It’s quickly becoming the War and Peace of screenplays.  We are way over the ideal page-count and I’m still writing.  I must admit, when we started this script, I had no idea how epic of an undertaking it was truly going to be.  I had some idea of the amount of effort and dedication it was going to take, but I never imagined anything like this.  This is absolutely the slowest I’ve ever worked as a writer.  The good news is, I think it is - without a doubt - my best work as a writer as well.  I guess it’s a trade-off.

I’ve joked with Patrick numerous times that we should be considering splitting this story into two films.  Of course, that really won’t work.  There’s going to have to be some considerable editing once this draft is done.  It’s a shame, though.  Part of what increases the page-count is  my insistance on writing the scenes that really develop the characters.  These are the things that commonly get dumped from a Hollywood film first.  If it doesn’t move the story (read: plot) along, cut it.  I feel pretty confident that we will both fight tooth and nail to ensure that the majority of these scenes are preserved, but I know some of them will end up going.

In other news, we’ve received an email from the reporter that we did the interview with.  She’s informed us that her editor has decided to run a “very truncated” transcript of our “epic” interview.  If you’re curious to know who the piece is for, check out Patrick’s post about that chat.  There may be some answers there…

Also, we have another interview in about an hour and a half with a reporter from our local paper.  Of course, we’ll let you all know how that turns out.

I feel like there has been an awful lot of build-up regarding this little chunk of video.  A lot of people seem to be hanging their opinions regarding the legitimacy of the project on it.  That scares me.  The reality is that it isn’t really all that good.  It is a rough pre-visualization.  I’ve never been very happy with it.  We had always had plans to rework parts of it - especially the beginning - but time constraints never allowed.   What we’re left with is a flawed, half-realized idea of a trailer that we never intended to show anyone originally.

Part of me just wants to pull the trigger and launch it, deal with the backlash and move on.  I don’t think Patrick is quite ready to do that.  I’m sure he wants to follow our plan and release the posts regarding its creation first.  He’s probably right.

The moral of this story?  Don’t expect genius.  Expect the seeds of a strong idea.  The script is far better than the animatic.  I promise.

I spent a few hours with my mamma today. I figured it was unavoidable, being Mother’s Day and all… We both went over to my grandparent’s to set them up with a nice dinner so my grandmother wouldn’t have to cook. We sat around, drank coffee, and talked about my plans to do away with my mother when she reaches 85 or so. I just don’t want the hassle of caring for an elderly mother, ya know? I mean, it’s not like she gave birth to me, changed my diapers, fed me, raised me, tolerated my unbelievably devilish behavior for most of my young life and still managed to love me… Plus, what’s a Mother’s Day without a discussion about matricide euthanasia?

You should know that when my mother and I get together we have a tendency to occasionally descend into fits of black humor. Today was one such time. I made one comment, she played along, and before we knew it, we were off on a little, private pageant with no audience.

We decided the events would be as such:

I would come to her, tiny white pills in hand, and tell her that I needed her to take them. She’d ask me what they were and I’d tell her they were good for her. She’d look me in the eye, trying to discern my trustworthiness then gingerly take the pills from my hand and place them in her mouth. I’d send her off to bed with a promise to check on her later.

Upon checking on her, I’d realize that the pills may not have been enough. The pillow will be the plan B. She’s certain at this point I’d sit down and have a smoke or two, then call the police to inform them that I’d found my mother dead in her bed.

When the EMT’s arrived they’d find the house decked out in streamers and balloons. I’d offer them cake. Perhaps they’d like some champagne? I’ve got some strawberries my mother froze about five years ago (my family has a sickness. They horde food. It’s insane. I can’t even begin to tell you how serious this problem is. You know what they say about pictures of the Grand Canyon? Well, that’s what this is like - but with words. I just can’t do it any justice).

I’d spend some time chatting politely with the police and the EMT’s and then be sure to suggest that they feel free to grab anything they may want from the 15 freezers in the garage on their way out.

