Dan Wrote This

Looks like Penny has turned up again.

Paul and I decided today my 20 minute will be the Penny story. I had a handful of interesting and amusing ideas, but in the end it came down to choosing an easy project, or choosing a project that will push me to new heights.

It’s weird. I started the Penny script in January 2006, and here it is, over two years later. When I first moved out to Memphis, Penny was the first film I wanted to do, and had given myself a year to pull it off. DangerCouch happened. Nate happened. Jane happened.

Why are all my screenplays named after people?

Jane has been a roller coaster, and honestly I’m a little worn out from it right now. Worse, the largest plunge is yet to come.

I had decided in my head that I needed a break from introspective dramatic stories, and would do Action News Jackson instead… but Paul is right… I’d regret that decision.

 Really it was more of a Cllliiiiiiiiiiiiiicccckkk, than a clean and sudden switch, but it was a click none the less.

It happened around 11:30 last night in front of the Starbucks at Germantown and Market Plaza. It was a little chilly, but fortunately I thought to wear a sweater.

A friend recently told me that when creating a statue of an elephant, first get out your block of marble, then start chiseling away everything that isn’t an elephant. The problem with that metaphor was that instead of a block of marble, I had a soupy mess. I’d strike it with my chisel, and the chisel would slip away and disappear into the murky blob.

Clearly I needed a different set of tools.

I set aside Syd Field and Robert McKee and cracked open my dusty Joseph Campbell book. As I turned the pages (and BEGGED God for a super-human comprehension of Campbell’s stilted language) the concepts and precepts therein began to mold my amorphous blob into a discernible shape, and at last after lengthy discussions of World Navels and Freudian psychology I caught my first real glimpse of Jane.

There she stood, awash in the very divine light of Heaven itself.

Beyond fulfilling a school assignment though, I came to the real revelation that I’ve been waiting for. Early on we all knew that Jane’s journey and my own were one in the same. That in discovering Jane, I would discover myself. Louder than the click of Jane’s story coming together was the click in my head when Dianne revealed the missing puzzle piece about the nature of my creativity and thinking, and the necessity of the tools presented in the Joseph Campbell book.

Well played, Madam, well played.

Hundreds decended on this small Southwestern town today to celebrate the life of acclaimed filmmaker Dan Baker.
Baker, 89, died Sunday after complications from hip surgery last month, said publicist Dakarai Aarons.
“The world has lost a beautiful mind and a tremendous talent,” he said.
Baker first entered the American imagination with his first film, the 2015 short “Plain Jane.” The film, adapted from a 10-minute film he did in college, went on to win the Best Picture Oscar and launched a wave of introspective films for the decade to come.

I stood outside and let the sun warm my face. The ground felt like it was shifting under my feet. My head swam. I felt very angry about the fact that I was still awake. I cursed the distance to my bed. I cursed the distance to my car. In my daze, I almost forgot my laptop bag hung from my shoulder and as I walked the weight of it threw my balance. Fourteen hours of sleep later it would be another day. I’d go back to my regular job as a freelance illustrator, finish some projects, make some money and pay some bills. Then maybe I could put this whole mess behind me. Then I could be alone again, with time to myself to dream.

Irony is a biting concept. It desires to prove us wrong should we ever stick around long enough to finish the argument. It’s hard to say who the victor is in these situations. I turned my back on destiny and walked away, back into the cold maze. Irony, with it’s golden freedom stood around the corner, knowing it’s thinly veiled truth. Should I have persisted but a moment longer, I would have found her, and yet, the toll of the search bore a bitter sickness upon my spirit.

“I’m done” I said, slamming the lid of my laptop shut. My friends around me shuttered as if the words came from the lips of a tired cancer patient offering his soul up to the unknown. It was dead quiet as I packed away my things. Nobody made eye contact with me. I licked my dry lips. The inside of my mouth felt rubbery from all the coffee and energy drinks I’d consumed. My spit stung the back of my throat; it felt like acidic syrup in my mouth. Spitting it out made no difference. It had been 72 hours since I’d last slept.

I stared blankly at the blinking cursor on my screen. It sat parked somewhere between page 8 and The End. All around me my friends offered up “what ifs, how abouts” and candy coated “I don’t thinks.” All the while images spun and flashed in my head. Images of her, her life, her past. What I could not see however, was her future. I lacked that control. She was after all, real in most ways, and as such, could not be controlled. She dictated to me the circumstances of her surroundings and when my musings were not to her liking, she’d disappear like a vapor into the vague shapes of my memories. I hunted her; she was my prey. For days I circled and lied in wait, only to find she had gotten the best of me and slipped over the ridge, into the golden light of the sunset.

