Finishing the book

by Kate Pearce



You sit back in your chair, a calm smile on your face and stare at those wonderful words-The End. You've done it. You've achieved something that many people can only dream about. You've written a book, you've edited and polished it to perfection and now you're ready to send it off to your publisher.

I know, I can just imagine all your happy little smiles of remembrance. That's how it works, right?

OR DOES IT?

1. Your editor calls and wants revisions. Resentfully you agree to look at the 'suggestions' even though you know the book is PERFECT just as it is.

2. You send the book back. Sometimes this stage can go on and on until you seriously want to leap through the internet and strangle your editor. (but that might just be me) Somehow, despite your mumblings the book actually seems to be even more perfect!

3. You send off a pristine clean copy wrapped in bubble wrap and extra thick tape just so someone at your publishing house will break a few nails getting the bugger out of the box-passive aggressive payback? Maybe.

4. Your perfect manuscript comes back in an envelope-smelling of pipe smoke, strong cologne, covered in coffee rings and a kipper wedged between page 100 and page 101... Someone has also WRITTEN ALL OVER IT IN RED INK. When you finish weeping and bewailing the bubble wrap trap, you realize that some of the marks and squiggles actually make sense! They are COPY EDITS!

5. Copy edits are annoying. Who cares if you abandoned Great Aunt Trixie at an inn in Southampton and completely forgot to mention her again for the rest of the book, even though everyone else has gone on to London? (see Simply Sinful available Nov 08 for details) Who cares if you get the hero and his identical twin brother mixed up in a crucial sex scene? Apparently someone does.

6. Copy the archaic marks, (with a red pencil please), insert a few sentences about dear Aunt Trixie and send it all back. But remember:
a) this is the only marked-up copy-edited copy of your ms in existence so you'd better pony up for express registered mail or you will not be popular in NY.

7. Sit back and forget about the manuscript until it turns up AGAIN-this time as galleys or page proofs which you usually have a ridiculously short time to get back. Personally, I photocopy the pages I make changes to, send the originals back and insert the copies in the ms. This is a good thing when you get an email saying the originals never arrived...(ditto Simply Sinful)

8. Finally a book cover flat arrives and you get to read the tasteful blurb created for you-and realize they have perpetuated the same mistake from book one. A mistake which you made originally in your initial proposal and one that never got changed. Okay, so the cover doesn't look historical, but the guy is HOT!



9. Six months after that, the book arrives and you lick it. Well that's what I do and then I read it.

Yeah, I read it.

Lots of authors can't do that, because they are worried about what they might have messed up. Here are a few of my favorite literary fantasies about what an author thought when she read her book...









Jane Austen, on reading Mansfield Park: "What on earth was I thinking? That Fanny is a frickin' wimp, she deserves to be taken and ruined by that gorgeous scoundrel Henry Crawford."









Margaret Mitchell-"Gosh and darn it, I should've just made Rhett take Scarlett upstairs, chain her to the bed and teach her some real manners."










Daphne Du Maurier on Rebecca-"Fuck! I forgot to give my heroine a name!"


And then there are the critics...
Here in no particular order are the three most asked questions by my readers.

1.Why do you have a character called Caroline in Pleasurable Bargains and a character also called Caroline in Simply Sexual? Are they the same person?
-polite answer-"No they aren't the same person, Caroline was a very popular name in Georgian Regency England so I just decided to use it twice."
-real answer-"I don't write anything down, character names, plots, family trees, etc-how the hell would I know if I used the same name twice?"

2. Roping the Wind starts before Where have all the Cowboys gone? but WHATCG? came out first. Why is that?
-polite answer-"Gosh, you are absolutely right. Thank you for pointing that out."
-real answer-"I had no idea I was going to write another book in this series until Jay turned up in his brother's book all grumpy and surly and hot and sexy...so I just wrote it that way, okay?"

3. Why does Lord Valentin Sokorvsky in Simply Sexual have a Russian surname if his father is an English Marquess? (shut up Madelynne Ellis)
-polite answer-"Ah, because his mother was a Russian princess who gave him the title and name so he uses that because he doesn't get along with his father."
-real answer-"He just turned up like that in my head and okay, his mother was a Russian princess but that doesn't really explain why his half-brother from another mother is called Sokorvsky as well does it? Damn it.