That’s pretty much how we figure it will go…

When I showed up at my grandparent’s today, I produced my mom’s gift. She turned around and handed me a card in return. The card told me how happy she was to be my mother.

I love that lady.

This place has actually gone quite downhill overall in the last year or so. It seems barren of the stock it used to have, and the clientèle are of a different caliber than they used to be (a lot less elitist than I remember, which I sometimes enjoyed). I think I’m going to blame Veronica. I like to imagine that she left the place in such disarray that they’ll never recover. Regardless, something definitely happened.

I think a cafe-hop to Starbucks is going to be required here in a minute. I’d rather be home than this place.

edit: at Starbucks, now — much better.

In the meantime, just know that my mom and I had a good laugh today.  She was snorting and everything.

He was quiet for most of the meeting at Fiddler’s. Ryan and I chatted with Tony for a bit as I went through his portfolio. I showed Patrick a few renderings that looked promising as I came across them.

I explained what we’re looking for from Tony. We want to try to accomplish a “loose” look in the boards. Very contrasty with more “implied” forms as opposed to clearly defined details. Lots of shadow and darkness to convey the brooding tone of the project.

Tony seemed pretty confident that he could deliver on those specs. Our one concern is time. Tony’s pretty busy and has quite a few constraints. We’re going to get together on Thursday and try a few boards just to see how long each render takes. We’ll have a better idea then on whether or not he’s going to have the necessary availability. It’s always tough to ask people to give up valuable personal time when you’re not offering any compensation. He seems enthusiastic though.

Mostly, we just want him to read the trailer script and the full story synopsis, and get a feel for what we’re trying to do here. With the ballooned amount of reference material which we’ve put together these past few months - everything from environment and costume references to board drafts for VFX shot plans - he can get a feel quick for the scope of this whole thing. And, Louis is really looking forward to seeing some quality boards come together so we can start planning for actual VFX work. At the least, we need to get a hold on how many comp shots we’re looking at. That’s where some of the serious cost comes in (aside our insistence on building practical sets instead of relying solely on CG).

It’s always weird when setting up a username and password for someone new to the project. Like we’re opening up our secret club and letting other members in (for them to judge us and run screaming to the lawyers about copyright infringement). I’ve had a small panic in me ever since we let the first guy through. Now, it’s even worse with, what, a dozen running through trampling on our manifesto. It is a good confidence builder for us though, to show these guys (even working as pros in LA) that we’ve put this much thought into the organization and planning.

Score one for obsessive compulsive disorder.

What also is a good sign is that I’m installing a new image system in the first place.  This might be a hint that a lot of imagery is coming soon… hmm… or, I could just be a web geek.

The Book Box post is currently using the system.  Let me know if it like makes your comp explode or something.

The news is that Tom Sowa, who covers technology and business for the Spokesman Revew out of Spokane, WA apparently had a good chat with Rand this afternoon. On Rand’s mind? The Myst Movie.

As this is the first official word sourced from Cyan in the press, it’s of note. Shove this in the face of any nay-sayers who still wonder if Rand’s foreword is real. (Oh, Snap!)

Avoiding Hollywood, Cyan Worlds allows two fans to develop a Myst movie

It was just a little windy, and the sun was bright enough to push the buildings to the ground.  I could see South Bend in ruin (like I always can when I’m not quite here).  10,000 years ago, or from now - I won’t be here and it won’t matter.  And the VAB building will be the shell of the ugly that it always was.  I ordered ham and potato soup and surprised Adrian that I was eating.  I had Arby’s right after Chris and I finally broke up - I’ve given up on that fasting thing.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t bitter - just sharp.  Very real.  I didn’t feel a need to express my pain to the world, though Ryan and Adrian waited for me to stand and throw a chair (just cause).  But, the cafe furniture at Fiddler’s looks like wrought iron - it probably wouldn’t be fun.  I don’t have the strength to hardly move, anyway.