The fear that I had lost her crept over me around the time of my second cappuccino. My head was already swimming in caffeine when I started to question myself. She seemed so clear at first, her features so well defined. But I feared that I had drowned her. Drowned her in pages and pages of notes, ideas, notions, questions upon questions. I painted over her picture time and time again until all that was left was a slimy mass of paint. My brush had long since lost it’s effectiveness; my fingers fumbled over the keys of my laptop.

My good and loyal friends met me that at the coffee shop, the usual place. It was quiet and we could chatter away, sipping sugar laden beverages till the closing shift kicked us out. At this point however, it was useless. I had banged my head against the wall till I could bang no more, and no amount of help could change the fact that in the end all I was going to do was bang my head again. I began to resign myself to my fate.

Page 8 stared cool at me. I was two pages short of my goal and yet, two pages would never be enough to unravel her life. How do you sum up an existence in ten minutes? The corners of my eyes twitched a little. I was excited, elated. I had written a page during the night, the buzz off energy drinks held sleep at bay while I typed and re-typed. My friends would help seal the gaps. They could ask me questions, help me see the situation from a different perspective. I had thought of an ending, and tried to convince myself that it was solid. We’ll see. I worried that my friends were growing weary of my endeavor. This was the third day and a row I called them out to help. It was proof enough that they loved me, but I knew I was pushing my luck.

Somewhere out there was the answer. The one piece missing from my 1,000 piece puzzle that when added would throw the entire 999 pieces into total undeniable context. The road seemed to twitch and lurch as it passed under my car, the steering wheel felt like it was vibrating in my hands. I looked at every young woman as I passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face. I looked deep into every store front, looking for her workplace. I pulled up to my favorite coffee shop. What once was a place of refuge and edifying conversation between friends now felt like a prison.

As the morning light seeped into my study I silently cursed the birds chirping happily outside my window. I was not happy and I was in the mood to destroy something beautiful, for beauty had been withheld from me. My writing through the night felt fruitless. Twelve hours blurred past me in what felt like 12 minutes and all I had to show for myself was a single page of re-written dialog. I had gotten nowhere and worse yet, I had no ending. Perhaps I thought, I could call my friends on last time. They can help.

(ps - I may not finish writing this… it felt good to get some of this junk off my chest.)

Before I write I usually stop and take some time to pray. I don’t feel right starting something important like that without first spending some time with God and grounding myself a little. Usually in these prayer times is where I’ll have fits of inspiration. I’ll be praying and suddenly the little gears in my head start spinning and dozens of images and ideas start firing through my little mind like a freight train.

One of the things I invariably start doing is reviewing the stories I’m working on and ask God what He thinks should happen. Should character A do task B or talk to character C? Should the ending be more tragic or more ironic? What do You think about this idea or that idea? Pianos or strings? Or maybe both? What do You think?

Usually I don’t get much feedback when I ask those questions. In the past I figured it was because I was expected to slog these things out on my own, that it was a journey I was to endure.

So, tonight I invariably began to ask the “what do You think questions” and paused to ponder His silent response when suddenly He spoke. “Dan,” He said, “it’s not about what I think of your work, it’s about what you think of My work.”

Clean and simple.

I guess I have some more writing to do now…

Yes. I’m awake at 8:16 AM!

I meant to do this a while ago, but here’s the second revision of the Jane saga. This one is in screenplay format, exported as a PDF file. You’ll have to forgive the watermark, as I’m still using the demo version of Final Draft.

This version has a strong introduction I think, though I’m still tinkering with the idea behind the very first scene.

The story stops around page 9, about 2-3 scenes from the ending, which even now I’m struggling to write.

I’m working on the re-write of this version, which will be Jane 2b.

I’ve gotten sponsorship from a few churches (and from my Mommy) to feed the cast and crew 3 out of the 4 days the shoot is planned, which is awesome. Feeding people is the least I can do.

Here’s the script.

I had a couple dreams the other week I meant to write about. I’m not sure what they were about, really, but they struck me and I thought I’d share.

Dream 1:
I had been condemned to death; I was headed for the electric chair. I was sick with the thought that I only had a short time left before I was strapped to the chair and executed. For whatever reason, I was allowed to leave the prison and go for one last walk…or maybe the back door was open and nobody stopped me when I walked out.

My head was hung low and I dragged my feet knowing my time was short. Then a revelation struck me, that soon I would be united with my God and my Savior. The joy was bitter-sweet, but I was excited none the less. Suddenly the landscape came alive. The grass was greener, the trees were taller and the sky was ablaze with the most incredible sunset you could imagine. Fiery oranges, deep-velvet reds, golden yellow and colors not natural to this world raked across the sky in brilliant display.

