I used to write screenplays.
No, don't look for me on IMDB, because I'm not there. I wrote six, sold four; two on spec to, and two on commission for British indie production companies that were little more than a couple of blokes and a business card looking for other people's cash. Merge the three companies I worked with (the two commissions were for the same people), and I think you could fit all involved into a mid-sized people carrier. That said, I found out years later that Ric Young ("Too much to drink, Doctor Jones?") was the Los Angeles end of the one operation that didn't seem to be completely built on sand.
My only other sighting of fame and fortune in the distance, heading away from me, out of reach, was a pitch meeting with a freelance development executive with ties to DNA and Working Title. I knew that because we sat in a lobby with two doors leading off, one marked 'DNA', the other 'Working Title'. After I had pitched something along the lines of The Thing set in Afghanistan, we talked about what else we did with our lives. I tried to make human resources sound exciting; he told me he managed Keane. 'Nuff said.
The reason I bring this up is only partially through mystification as to where it all went wrong. There is a school of thought that Robert Towne's script for Chinatown is the apogee of the screenwriter's craft, the perfect screenplay. I'm not here to agree or disagree, but to give a slightly different take.
Which is this: if Chinatown had never been made, and an unknown writer were to turn in exactly those words, would it be recognised as such? Would a producer say that any change would be a move slightly down the slope of quality? Would it be declared fit for purpose, fit for production, without so much as a note?
I don't think so. The idea that a first draft could be the best draft, that the writer has found his or her way around all the problems in the most effective and efficient way is an anathema. There are always changes to be made, and its how the creative process demonstrates its worth. By people sticking their oar in and putting their stamp on things.
So, with that logic, couldn't Chinatown have been tweaked some more? Well, yes, it could, but the point is that it had been tweaked enough. Every draft contains arbitrary choices, which are neither better nor worse than other arbitrary choices. What gets made or printed is where you were when the music stopped. And, if you're an unknown, you're going to get tweaked, even if those amendments blur the vision, muddle the narrative, or skew the arc.
The opposite end of this problem was brought home to me by 'The Homecoming' by Mike Resnick in Galaxy's Edge 48. Whilst this is still the latest issue, you can read it for free. If you're stumbling over this blog in months and years to come, I guess that link will take you elsewhere.
Now, I have a lot of time for Mike Resnick's work, and I'm well aware that he is both no longer here to respond, and that he put a lot back whilst he was. To the best of my knowledge, he was one of the good guys. I've read stories by him that have stood out as exemplars. But I have an issue with this particular story, which is fine, but... God, it could be cut by 50%, or more. It's padded like Mister Creosote on a Chesterfield. There's a good little story trying to get out, but it's a flash at best. Oh, for an editor with a good blue pencil.
You'll recall that I have a story hovering on the edge of one particular SFWA-recognised publication. Its fate is still undecided, 'under consideration'. It's been subjected to three sets of notes and is far better for it. In each and every rewrite they've asked me to tighten and tighten, much as a football coach asks his team to up the tempo, regardless of whether he has anything else tactical to offer. And, like a tired footballer, I've wondered how the hell to manage it, and then found what's required.
And yet, I read stories like 'The Homecoming' with their languid pacing and verbal redundancies and can't help thinking how those editors telling me to 'make it run faster' would react; that, just as an unknown's Chinatown would get copious notes, so the works of the big beasts are far more liable to be ticked through with a minimum of a proof and a polish, regardless of their objective quality. If I had put my name on this and sent it out, I'm not confident I'd get any takers in its current form, not even from the semi-professional market. I know many won't like me saying that, but I can't help thinking it.
There seems to be only one solution to this conundrum. I must continue to battle to get myself on to a higher level, where I'll be better able to get stories into print without so much critical scrutiny. And you, dear reader, should focus your attention on reading the works of relative unknowns, who have had to go through the mill to prove their worth. So, in that spirit, could I recommend these two worthy works?
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2084. The world remains at war.
In the Eurasian desert, twenty-year old Adnan emerges from a coma with memories of a strictly ordered city of steel and glass, and a woman he loved.
The city is the Dome, and the woman... is Adnan's secret to keep.
Adnan learns what the Dome is, and what his role really was within it. He learns why everybody fears the Sickness more than the troopers. And he learns why he is the only one who can stop the war.
Persuaded to re-enter the Dome to implant a virus that will bring the war machine to its knees, the resistance think that Adnan is returning to free the many - but really he wants to free the one.
24 0s & a 2
Twenty-four slipstream stories. Frequently absurd, often minimifidian, occasionally heroic.