Apart from the above, I never want to change my books. I've realized that they were as good as I could get them at that point in my writing career. As writers, we're always looking back on ourselves but it shouldn't stop us getting better.

So here's my question for you all...
Which classic piece of literature (and I mean that very widely) would you change the ending of, and which one, if any of your own creations would you love the opportunity to do again?

A Bluffer's Guide to... Gay Historicals

Along the lines of the other Bluffer's Guides I thought I'd do a Gay Historical 1-0-1 today.

Top facts:

* Sadly not yet published by Black Lace. I live in hope as they do have m/m/f plotlines.
* Covers. Usually pretty naff.(with the exception of those below)
* Committed Lusties, Erastes, Madelynne Ellis - hell, just about all of us!

In a nutshell

* There's not enough of it, for a start.
* Some Gay Historicals address the very real problems of being gay in a time when it wasn't just unacceptable, it was reviled and illegal. (Basically after Christianity kicked in) However, there were times when man on man love wasn't just acceptable, it was a normal part of everyday life. (The Greeks had a word for it.)
* Thankfully, due to pronouns they are not called things like "The Mediterranean Tycoon's Depraved Heiress" (With thanks to the Random Romance Title Generator)

The heroes

Not too different from the heroes in other historical romances. They are generally aristocratic (tall and handsome goes without saying - plus they are ALWAYS - always hung like horses, this is the law.) So, create your character: Rich, check. Commanding, check. Handsome, check. Cock of unusual size. Check and double check. OK, you can stop checking now.

The, er, OTHER heroes

Now here you can play around a little. You can either make your other hero a match for your arrogant alpha in every sense of the word (and sit back and watch those sparks fly and those buttons go flying (gotta have flying buttons, more later) OR you can create a sensitive little soul. A downtrodden artist, perhaps, or an impoverished tutor. A kidnapped sex slave or an abused and rescued young man. As long as you get a vast gulf between your alpha and your omega, it doesn't really matter. Any excuse to make that boy cry his little heart out because the rough tough alpha doesn't know how to handle him. Or rather - he doesn't know how to handle his feelings - he knows how to handle him all right. (hur hur) The important thing is the desecration of innocence - but don't worry. No matter how nasty the alpha is, your sensitive soul will fall in love with him as he tops from the bottom.

The best bit about writing gay historicals
* Buttons. Oh GOD the buttons. I've coined the term breeches ripper before, but for me waistcoat ripping is far more exciting. Also cravats. You can have a LOT of fun with cravats.
* UST. (No, no, not there, Unresolved Sexual Tension. Buckets and buckets of it. "I'm homosexual!++ Argh! God he's pretty. I wonder if he's homosexual too? How can I let him know? What if he's not? All right... so he is - he's sleeping with Lord [Whossit] - how can I get him?"A writer of gay historicals have immense fun torturing her characters - making every glance count, and when one's passing the port (to the left, of course) at dinner, fingertips are just bound to brush against each other.
* It's much easier to get men together on a day-to-day basis. Whereas a hetero historical writer will have to write about dances, and chaperones and perhaps elopements men can simply hang out with each other, ride in each other's carriages (and no, that's not a euphemism!) without anyone fainting or ruining anyone's reputation. Of course it's pretty difficult to get them into sexual situation, but that's another post...

The best bit about reading gay historicals

* Buttons! Ok, Is it just me and the button porn?
* Appreciating that the author knows exactly what the difference is between a sailor's whipping and a double fisherman but that you don't need to know anything as silly as long as the hero gets tied up.
* Sponge baths.
* Cocks! (sorry, but it did have to be said.) Lots of 'em. Members, yards, rods, poles, perches, arbor vitae, gaying instrument. (yes, really.)

Top tip: beige...biscuit...blasé bleeding anachronisms

Check check check. You may think that it's all right to say your hero's breeches are beige but it wasn't so and any eagle eyed reader will Mock You. They will, however realise if you are trying and make a small slip-up, but they won't appreciate sloppy (or no) research, modern day speech patterns and contemporary men in fancy dress.