Tony sat and I shook his hand.  I did not show the cards of my loss.  Less than a week ago, so much was different - but all the same.  And here we were, pressing on, even if it killed me.  It quite could.

He had a large portfolio bag with him, and he shifted in his seat as he set it on the ground.  I wondered what was inside, and if this would be what we were looking for.  Months of searching for special effects gurus had originally proved –bad– and then exploded - hopefully we’d see something similar.  And, as he started to speak and tell us of his passion for pen and paper, I looked to the sky and wondered if Mom was watching.  Was this the one?  Could he sketch our dream?

We’re getting together Thursday to try some boards.

Chris is waiting for me, but I don’t want to go home.  I came over to Adrian’s instead.

Before:

I lay quiet with shallow breath and drying tears. He stretches across the love seat, where he sleeps for the trailer (just a minute more). She came to tell me it was done, and we drove downtown. They say you’re supposed to be there - I’m glad I wasn’t.

Earlier:

I write calm words in prayer form for a chaplin to read tomorrow. He won’t think I’m selfish wishing for release - I know him too well. She sleeps upstairs without stirring, ready to go. They say your life flashes - part of her’s was me.

Later:

I breath the day in deep. He takes me for a latte. She’d seen her last sun set with me. They say she’ll see it now with different eyes.

I spent another 4 1/2 hours today in a dentist chair. This was after 4 hours last Wednesday. This on top of many other things. A commitment to maintaining a promotional website for an endeavor toward a major motion picture. While playing my part to develop said major motion picture. While working a full time job. While (poorly) performing the care and feeding for a serious relationship. And being a mostly absent father to a mostly phenomenal son.

I am exhausted. In chronic pain for the past week. With a restored tooth that’s going to be -hot- for another week or so. And a jaw joint that’s about to explode from oral trauma.

I am eating Advil like no tomorrow. I am staring at another Hydrocodone bottle trying to decide if I should get started. I am fantasizing about a prime cut filet mignon that I could actually chew (with the fully restored right side of my face). While simultaneously planning a fantasy trip to Vegas for 5, 6 days or so. (With the knock out blond of my choice - she’s chosen.) And needing to vacuum the living room.

I am prepping more material leading up to the unveiling of the animatic. I am doing my part to tell the story. I am needing to call Sarah to say Hi and fill Ryan in on next steps. I am needing a blasted Jack and Code or a smooth cognac on I.V. drip. And a nap infused with prayer (and no jumbo carpenter ants clocking in at 5 oz.)

I need to start running again. Stop smoking. Floss more often. Finish Eclipse. See Prince Caspian. Buy a house. Not make video game movies.

And I want meatloaf. Good meatloaf. The kind Carla’s makes for me, even though she despises eating it. (Love her.)

I met with “my kid” (whom I will call “Steven” for confidentiality purposes) yesterday.  I think it went quite well.  The 13-page report - complete with the results of a battery of psychological assessments - led me to expect a very different child than the one I actually encountered.  This is a very good thing.  He far exceeded the portrait the report provided.

I got to..GRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!  It appears that the power supply for my laptop is taking a dive.  I’m currently dealing with a sporadically flashing light that is horribly distracting.  To make matters worse, the battery on this thing no longer holds a charge.  I’m going to have to be brief.  I may not be able to finish this post without the event of a seizure…

I’ll tell you about Steven another time, I guess.  This is going to make script writing difficult.

For now, I wanted to let everyone know that we received an email from the reporter that interviewed us.  Sadly, it would appear that her editor has decided to shelf the article.  Apparently the reporter had trouble compiling enough content outside of our project to support the article.  She did, however, say that she was looking into the possibility of writing a piece about our project specifically.  She didn’t want our interview to go to waste.  We’ll see what she can come up with.

But, I can’t find what to say. Not really… I’m still struggling.