Walking onward, I came upon a hill and the road turned gently to the left. As I came to the top of the hill and rounded the corner, the city dropped away and before me was a vast plain with distant mountains. What I perceived to be a sunset was in fact a sunrise, as the sun was climbing the mountains in the east. I turned to look behind me, and to my dismay saw that the hillside behind me was torn open with the machines of mankind. Strip-mine was too beautiful a word to describe it. It was an atrocity. The beauty of the landscape was ruined, and even as I looked before me to the rising sun, I saw that the hands of man had reached the edge of the great plain. Giant block of raw ore lay scattered across the landscape like neglected toy blocks.

Dream 2:
I found myself at a small get-together at someone’s house. We gathered around the dining-room table to play a board game. Among the guests was a Young Woman and a Young Man. The Young Woman I did not yet fully know, and the Young Man was my friend. As the night progressed, the Young Man followed the Young Woman around like a puppy dog. He was always at her side, sharing a plate of food with her, partnering with her in the board game. If it were possible for him to sit in her lap, he would have. The Young Woman and I kept catching each other’s eyes. In those fleeting glances I knew what she was thinking, and I knew she knew what I was thinking.

Ugh. You people and your questions…

First of all, thank you so much, friends, for taking the time to contribute and help me through this maze of words and ideas. Some of these questions were posted directly on my myspace blog, some were classroom (livingroom?) suggestions and others were adapted from e-mail conversations. Again, I’m not claiming to have any magic insight or well defined goal. I’m stumbling in the dark with a match. Somewhere around here is some treasure…or so I’m told.

I did not answer these questions in the order that they appear before you, so some answers may seem to differ or conflict with others; I was constantly revising my responses and understanding of the story.

(more…)

So now comes the part where I look at what I’ve written and scratch my head.

Yeah…I know…it wasn’t the most gripping story ever, but I think there’s potential in it.

I believe that God is doing something in this story, or intends to do something. God is always working, and it’s our job to figure out where and what it is He’s doing, and partner with him.

The problem is that I have no idea what God is doing with Plain Jane. No idea. None. I’ve thought and prayed about it, and so far nothing.

So! I put before you, good people of the interwebs, this proposition: Ask me a question about this story, and I will answer it to the best of my ability. Somewhere buried in our lives are answers waiting to be dug up; treasures hidden log ago by the King of kings.

Some examples of what I’m looking for:
-What do I hope to gain from telling this story?
-What are my motivations behind doing this?
-What do I want my audience to get out of this ?

ps - I wouldn’t mind some constructive criticism either…

She looked up from nothing in particular.

The thought crossed Jane’s mind that maybe if she wasn’t looking down all the time, she wouldn’t walk into so many things.

It had been a couple days since she’d seen Phoebe. Things next door seemed quiet. Life threatened to continued on, and it seemed to be having it’s way. Work at the restaurant was the same. She stayed up late at night painting, making the same snail’s pace progress on the canvas she always had. She wondered if she made a mistake, to interfere with that young girl’s life. Perhaps she made things worse? It kept her up at night.

It was no use. She could think herself into oblivion at this rate. Life was moving on and she’d better keep up, or risk being left to haunt her own memories, eternally searching for an alternate way out.

Jane got dressed, put her shoes on and headed out the door. She walked past Phoebe’s apartment. She walked down the stairs, past the basketball court and on towards to her car. Adjacent to the parking lot was a small play area, and sitting on the swing set was Phoebe, the painting propped up against a low wall before her. Phoebe’s toes hung idly, and she kicked now and then to perpetuate a slow swing.

Jane sat on the next swing over. Phoebe looked up and smiled.

“Hey, how are you?” asked Jane.

“OK,” said Phoebe.

“Is… Is everything alright? Are you OK?”

Phoebe furrowed her brow.

“Yeah, I’m OK.”

“OK, ’cause you can tell me, you know, if things weren’t OK. You can always come to me.”

Phoebe looked back to the painting. She let her toes drag in the sand, bringing her swing to a stop.

“Jane, why do you paint?”

Jane started to answer, and realized she didn’t have an answer. She thought about it for a moment.

“Well, I like to paint,” she said at last, “I think I’m pretty good at it. My Grandma use to paint, you know?”

“Ok.”

“Yeah, so, I like to try and capture the beauty around me and all the good things I had when I was young.”

At that moment a car horn sounded and Phoebe jumped to her feet. An attractive man in a casual business suit stood next to a bright red car.

“Daddy!”

Phoebe skipped to the man and they hugged.

“How was your visit?” he asked.

Phoebe shrugged. The got into the bright red car, backed out and drove away.

It took a moment for Jane to process what had just happened. She sat there on that swing looking at the painting Phoebe had left behind. She wondered a good many things, and thought about much more. Why did she paint?

Though she never saw her again, Jane thought of Phoebe often.

The End.