What not to say

* “Where's the lube?”
* He climaxed, spunk spurting over his fingers.
* "He's got such a cute ass."

What to say

* “Spit, and have done, man.” (other lubricants are available...)
* GOOD LORD, SHAG HIM ALREADY!
* I'm learning something! Oooo... cocks....

Over to you...

* What gay historicals would you like to see?
* What cliches are you sick of?
* Do you want better covers?
* Anything else?

And if you are interested in finding out more: (and in a more sensible fashion)

Speak Its Name has The Definitive List of Gay Historical fiction.
The Macaronis: Fiction out of the Closet


++homosexual is also anachronistic until the early 20th century, too.

Coming attractions

by Olivia Knight

Last week's wet men notwithstanding, this may be the most beautiful image ever to grace the Lust Bites blog (and we don't hold back with our gratuitous photos). Speaking of backs and holding - mmm...

(Perhaps I'm biased. This is almost exactly how I imagine Sir Thomas from "The Three Riddles" in Enchanted, though not featured in his armour here. Or perhaps any woman in her right mind and half the world's men would look at that back and whimper with longing.)

On Monday, Erastes continues the Bluffer's Guide series with her Guide to Gay Historicals. (See image, right.)

On Wednesday, Kate Pearce looks at finishing books - those final details, the letting go, and what to do when you've finished and are sitting folornly staring at the walls. (For ideas, see image, right.)

On Friday, Portia da Costa gets In Too Deep (as in image, right) with her latest UK release.

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Competition winners

Miss Trixie, for your explanation of why wet men are so hot, you win your choice of Enchanted, Southern Spirits, or Phantasmagoria - send your snail mail details and your choice to knight [dot] olivia [at] gmail [dot] com.

CC you win a copy of Wildwood - send your snail mail details to janineashbless [at] fsmail [dot] net

Everyone else, you can award yourself prizes for your own brilliance! Just click on the cover of your choice.

Smut Slot - Wildwood

by Janine Ashbless

This picture of Holly is by my old mate Ian Stobie, and suits Wildwood exactly. Used with permission.

Did you know, it's exactly a year since I last claimed the Smut Slot? Well today I'm delighted to offer an excerpt from my latest novel Wildwood, a tale of contemporary magic. If you want some more info about the plot you can catch up here, but for this excerpt all you need to know is that Avril has just been out for a memorable first date with her boss, Michael, and now he's driving her home.

---

We didn’t talk as we drove back. I mean, in the circumstances, what was there I could say? In the glow of the dashboard light Michael’s face was only dimly visible, but I assumed he wore an expression of satisfaction. His white shirt seemed almost phosphorescent.

He’d had a complete change of clothing and a first-aid kit waiting back at the car. He’d daubed his cuts and bites with antiseptic and they seemed to have stopped bleeding. No marks showed on the new shirt.

As we drew nearer home he broke the silence to enquire, ‘Back to your place, or to my hotel?’

‘You can drop me off at the bottom gate of the Grange.’ My voice was raspy with rage.

He didn’t reply, but he took the turnings obediently enough and soon drew up outside the locked iron gates, pulling across the road to park in the little lay-by. He didn’t switch the engine off. The curve of the wall and the bars of the gate were the only objects visible; beyond the cast of the dipped headlights the night was totally black. I didn’t care; I’d far rather walk on my own across the estate grounds than spend any more time in his company.

‘You seem angry, Avril,’ he said as I grabbed for the handle.

‘Angry?’ I glared at him as the interior light came on. ‘What could I possibly be angry about? Well - I suppose there is the emotional blackmail. That’s the sort of thing that might make some people angry.’

His expression was mild. ‘You had a choice. I promised you that.’

‘Yes.’ I slid down onto the road. ‘And I should have let them rip you apart.’ Then I slammed the door on him. But I was at a disadvantage; the estate gate was over on the driver’s side of the vehicle, and the road around here was all loose gravel chippings, so I had to stop and put my shoes back on. By the time I crossed in front of the bonnet he was out too, waiting for me. Half-blinded by the headlights, I nearly walked into him. He caught my wrists. I went rigid.

