Filed under: Homing on screen
Oh thank god. This morning, on the way to physio (rotator cuff injury probably from over-zealous drilling during the summer of making decks, compounded by incessant Snood playing, and furious typing of screenplay treatment), I figured I’d better give some serious though to the problems posed by the screenplay. Those in charge feel I haven’t quite found the right place to start the film. And I can dig that. I tried to put in a bunch of backstory, but I think it’s just too much.
So, there I was, rolling along Summer Street, past the graveyard, giving it some serious thought.
And as is my habit, I was talking aloud to myself. I find the quality of my thoughts is best while I am in transit…in the car, driving, or on foot (not so much on the bicycle, mainly because I need to concentrate on not falling off or getting killed or maimed), and the talking to myself is very helpful, and it’s tough to do that while on foot (though the temptation is strong), so, given a few minutes alone in the car, I figured I’d best make the best of them.
And as I pulled up to the physio’s office and put the car in park, it all began to fall into place. I plugged the meter, and noticed I had in my bag the tiny, bird-covered notebook Kit gave me before I left for Toronto in July. No pen or pencil though. I was, for once, without my trusty pencil case. I cursed everyone who’s ever mocked me for carrying that glorious thing, and then I cursed myself for not popping it in my bag this morning. And then I hustled into the building, the elevator, and the physio’s office, trying to hold the whole thing in my mind. This is very, very difficult to do. It is quicksilver, and I was panicky. Got there, receptionist on phone. Saw someone I know somehow, made small talk about our respective injuries. But wanted to rudely command him to be quiet and her to stop her phone conversation and hand me a damn pen, woman, can’t you see I’m on fire here!
Anyhow.
I was raised better than that, and so I chit-chatted till Vera was off the phone, then politely procured a pen and began to scrawl and scribble. My physio kindly hooked me up to the prickle-machine first (no doubt that’s its technical name) so that I could scrawl in peace for fifteen minutes. Which I did. Possibly to the detriment of my shoulder, which had been feeling much better, but stiffened up some whilst I was on my back, scrawling with a spotty ballpoint in a teeny tiny notebook propped on a clipboard. But no matter. One must suffer for one’s art, and so there I was, very bourgeois in my suffering indeed. In any event… fifteen minutes later, the prickle-machine sounded its we’re-done-here alarm, and I finished capturing my notes on Act II. Act III I think will stand almost exactly as its written in the first draft of the treatment.
Oh my god, the relief at solving that problem. And now, I may not have solved it to anyone’s satisfaction but my own, and even that might disappear once I really start writing it out. But what a weight off, to have at least an alternative place to start.
Remind me to muse on that sometime. On how, when you’re writing a novel, the things in it happen the way they happen because…that’s the way they happen! Whereas, it seems, when you’re writing a film, maybe things happen this way or maybe that way. Or maybe some other way. Not because that’s the way it first appeared to you, but because that’s the way it works best for the film. Or maybe this way. Or that way. Or let’s ask that guy, he can probably figure out how that thing should go.
It’s a strange shift for a writer like me (for a writer of the kind that I am, that is to say), but not an entirely unpleasant one.
Soon I will embark on Homing: The Movie Treatment take two. Notes are beginning to come back to me from those who know more than me (hell, you probably know more than me, why don’t you send me some notes, too?) Over the last twenty four hours, I’ve been presented with a number of questions about the story-as-a-movie (so very, very different from the story-as-a-novel. Oh, so different), and my mind is busy chewing those questions and forming them into answers. I am cautiously optimistic about the likelihood I will knock it out of the park on my next go-round. I would very much like to do so because then I think there’ll be a certain amount of time in which nothing further will be required of me, and I can think about Fallsy Downsies some more.
Because the winter is approaching and there is nothing like winter for getting novels written. Ideally, I should live up north where it is dark twenty hours a day. That way, I could turn in for the day around 7pm, sleep till about 4am, write for four hours in the quiet dark and bang out a novel a year. Ha ha, like that’d happen. I’d be the executive director of the local lantern festival by the end of my first week, and would spend all my spare time strewing twinkle lights ahead of me wherever I went.
Till now, Fallsy Downsies has wanted to be written in loud public places. But I am feeling the pull, as the days shorten and crispen, toward early morning hours of quiet, just me and my head and the stillness of the house, spinning sentences into paragraphs and paragraphs into pages, and pages into a bound item you can hold in your hands and enjoy. Christ, if I could outsource the writing of it, I surely would. I think I am going to require a mini-retreat, during which I get fifty pages done. Yes please, and soon.
