endurance Sports Travel. I dropped off my gear and picked up a bag of clean, dry, warm clothes. I changed and resurrected, a new man. I connected with my other friends from the Disney Triathlon team. We did a roll-call: who’s in and who’s still out on the course? Where did you last see them? How did they look? Local restaurants were serving meals to athletes, so we took a table at a Mexican/Italian restaurant and waited for a couple of friends to finish. I ordered the lasagna. When my food came, I ate about a third of the dish and couldn’t eat anymore. When you burn close to 10,000 calories on a liquid diet, the body is not ready to accept a heavy meal. Three stairs led down to the dining area. When we finished eating, I hobbled over to the stairs and paused. Climbing three stairs or summiting Mount Everest, it was all the same to my weary legs. The hostess took pity on me and offered her hand. I took it and she helped up the stairs. I would have married her on the spot. That was the kindest thing anyone could have done for me at that moment. Once everyone in our crew was accounted for, we loaded into a van and headed back to the resort. I took a hot shower and let the ocean, the grime, and the sweat wash off my body. I crawled into bed just before midnight. I was so tired I thought I would sleep for the next 15 hours. I woke up at 3 am with a hunger so ravenous it was borderline painful. I found a Cliff Bar and consumed it in two bites. I woke up again 3 hours later with the same ferocious appetite. Breakfast was served at 7 am. I was up and waiting outside the dining room at 6:45 am. I wasn’t alone. The caloric deprivation of the all-day race makes the body crave fuel. There was a small crowd of athletes waiting for the doors to open. Food was more important than sleep. I spent the next three days on the island moving from one beach chair to the next. My friends and I went out for dinner each night; we swapped stories and sang karaoke. After nine months of being focused, it was nice to finally allow myself to be unfocused. It’s been three years and one month since I crossed the finish line. It’s only now that I have distance from the training, from the race, from the lifestyle of Ironman that I see how important that day was to me. I’ve been in LA for eleven years. Like so many, I arrived with a head full of dreams and ideas for what I wanted my life to be. After a decade of NOs, I learned that a portion of my aspiration was dependent on other people’s YESes. Every artist in LA faces this struggle. As the years marched on the assault of the NOs takes a toll. You begin to take it personally. Ironman was something I could do that no one could say NO to. I didn’t need anyone’s permission, affirmation, or connection to get my butt out of bed in the morning and train. I didn’t need anyone to discover me or introduce me to the finish line. I could get there myself. It was up to me. My question was: do I have the commitment, endurance, and focus to do something, which for me, was quite extraordinary? Training and finishing the Ironman was my way of telling myself YES. On the days when I’m discouraged, when the self-doubt whispers bitter denials in my ear, I remember that voice I heard one night years ago. “You are an Ironman.” |
AuthorA WRITER AND TRAVELER KEEPING THE FAITH IN LOS ANGELES Subjects
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