‘Avril.’ He was standing very close; so close that our bodies were nearly touching. I could feel the warmth radiating from his torso, and smell his skin. He inclined his head so that he could murmur in my ear, and I felt the caress of his breath: ‘If you should have, then why didn’t you?’ His voice was soft and throaty and it made all the hairs stand up on my neck.

I didn’t reply. I didn’t shrug him off or pull away, though my muscles were locked with tension. I let him take my earlobe softly between his teeth and nip at my flesh. I let him put his finger on my cheek and then draw it along my jaw and then down my throat and breastbone, very gently. I couldn’t see him at all; the headlights were blinding, but I could feel his excitement. It was like electricity leaping the tiny gap between our bodies. Though I stayed rigid I let him turn me to face the front of the car and then, holding me from behind, put my hands on the warm vibrating hood. He moved slowly, with great deliberation. Giving me time to know exactly what was going on.

See: I had the choice.

‘Spread your legs,’ he said softly. And I obeyed. I put my ankles apart. My calves were already taut in those unaccustomed high heels. Michael leaned into me firmly, spreading my arms wider too, so that I was tilted forward, my bum sticking out. I could feel the hard bulge of his erection nudging my buttock. Then he stood back, just looking at me. Granting me time to comprehend my surrender. ‘Good girl.’

My legs were trembling. My heart was turning somersaults. You bastard, I thought.

Then he lifted my skirt and laid it over my back, exposing my naked sex to the night. I could feel the breeze on my most intimate flesh. I could picture how I must look to him very clearly: all long legs and heart-shaped ass, my face and torso in shadow. Just my pert out-thrust cheeks and the dusky teardrop of the sex that they framed, soft and sweet and defenceless. I wasn’t in the most pristine of states given our earlier activities; my placket was still puffy and slick with moisture. But as he stood there examining me I felt a sudden gush of new warmth and I knew that I was creaming up for him all over again. I was glad then that it was dark, because my face was burning with humiliation.

Firmly, Michael cupped my pussy in his hand and squeezed. My juiciness was only too apparent. Still it did not seem to be enough to satisfy him: he spent some time adjusting my stance, spreading my bum-cheeks with his hands, running his fingers up the deep cleft and over my buttocks and through the slippery petals of my sex. He stroked the tight iris of my anus until I whimpered, feeling myself yield. There was nothing I could hide from him, and when I heard the sound of his flies being opened I knew that there was nothing I would not let him have.
I wanted him to fuck me.

I wanted his cock so much that when he put it to the wet lips of my sex and pushed bluntly into me I sobbed in relief. And Michael heard and understood perfectly: ‘Yes. There it is; it’s okay,’ he murmured. ‘You’re all right now. You’ve got it.’
I had to bite my lip to hold back the tears of gratitude.

He fucked me very thoroughly, his hands on my hips, his groin slapping into my backside. He made no attempt to touch my clit. This wasn’t about making me come, I understood: this was about him taking his pleasure of me - and it was about me loving that. It was about restoring the balance of power between us to the place it had been at the start. Where he liked it.

When I heard the sound of a car engine coming toward us I quivered and almost tried to break position. Michael put one hand on the centre of my back and pushed me down firmly against the hot steel. I didn’t fight, but sweat broke out all over my skin; inwardly I writhed. What if they recognise us? I howled inwardly. What if they’re local to the Grange and they know exactly who we are and they see me being fucked by my boss; fucked from behind; fucked like a cheap slut in my shiny high-heels on a public road?

Gradually the sweep of their headlights over the beetling hedges pushed back the night. They were going to come up on us from behind, I realised. There was no chance they’d miss us behind the bulk of the 4x4. They were going to pin us in their headlights and see exactly what was going on; Deverick’s hands biting into my bum as he rammed his meat rhythmically into my willing snatch. I whimpered and thrust back against him; he quickened his pace, his breath coming hard and shallow.

They were coming. There they were. The night was split asunder by light and the roar of the motor was suddenly on top of us as they emerged round the bend. As the headlights swept over us I saw for an interminable moment my hands spread wide on the bonnet and my face reflected in our windscreen, eyes wide and mouth slack. The humiliation was too much to bear; I came, crying out. And as my sex clenched and my arse bucked Michael filled me to overflowing.