You never hear of anyone coming down with that, and I wonder why. Spring fever, absolutely, but no fall fever.
I get it every year.
Maybe because my birthday is at August’s end and seems each year to usher out the summer, even though officially summer has several weeks left to spend. But the summer mindset, the headspace of summer, it goes by the first of September. Then it’s all sharpened pencils and too-hot sweaters and stew, even though the weather stays summery.
In an effort to buck that particular trend, I agitated for a trip to the beach this afternoon. We ate Dragon’s Breath blue cheese, and local peaches and got sand between our toes… and wore scarves with our sunglasses. I stepped into the ocean for the first time this year and damn, it was cold. But good. My feet still feel unusual. They know they’ve been in the surf.
On the way we stopped at some big box housewares store, because we have a sudden yen for a Crossley turntable thingy. Thought we might find one there. We did not. But being in there stoked my fall fever, which always manifests as a desire for new lamps and ottomans (ottomen?) and a new rug. And some boxes to put things in. What things, and then where will I put the boxes? Please don’t bother me with your petty concerns, I am attempting to treat my fall fever.
The other thing that’s going on, quite suddenly, is a desire, a deep, deep desire, to be writing Fallsy Downsies. So far, I’ve pushed it away, my usual laziness, or lack of willingness to give everything to writing. But I can’t hold it off much longer. The fall is a sure time for writing for me. The dark wraps right around, and I dream people and things up. So.
The complicating factor right now is the screenplay. Tomorrow night I have a meeting, at which I will be furnished with notes on the treatment. I know it’s broken, and I hope to figure out how to fix it. More with the birds, for sure. Plus, cut out two thirds of what happens in the book. Ah, but which two thirds? And how to show Nathan alive and interacting with Leah, without making a four-hour movie? These are questions to which I hope to have answers this time tomorrow.
At Pier 21, at 6:30, to help celebrate the launch of Under This Unbroken Sky. It’s Shandi Mitchell’s debut novel and it’s been keeping me up at night this week. I am just at the point where the story starts to unravel, everything’s going to hell in a handbasket, and I want to finish reading it SO VERY BADLY. But unfortunately, my day job requires me to… work. Sigh. Anyhow, come down to Pier 21 and let Shandi blow your mind with her talent tonight.
Quick note to say Kev Corbett is playing Tunes at Noon at City Hall in Halifax today… grab your lunch and I’ll see you there!
Filed under: Readings and writings
Well, Hurricane Bill was barely worth getting out of bed for. The sun is already out in southern Nova Scotia after fierce rain and wind this morning. Still grey here in Halifax, but the rain has basically stopped. We were without power for an hour or so. We shared a cheese-tomato-homemade pesto sandwich. Had a vodka and soda. Sat in the living room near the window and read. It is the most relaxed we’ve been in months, and that includes while we were on vacation. More tropical storms and hurricanes for me, please.
I am reading Which Lie Did I Tell, and it’s awesome. I am learning tonnes about movies from it. Plus, it’s super entertaining. Kev is reading Shakey, the book about Neil Young. Kev is now fast asleep. Speaking of relaxed.
Sadness yesterday. Frog Hollow Books locked its doors for good. I’d been trying to go in there for two weeks to say goodbye, but I just couldn’t make myself do it. Managed to get my act together ten minutes before closing. Went in and had a good cry with Heidi, drank canned wine from a Tim Horton’s cup, bought three books I don’t even know what they are, just to buy them, cried some more, and got the hell out. I will miss that place, and I wish I’d thought to go in there every single week to spend thirty bucks. If there’s an independent bookstore where you live, go there. It makes a difference. My book was always on the shelf at Frog Hollow, but I’ve never seen a single copy in Chapters. At Frog Hollow, they read my book, they loved my book, they put my book in the hands of hundreds and hundreds of readers. At Chapters, I’m just someone who might spend eight bucks on a roll of wrapping paper. Frog Hollow gave me my first job in Halifax and kept the wolf from my door. Then they recommended dozens of good books to read over the years, and finally, they hosted my book launch when Homing came out, and did the aforementioned hand selling that is so very vital to any author’s success. And I will miss the hell out of that place. So don’t delay. Go see your local independent bookseller today. PS: Costco is not an independent bookseller.