Sarah and I went to Chili’s last night. It was one of our Saturday night dates because I’m practically single, and she’s recently single. This predicament means that if we aren’t careful with our weekend evenings, we’d end up drunk at some nightclub trying to find someone to fill the loneliness with (because, well, we absolutely cannot consider each other for that, and considering various other matters, it would just be wrong.) We’re like siblings. So, no.

After dinner, we both decided that a caffeine fix was in order. We walked around the warehouse of books with our frilly little drinks, and while I bitched about missing my girlfriend, she bitched about her current episode of complete self-loathing because some P-O-S man-freak recently decided to drop her for a skank. (This is the type of language you learn to use when one of your closest friends is female.) We happened upon self-help books that made light of our little microcosms, and I gave in to my obsessive-compulsive need to check and see if any change had occurred to the copies of The Book of Ti’ana that were stocked on the shelf. (1 BoT, paperback; 1 BoD, hardback; 1 BoD, paperback). As this was down from 2 paperback copies of Ti’ana being there previously, I assumed (a symptom of my constant state of panic) that either a) someone we knew picked it up; or, more likely, b) that someone else in South Bend had snatched up the copies to complete research for a movie script adaptation. Adrian and I watch that shelf like hawks awaiting prey.

My cell rang. It was Adrian - he was looking for something to fill the evening and decided to join us and listen to the bitching. Five minutes after he got to B&N, my phone rings again:

It’s Jill. Apparently, this is it. I am to get to the hospital immediately.

In one calm motion, I inform Sarah and Adrian of what’s going on. This has almost become habit - so many scares. Because they’re transporting Mom from the nursing home, we have a few minutes - but I have to get Sarah back to her car, and run home and put my left overs from Chili’s in the fridge. (Why this was important, I have no idea - but it seemed absolutely, irrefutably necessary in the moment - perhaps to kill time.) Sarah asks if I want her to go along - Adrian is. I say, no - thanks - but this will most likely go on all night. And, all I’ll be doing is pacing and smoking outside of the emergency room.

The ride home is uneventful. Penny was asleep - she greets us when we walk in, and I start cleaning up the kitchen after putting the food away. Adrian asks me if we should get going. My response: do you have any idea how long it takes for an ambulance to transport someone 3 miles? I have become a pro. I call Christine and she’s nowhere to be found. I leave a message - not sure where you are, but um, yeah Mom’s dying so call me. Everything is really sharp. I’m sharper.

We take the long way downtown and pull into the hospital. We pass a car in the parking lot. I see the driver holding a lighter to a glass pipe and I stare in fascination. Adrian tells me to look away as I’m about to hit something. Bam. Just the curb.

In the next several hours, many things happen. We sit awaiting more family to show - everyone is convinced that this is the end. I spend time watching the TV. Drunk people come en mass seeking treatment for everything from alcohol poisoning to accidents with fireworks (ND beat Michigan 28-20). We hear nothing. 90 minutes and Mom’s still not even there, yet. 3 miles is such a long way. Dad sips coffee and I go outside to try to throw up. Adrian follows. After I finish dry-heaving into a bush aside the parking lot, I jump up to sit on a brick retaining wall and this is when I decide that it’s time for a serious discussion about the script.

More people need to die, I say.

I wouldn’t say that too loudly, considering we’re at the emergency room. (A young woman walks behind us and coughs. I throw my cigarette butt at her. I miss.) Dude. What are you doing?

Trying to figure out how to adapt a book. I know everyone dies, really. That’s the end of the story. But there are too many characters - that’s clear in script for the trailer. Too many old guys to track who are all saying the same thing. Can’t we just kill a bunch of them? Or write them completely out of existence? Turn The Five into The One - a patriarchy. He can listen to seven guys who are known as the council members and that way we don’t have to deal with all of this political crap just being tossed around between a bunch of talking heads. I mean Rak dies, let’s just kill everyone.