Then the car had swept past us. For a moment its brake-lights glowed a frantic crimson, and in the midst of the pulsations of pleasure and shame I wondered if it were about to stop and the passengers leap out for a longer look. Then it was gone around another bed, and we were alone again.

Without any hurry Michael withdrew, wiping his turgid prick on my buttocks before tidying himself away. I didn’t move. Not until there was a soft flash of light and he leaned back over me to show me the screen of his cell phone and the close-up picture he’d just taken of my rear. It was a small screen but the definition was good; you couldn’t miss the glisten on those plumped-up lips that made it clear this anonymous gash had just been well used. ‘For personal use,’ he said as he flipped my skirt back down over my bum.

Perhaps he meant to be reassuring. There wasn’t really anything I could say to him. Dumbly I turned away, my heels wobbly on the granite chippings as I fumbled for the keypad of the electronic lock on the gate. I heard the engine growl as he slipped his car into gear and eased back onto the road, leaving me to open the gate and set off down the drive in nearly complete darkness. I welcomed it. I welcomed the silence. I wanted to be invisible.

Michael’s calling card slipped wetly down the inside of my thighs as I walked home.

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Want to win a copy of Wildwood - as Recommended by Dark Angel Reviews? Thanks to the lovely people in the Black Lace office I have an extra copy to give away this week! All you need do is drop a comment on this post: I'll pick a random winner and announce it in Coming Attractions this Sunday.

xxx

Janine

Buy Wildwood at Amazon UK : Pre-order Wildwood at Amazon US

blog : website

Crush Wednesday: wet men

by Olivia Knight

We’ve all been there: garden party, drink in hand, exchanging witty repartee with some magnificent specimen whose eyes smoulder with wry debonair amusement, and you think – What, on earth, could possibly make you hotter? – and with a discreet nudge of the elbow, knock him into the pool.

Ahh. Wet men. (Someone else will deal with Angry men in a separate post, as I don’t do anger and am basically a non-confrontational dialogueic kind of person, as I’ve often explained very fast to men as they clamber dripping wet out of pools.)

A year ago, almost to the date, Kristina Lloyd did her lust-addled best to explain the appeal of wet men - she couldn't. (But she did supply some excellent pictures.) Nor can I. (But ditto.) It's like explaining the appeal of breasts to... who doesn't get breasts? To whom do I need to explain wet men? Just think about it:

If you can explain what's so damn hot about wet men, we'll give you stuff.

A year on, we've had plenty more wet men and to celebrate their perennial appeal, we're herding them together for you.

All men are hotter wet. We don't know why, we're hoping you'll tell us, but c'mon. Think of the two hottest men in existence. Brad Pitt; John Barrowman. Could they possibly get hotter?

Yes: wet.

Try it as an experiment - wander the streets, find a desperately clit-twistingly exquisite man, and pour a bucket of water over him. Ta-da! (I myself carry a bottle of water everywhere I go for this very purpose.) Want to make your hero hotter? Wet him.

'Adrian, you're soaked!' she exclaimed as she opened the door. Water ran in rivulets over his face and down the open neck of his t-shirt. His thick black hair was plastered on his cheeks as if it had been painted on. His jaw was covered in light stubble. He laughed, and she felt her eyes flare in admiration. She shouldn't be alone in the same house as this man.
— The Ten Visions

It could be that wet men tend to be naked or to strip their clothes off shortly after.

It could be the artistic play of light as water slides and gleams across goose-pimpled skin. It could be the intensely private moment of getting wet and naked, those soulful thoughtful moments in the shower combined with the promise of bareness: intimacy of body and mind.

Let's consider that while we look at these, so that we're being philisophical and artistic instead of downright lewd.

It could be a harkening back to primeval memories of when we all trawled the oceans, flapping our gills in glee.
It could be a hankering after mermen.
It could be a half-baked excuse for more wet men.



Scroll up and down, drool, dribble, whimper gently, and once more, if you can explain what's so hot about wetness, we'll give you stuff - your choice of Enchanted by Janine Ashbless, Olivia Knight and Leonie Martell, Southern Spirits by Edie Bingham, or Phantasmagoria by Madelynne Ellis, all variously featuring Men's Wetness. And if you need more inspiration, revisit Kristina's wet men.