It is festival season round the Domet-Corbett household. The weekend just past, we were in Lunenburg for the excellent Folk Harbour Festival. Kev released his brand new record, Son of a Rudderless Boat, on Thursday night on the Festival’s mainstage. It was awesome. He received a huge, rolling, standing ovation (not that standing-Os are rare round these parts, but this one seemed to go on and on. And then all weekend long, he was getting high-fived everywhere we went. It was super cool.
The weekend coming up is the second annual Shelburne Writers’ Festival. I’m hosting the proceedings, and will be reading, as well. Maybe from Homing, but more likely from Fallsy Downsies. I am excited to be sharing the stage with writers like Donna Morrissey and Kenneth J Harvey among many others. Kev will also be playing… he’s the live music portion of the open mic on Saturday night. It’s going to be a fun weekend.
It’s also going to mean our garden remains unweeded for another week, but such is the life of the would-be cultural power couple. Ha.
So come on down to Shelburne. It’s a lovely little town on Nova Scotia’s south shore. We had a blast there last year, and are looking forward to a repeat performance. See you there?
So, there’s writing, which I find not particularly hard. Then there’s rewriting, which I hate and fear, but am trying to learn to embrace (remind me to talk more about that some time). Then there’s taking something you’ve written, rewritten, re-rewritten and had published and…writing it again.
That’s a real feat. I’ve been wrestling with the treatment for Homing (the movie) for some time now. Lots of reading and thinking and making notes and writing and thinking and rewriting and thinking and then rewriting again. Oh, and some movie watching too. I finally finished the process yesterday around 5pm. I felt roughly the way I did upon finishing the writing of the novel in the first damn place. Triumphant, relieved, terrified, totally tapped out.
What an odd experience to write that story again, same but different. Many things stayed the same, but a surprising number of details changed necessarily. At this point, it still feels very much like Homing the book. I understand that things may yet change in future iterations of Homing the movie, but I feel okay about that at this point. I may have more to say about this some time in the future. For now, I’m just glad I can move to the next phase… sending the treatment to the producers, and chilling out for a bit.
So, you know, mission accomplished, thus far.
In true vacation form, I was felled by a miserable cold. And then it started raining, and who knows when it will stop? So, it’s been like that.
We’ve been a busy couple of vacationers. Kev‘s been working as hard as he can getting his record finalized. Album art, check. Looks great. Got it mastered by the guy he wanted, check, listening to it right now, sounds great. Get it all off to the duplicators, well, that’s been a bit complicated, but we’re getting there.
Last night he took the mastered disc out to the car to listen to it. I couldn’t sleep, despite a liberal dose of cold medication (or maybe because of) and so I slipped on a dress and flip flops and padded out in the pouring rain to join him in the car and listen drowsily. Great way to hear it. Highly recommended. I hope you find at least one great rain storm after you get your copy of Son of a Rudderless Boat, coming soon to a folk festival stage near you (provided Lunenburg is near you).
As for me, I have yet to set hands to keyboard for the purpose of writing the treatment. This is so my MO. I write at the very last minute, and then only if my life depends on it. I can see it all so clearly in my head. I see Leah in scenes that aren’t in the book, but are nonetheless her scenes, scenes that came so naturally, I must have always known I’d need them for some other purpose. And Henry, my god, he couldn’t be more alive to me if he actually lived next door. Don’t tell the others, but Henry’s my favourite.
Anyhow, as with every single vacation here in the Sheridan Homelands, it doesn’t matter how much time we spend, it’s never, ever enough. We have a week left here, and there are still so many people to see, three decks to build (today was supposed to be the day, but see under: rain. Actually, Tuesday was supposed to be the day but see under: ridiculous cold), a CD to pick up and a treatment to write.
If we ever took the kind of vacation that involved flying over a body of water larger than the Saint Lawrence Seaway, how would we ever get anything done? I imagine if I ever had a real vacation, I’d be dangerous.
And how’s your July?
Filed under: Homing on screen
So I’ve been off work for two weeks exactly, and on holiday for a week and a day. And I feel pretty relaxed, I have to say. Today there will be high tea, and then a ukulele jam, so we’re managing to have a range of experiences. And every night I read a few pages of Story by Robert Mckee in preparation for writing a treatment for Homing. I figured out an awful lot on the drive from Halifax to Mississauga, so now I know where to start. And that’s really all I need. A starting place and a good strong push forward.
My other main job this month is to build a deck for my mom. So that’ll give me the time and physical labour needed to figure out the rest of the treatment.
Working holiday indeed.
