Tag: screenwriting

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“You Should Write A Movie.”

“It’s him. Why wouldn’t it be him?” my friend Artsy Mommy asked me the day after Mr. Screenwriter signed my blog.

“What’s the big deal?” she wanted to know. “He’s just a writer.”

Just a writer. I laughed out loud. She had clearly expressed what most of the world thinks of my chosen profession. This is one of many reasons why I love Artsy Mommy—for her honesty—and for what came next.

“You should write a movie about this,” she smiled as she helped me toss another load of muddy clothes into my washer.

“About this?”

“Inspired by this. By the people you’ve met on the discussion board, by meeting someone famous online—by you freaking out pretty much all the time about it.”

“It would be pretty funny. A stay-at-home-mom and writer meets someone famous on the Internet. I like it. I could fictionalize it—but people who meet on the Internet—that’s a good starting off point. Something we can all relate to.”

“So get to it.”

“Yeah, right. With what free time? At four in the morning? ” I laughed.

Six months later, I was sitting in front of my computer screen, rereading the first draft of my script, “The Friends I’ve Never Met.”

I glanced at the clock. 4:44 a.m.

I hardly remembered any of the writing process these past few months. I’d been waking up at 4 a.m. instinctively—on the nose, without an alarm clock—and writing in a trance-like-state until my daughter woke up at 8 a.m. every morning.

I’d read a couple screenwriting books, visit Mr. Screenwriter & The Facebook Movie’s discussion board for advice and inspiration, and rework that morning’s write using my cue card system during the three hours she was in preschool. I knew the first draft was done when I woke up at 7 a.m. one morning instead of at 4 am. I’d hit 120 pages.

It was one of those pieces that insisted on being written. And then—like no piece I’ve ever written before— it insisted on me telling the world about it. It’s a very stubborn, persistent child. It won’t give up.

But then, neither do I.

***

Update: I wrote that movie. I shopped the screenplay around for two years, and when I ran out of money doing that, I published it to Kindle, Kobo Nook and iBooks! It has been my best-selling ebook to date!  Thanks so much to everyone who believed in me along the way! 🙂

The Friends I’ve Never Met  – find it on Kindle, Kobo, Nook, Sony, iBooks, Copia, Smashwords and more!

Read the background to how I came to write the screenplay and the many adventures I had around it:

starting here:

I’m Afraid to Ask, But What Is Poking?

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“You’re Not Being Punked.”

When I write, “until the day I found a way to speak with Mr. Screenwriter on the phone,” you must remember that I worked from home with a four-year-old tugging at my pant leg every ten minutes.

Therefore, if I wanted my impulsive plan to work (and by impulsive, I mean impulsive—I’d only come up with the idea a half hour before, when my clever four-year-old suggested in a matter-of-fact-tone, “If you want to speak to him, you should call him.”), it was imperative for the Flickering Babysitter to hold her clever attention for at least 10 minutes.

The fact that I also absent-mindedly poured her a bowl of Cheetos bigger than her little blond head while he and I were conversing is not one of my proudest parenting moments. But it did give Mr. Screenwriter and I something else to talk about.

“I just put on Rocky and Bullwinkle for my daughter, so I can get a quiet moment to speak with you. I don’t even know what Rocky and Bullwinkle’s about. Working from home doesn’t always work out for me,” I laughed.

“How old is she again?” he asked.

“Four.”

“She might be a little young, but try Pinky and the Brain,” he said, and he went on to explain why he and his daughter liked the show. We were having a regular conversation. I didn’t think I sounded like a stalker or a bimbo, but apparently I did sound Canadian, because he made a joke about my o’s. I laughed and relaxed a little, catching my breath so I could ask him my next question.

“So, I guess you’re really answering my emails?”

“Yes, Heather, you’re not being punked.”

That’s what it took for me to finally believe. Yes, Virgina, he really was Mr. Screenwriter! I could finally let go and start enjoying my time on his Mr. Screenwriter & The Facebook Movie discussion board. Maybe I’d even stretch my legs a little. Or a lot.  It was the best thing that could have happened.