Writing for Film, or, 'Any Idiot Can Make a Movie'

by Madeline Moore

Gird your loins, Lusties and bloghoppers alike – today’s topic is writing for film. ‘Golly, Mad,’ I can almost hear you say, ‘I didn’t know that you’ve had a feature film produced.’
That’s because I haven’t, and before you question my credentials, let me tell you this: There are people in Hollywood who make their living as screenwriters without ever seeing a film produced. Imagine that. Horrible, isn’t it?

I've had two feature filmscripts optioned at Writer's Guild of Canada rates,(and many more for the token dollar or two) and one half hour film produced by the National Film Board of Canada, writing under my real name. At any time, my partner Felix Baron and I have scripts being considered by half a dozen or so production companies all over the world, from Bollywood to Hollywood. Felix has had two movies produced but don’t go looking for them on the shelves of your video store, because neither,mercifully, has been released. Poor production values will sink any film. Maybe any idiot can make a movie, but making one good enough to secure distribution is another story.


I liken the successful production of a film to the successful production of a baby.
On the one hand,it happens all the time. On the other, it’s a freakin’ miracle. Here are the first steps to making a movie: A real producer reads a script he/she likes. She pays the writer for the right to run with the script by purchasing an option, usually for 1 or 2 years. She secures distribution, financing, a completion guarantee and brings the director on board. The film is cast, the preproduction folks get busy, and the writer is paid in full before a single frame of principal photography is shot.

Dream on. Here’s how it really goes: Some egomaniacal twit with access to $$$,not his own, decides to use it for ‘seed money’ and make a movie, because any idiot can make a movie. He loves your script. He doesn’t secure distribution. If the financing fails to happen, he blames the (now lousy) script. If some sort of financing is secured, he brings the director on board. The film is cast, the preproduction folks get busy, and the film is hopefully shot. Oops, there's a boom in this shot, an open door in that one, no sound for a few scenes and the climactic scene is so dark the action cannot be discerned. 'We'll fix it in post-production.' The editing takes forever. The errors are not fixed. The writer never gets paid and the film never gets shown.

Alternately: A real producer finds a script she likes. She contacts the writer thusly: ‘Hey! I love this script! Let me see what I can do!’ The writer says, ‘Sure!’ No option is mentioned. The writer attempts to forget that somewhere out there is a real producer running with her script. You might never hear from this producer again, or you might get good news from her in short order. Or, long after the writer actually has forgotten, years later, the producer might get in touch, asking if the script is still available. You never know. In The Business Time means nothing.

How to tell the difference between a real producer and an egomaniacal moron play acting as one? Sadly, it can’t be done. All producers look like madmen, or madwomen. Perhaps all of them are mad, as it takes an ego the size of the Titanic to be a producer. There are a few telltale signs to watch for, however:

The so-called producer arranges a meeting at a café and either doesn’t order lunch, or doesn’t pay for the writer’s lunch. Real producers spring for lunch.

The so-called producer says, ‘This time next year we’ll be in Hollywood, snorting coke off the bodies of hot young actors and actresses.’

The so-called producer says, ‘I’m going to build the biggest Independent Production Company in the world.’

The so-called producer says ‘Any idiot can make a movie.’

Here's a picture of one of the great real producers working today, Mr. Harvey Weinstein.



My Favorite Anecdote from the shooting of my half hour film:

The producer is oversized in every way. He’s a big, loud, fabulous Czech/Canadian who spent time in jail after The Prague Spring of 1968. He is committed to drama, and young artists, of which I am one, love him.

The director is a good friend of mine. He’s a handsome young Romanian/Canadian who aches to be a filmmaker.

The DP is an intense, dark Chilean/Canadian who spent time in jail during the Chilean Revolution. He smolders with the need to make movies.

The writer is me. Plain old Canadian, no jail time, kind of scared and who wouldn’t be in this company?

The shoot is under way when I arrive at the middle class home that is the primary location for this film, a drama about teenage suicide.