Adrian considers the very apparent connection that I’m making in my head: I think our present situation here may be messing with your judgment a bit. We probably shouldn’t talk about this right now.

My phone rings. It’s Chris. She asks me what’s going on. I’m trying to kill everyone, I say. She panics and asks what I’m talking about. The following moments are filled with tears and panicking and her asking if she needs to get on a plane right now. The words are a jumbled mess in my head unable to escape. I tell her to wait.

A little while later, Mom finally arrives. Adrian and I had already given up discussing the script, so I quickly walk face first into a glass door at which point Adrian asks if he needs to carry me. Mom’s up and chatting and I’m invited with the rest of the family to see how she’s doing. Adrian stays behind watching an E! True Hollywood Story. A severe bronchitis has developed in what remains of her lungs compounding with the CO2 poisoning that persists as a daily threat. Her blood gas is low.

Is she dying, I ask one doctor who turns out to be too busy to answer. My sisters take offense to the sharpness of my question; I feel it’s quite appropriate. I don’t like dancing around this issue.

Today doesn’t seem to be the day, everyone says - just another bad scare. Mom asks how the grandkids are and if Christine is still coming up on Saturday - she wants to see her and Micam. Then she asks if we’re still starting story-boarding this week (we can’t give up on this project, she’s said). A half-hour passes and the family starts leaving to go back home to sleep, to work, to live. Adrian drives back home with me to crash for the night. It’s 6am.

During the drive home: I still really want to kill everyone, I say. Everyone.

Speaking of trouble, we seem to be causing it. (this is something I enjoy). The past couple of days have seen the proliferation of our press release that went out last week - and both traffic (and comments) are flowing into the site. I like comments. Especially those that launch Adrian into calling me on my cell to vent about (surprisingly) the large amount of people that choose to rebut without even making the small commitment of simply reading the readily available information.

In other words:

It’s day126 since the first discovery of this site - and for some reason, regardless of our increasingly aggressive posture in explaining through our words and our press that this is NOT A VIDEO GAME MOVIE - the people seem unable to accept the concept. The reasoning for this assumption simply escapes me - who in the hell in their right mind would commit over 4 years of their lives to a static slide-show retelling of a video game from 15 years ago?

Maybe it should be a sign to the masses of Adrian and I’s sensibilities in filmmaking that I’m asking the same exact question.

Note: shout out to Nek and the rest of you for defending our honor - you don’t know what it means to us to be able to borrow Cyan’s fans in this endeavor.

It’s real good for a couple of laughs.

I really enjoyed the one quote of: “Think of something in-between the Choose Your Own Adventure plots and what Dean Koontz would write if he had talent.”

Oh, and Uwe Boll is on Spike tonight at 9pm. Adrian asked me to Tivo it.

It looks like tonight is going to be another creative-fest at Patrick’s. I hope to dedicate the evening/night/early morning to more writing and wedding video editing.

After Chris, Micam and I got home tonight, after the bereavement incident, I cringed as I noticed the late hour. I wandered around the house, searching for something to do. Played with Micam for a bit - watched Dad considering pouring another drink, and then change his mind. The house was overflowing with family and sleeping arrangements were being discussed. Anywhere, but not anywhere near me, I thought. I just wanted my little boy and my girlfriend — everyone else could be miles away.

I’m dreading tomorrow - the formality of it all. Mom would say: eat cake, play cards, do some scratch offs. Chris would agree and that would be it. I kind of wish that was what was happening. And in preparation for knowing that I wouldn’t set foot in that place for the next 10, 15 years (at least not willingly) I made the decision to tell Chris that there was just something that I needed to do. And she happily complied.

My sunroof was open. I didn’t cry. I flew down Main Street getting my adrenaline up, people trying to kill me with their metal bullets left and right (maybe it was me) and found myself approaching the place Mom and I would go together when she needed a break and just wanted to sit awhile. And as I parked outside of that mausoleum, I knew that this would be the last time I would be here by myself for a very, very long time to come. And I was only going to see Grandma and Grandpa for the last time for a while, and to prove to myself where my mother’s corpse would be in just a few hours.