The Director works with the actors, the DP works on framing the shot, the lighting guys light the sound guys test their equipment the make up people do make up the continuity person checks that everyone is wearing what they were wearing in the previous shot, which may have been filmed last week but will be cut together with the results of today’s shoot to make a scene, and hours pass.


‘Quiet on the set! Rolling...and Action!’

The scene unfolds. Oh my God all these people are here to make my words live on film. I’m overwhelmed.

The Producer is watching a video playback in a back room, which is so small he seems to fill it completely with his large frame.

Suddenly, he can be heard huffing down the hallway and a moment later, he bursts onto the set. He roars, ‘WHAT IS THIS SHIT IN THE FRAME?’

‘Whether or not it is shit is only your opinion,’ retorts the DP.

The producer responds with this: ‘IT IS NOT MY OPINION. IT IS ABSOLUTE OPINION!’

The DP quits, the Director suffers, the Producer raves and the writer goes home, with a brand new line she will use from now on when she wishes to have her own way, but not a great feeling about the prospects for the film. However, everyone makes up and the film is shot as written and distributed by The National Film Board of Canada. My first, and to date only, film credit.

Nuts and Bolts:

A feature filmscript is divided into three acts. As others have said, write a Beginning, a Middle and an End. The beginning introduces the problem. The Middle complicates it. The End unravels it and finishes with a cathartic climax.

In feature screenplays in particular, it is very important to get the %s right – 25% for Act I, 50% for Act #2, 25% for Act #3. It’s at 25% and 75% that we put our major plot twists. That keeps the energy coming. A twist should sling-shot the viewer.

The structure isn’t always obvious. There might be several plots, each of which has its own three acts. If one writes a 120 page script, most producers will open it at page 30, to see if the twist/act end is there, then to page 90, for the same reason. If that end of act twist is missing, he might not read the script.

One page of the script is equal to one minute. As a first timer, you’d be wise to write your screenplay with a calculator in one hand. Independent producers look for a page count of 85-90. You can go to 120 pages but it had better be really good. Anymore than that and your script might be rejected merely by being held in the hands and judged too heavy. How to keep costs down? Minimal locations, minimal exterior shots, minimal cast and no special effects. No kids. No animals. This just in: Don't write a spec animation film, the studios have their own animation people for that.

Scripts may be written and submitted online or printed, using Word, but I recommend the software Movie Magic or Final Draft.

Don't worry about camera angles. The only camera directions the writer needs to provide are 'POV' (Point of View) and 'Fade to Black' or 'Dissolve to White.' Directors and DPs don't want the writer to provide the camera directions. That's their job. Yay!

Presently there are an awful lot of adaptations being done, since books have a built in fan base. Producers generally avoid the R rating, which means we likely won’t be seeing adaptations of our erotic novels anytime soon. That could change. Happily, for all the trend-watchers and money and computers and suits focussed on the question, 'What makes a movie boffo box?’ they still cannot predict it. To this I say – HO HO HO.

In my opinion, a great screenplay reads like poetry. Every word is necessary or it shouldn’t be there. Every line of dialogue must move the plot forward.
A great script to read is The English Patient,screenplay by Anthony Minghella and Michael Ondaatje, adapted from Ondaatje’s difficult-to-read novel by the same name.
The director, the late Anthony Minghella did a beautiful job of transferring that book to the screen.

A script often used to teach screenwriters is Chinatown Here’s what the writer, Robert Towne, had to say about the creative process. “It seems like it took me forever to write–at least 10 months. It was difficult; all screenplays that are highly structured are difficult–you are not relying on the momentum of some picaresque tale to take you wherever you want to go. Always the hardest part of any story is to figure out the point of entry where your story begins.” –The Hollywood Reporter, July 2002



In my opinion, the most perfect movie ever is McCabe and Mrs. Miller. Adapted from the book McCabe by Edmund Naughton, screenplay by Robert Altman and Brian McKay. All the elements: acting, writing, directing, lighting, sound, colour, and soundtrack, are terrific. Kudos to the director, the late Robert Altman.



Research: Syd Field’s book, Screenplay used to be the one and only book screenwriters read. That’s changed. Robert McKee's book, Story, is the most read these days. He also conducts screenwriting seminars all over the world. Speaking of Robert McKee…there are lots of movies about making movies, but you really only need to see one, and it is Adaptation.