The door squeaked. Loudly. It always does. And the minute that I walked in, I could see the chapel area setup with its gold padded folding chairs, and could easily sense, even with my eyes closed, where I would most likely be sitting the next morning. Mom loved this place. It was her first idea. And I remember the negotiations that she went into trying to get it as a location for us to shoot at for Scenarios, way back in the day. Wheeling and dealing. I considered it peaceful, yet macabre.

I walked forward, into the area of the alcoves and trailed into that old rugged cross, stained with blood so divine - and stopped. The crypt was open. Preparing for tomorrow. I could see the dark, black of Mom’s future. If that’s what you believed. I did not.

I stepped onto my tip-toes and peered inside. Cold. It was a horizontal cellar, formed to store the secrets of the family. So, I turned around and instead looked at the plants left over for her parents, put here by her while she could still drive. There was a bench in the corridor. I went to sit down.

Many things went through my mind. Images of her taking care of me as a child. Images of her taking care of me last week. Days dedicated to As the World Turns marathons on DirecTV and baskets of marked up crossword puzzle books. The sound of her voice, now gone, forever - except for the remnants of already-played voice mails still sitting on my cell from days ago.

We used to walk to the other end of the building and take in the stained glass artistry before leaving for the store, the pharmacy, the gas station to buy her cigarettes. I chose to follow that trek for the last time. I crossed the other alcoves. I crossed the chapel. I heard the toilet in the lobby gurgle as to maliciously knock me over with fright. I stared at the carpet; clean and recently vacuumed. I smelled the air freshener, covering the stench of sweet death. I came to the end, turned around and stepped on the fresh ash of a cigarette. A chill filled me to every end.

Apparently, during my bereft march through the mausoleum, Mom took it upon herself to light a cigarette and join me in my pace. I took this as a jubilant proclamation that you can indeed have a coke and smoke even after death. I checked my shirt to make sure I hadn’t somehow ashed on myself in the car, but there was nothing to be found. And as I traced back my steps toward The Alcove of the Old Rugged Cross, the ashes lined my previous steps with such precision that there was no way they could have fallen randomly from me.

My walk turned into a brisk jog - and the other end of the building seemed so far. I guided my steps to avoid crushing any ashes, considering them constitutions to Mom’s persevering existence. I came to the bench I was sitting on before, and collapsed. Tears flowing for both her life, and her relentlessness in letting me know all was okay.

With my eyes closed, I took slow breaths - anticipating opening my eyes to see it was all another trick of the mind. I pried open my lids in defiance while locking gaze on the ceiling, analyzing the ornate patterns in the plaster. My eyes pivoted closer to the floor and I spied the the chests of urns on display behind cold glass, a notion that Mom and I always found to be very strange. I challenged my logic, told myself to let it be, and then let it go, excused by a simple happenstance. I didn’t noticed when I came in. I was distraught and distracted. The waxed vinyl of the yellow padded chairs had blinded my eyes. A cleaning crew or maintenance had sneaked a cigarette. A security guard patrolling for pot-infused teens.

And then I saw it. Resting comfortably on the toe of my boot, another fresh ash doing its balance act as to not fall. And a warm, calming air rustled inside of me.

I drove home, and had cake with Christine. We did some scratch offs.

One thing to note:

Called Jill today and she alerted me to the fact that she now needs the rest of the script.  Apparently, she read it in its entirety in less than 2 evenings (amongst work, taking care of 140lbs. of dog(s) and a 5-year-old) and now needs more.  She also has written notes for Adrian and I to peruse.  Maybe I’ll release the 100 pages that she hasn’t seen to her in batches of 8 or 10.. that’ll show her to take notes… ha.

More to come…