This movie, starring Nicolas Cage and Meryl Streep, takes an inside look at adapting a popular book into a feature film. Robert McKee has a cameo in it. Charlie Kaufman and his brother Donald, hohoho, wrote the script, (although only Charlie showed up to accept his Oscar for best adapted screenplay, hohoho) and the writer of the book being adapted in the movie is also credited, Susan Orlean. This is a brilliant movie which you should see even if you don’t want to write movies, you just like watching them.



Speaking of Adaptation, you might notice that feature scripts in the movie have three holes punched in them, but only two brads, one at the top and one at the bottom, leaving the middle one empty. This is, in fact, how the hard copy of a feature filmscript should look. The cover page shouldn’t be fancy or tarted up in any way. You can copyright it with the WGA, even if you’re not a member, but it isn’t likely to do you much good. If they like your script they’ll buy it from you. If they like the idea, they’ll just steal it.



There’s a saying in Hollywood – ‘If a great script were thrown out the window of a taxi at midnight, it would be on a producer’s desk by morning.’ Nice, but I doubt it, Ralph.

I mentioned in my Lust Bites post of August 11, 2008, Writing For TV that Felix wasn’t as yet a paranoid screenwriter. In all honesty, he still isn’t – we send our stuff all over the world every day. But he’s getting there. Here’s what happened to us this year:

Felix and I wrote a ten minute short script, as a lot of filmmakers start out shooting shorts and we wanted to have one on our list of log/syns. He connected with a fellow (hereafter referred to as 'the jerk') who works in post production on a MAJOR television series out of L.A. and had already produced one short film. The jerk ran with our script (no option, no token exchange of a dollar) and even lined up some of the actors who appear in the MAJOR series to appear in our film. Oh Boy!

The Writer’s Guild of America strike threw a wrench into his plans. Once the strike had ended, the jerk called to say he’d decided to shoot an ‘in your face’ drama first, although eventually he was sure he’d still shoot our script. In the meantime, he wondered if we had a dramatic short he could have? Felix said no. He then asked if Felix had a FEATURE script he would be willing to cut to ten minutes? Felix said no.

A couple of weeks later, we saw a distinctive, highly original key scene from our script enacted on the MAJOR television show.

We wrote to the Executive producer of the series, mildly pointing a finger at the jerk and clearly stating that while we know we can’t copyright an idea we’d like the Executive producer, one of the biggest TV and movie producers in the world, to know where the idea came from.

A few weeks later we received a reply stating that the letter had not been read, in accordance with the prodco’s policy. Pretty much what we expected – but we like to think someone took the jerk aside and sternly suggested that next time he offers the major television show a scene from his own work he should make sure it really is his own. Grumble. Now, if our little film ever does get made, when people see the scene instead of saying, 'Wow, I've never seen that before,' they will say 'Saw it on TV.'
Grumble grumble.

So there it is. If you know aspiring filmmakers you might write a short film for them and see if it flies. These days you can write and produce a movie, shooting on video and transferring it to film, but you still need investors and distribution or your movie, even completed, will never be seen. So, pity the screenwriter who is a filmmaker first and a writer second, and be glad it isn’t you.

Do you have a favorite movie? Is there a novel you'd love to adapt for the silver screen? Have you written your Oscar winning speech yet? Do tell...

Coming Attractions, pa pa pa pa pa pa........

by Erastes

I would sing the Pearl and Dean theme tune here, but I doubt anyone here is ancient enough to understand the reference or remember Pearl and Dean at all. *feels old*

So, in my best gravelly "Trailer Man Voice" I am happy to announce my very first coming attractions. THIS WEEK....

There's a reason for the movie references, of course, so excuse the clumsy segue.

On Monday Madeline Moore will be discussing Scriptwriting For Dummies.

On Wednesday Olivia Knight will be getting the hose and bucket out and getting men wet for our amusement and delectation.

And on Friday, Janine Ashbless slides into the Smut Slot and shows us around her Wildwood

Lust Bites: Popcorn and gallon of coke for the libido...