Posting on a public discussion board for the first time helped me find my funny, and reading about his work (and how  much he seemed to love doing what he did) inspired me to try to write a screenplay of my own—something I’d never dreamed of trying until I happened upon that discussion board in December 2008.

I suppose my journalism training has made me overly suspicious of everything I read—especially items I read on the Internet—plus, I’ve probably watched Conspiracy Theory a few too many times. But if I weren’t an over-thinking-paranoid-yet-impulsive frosted flake, I wouldn’t have these great stories to share. There is a method to my madness.

I don’t regret much in my life, but I do regret deleting Mr. Screenwriter’s blog comment because, well, it was damn funny. And who doesn’t want to drive traffic to their blog? Who cares how it happens, as long as the readers get there?

Apparently, me. Apparently, I am the freak of nature who cares a little too much about pretty much everything. I wish I’d had Cher near my computer that day, smacking me silly, “Snap out of it, Blondie!” Why did I have to be so perfectly principled? It’s not like I’d posted photos of me pole dancing— “More of this at heathergracestewart.com!” (Besides, I couldn’t possibly have any photos like that, in case you’re wondering).

Luckily, my fits of over-thinking and panic have miraculously failed to scare Mr. Screenwriter out of my life, so I am still treated to his brand of funny from time to time.


Read how this story started:

Prologue: The Fine Line (between persistence and stalking)

1) a-The Fine Line: “Do What You Want”

b-Emails from L.A.

c-“I”m Afraid To Ask, But What Is Poking?”

Read the NEXT chapter: “You Should Write A Movie”

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“I’m Afraid To Ask, But What Is Poking?”

“A new comment on the post #179 “Will Mr. Screenwriter Add Me As A Facebook Friend?” is waiting for your approval.”

I stared at my inbox in disbelief, then looked around for a brown bag to breathe into.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.  Breathe out. Mr. Screenwriter—the guy who wrote my favourite movie and some of the best television ever written—just signed my blog? Mr. Screenwriter just signed my blog!

Okay. It’s easy to figure out who everyone in my story is—it’s not like I’m making it hard for you—and everyone in my story is just fine with that, but I’m sticking with the Mr. and Mrs. Names. They’re funny, and they have a nice ring to them.

“I’m afraid to ask, but what is poking?” Mr. Screenwriter wrote me. He was referring to the title of a second post he’d read on my blog about Facebook, “You’ve Been Poked.” He was in the process of writing a movie about Facebook, and wanted to understand how it worked.

The whole thing was very funny—but hard for me to believe. I’m from Ottawa. I’ve only traveled to the States a couple times. I’ve never been to Hollywood. The only famous person I’d met was Gary Sandy, WKRP’s Andy, in the elevator of an Edmonton hotel. I was about twelve years old, and recognized him right away. “Hey, I know you!” I grinned, and gave him a hug (my personality hasn’t changed much since twelve). I think my parents turned red, but chuckled. I then went on to tell Mr. Sandy how I was taking drama classes and was going to be famous some day. My parents tell me he got a kick out of me that night.

As for the blog post Mr. Screenwriter signed, you won’t be able to find it. One day, in one of my fits of panic and over-thinking which my dear family members and friends have come to refer to as—actually, they can’t quite find the term for me yet—I decided to delete the posts. They were getting a lot of traffic, and it bothered me.

Yeah. I know. Trust me to find a reason to panic about a blog post getting a lot of traffic. This won’t surprise any of my good friends or family members. As my dear friend Lucky Man Larry puts it, “It’s okay. I’ve become immune to your panicking.”

At the time, I didn’t like all the questions I was getting about it in my inbox. I just wanted people to read my blog for the poems and stories–not because some famous person had signed one of the entries.

There was also the not-so-minor fact that for about six months, I thought I was corresponding with Mr. Fake Screenwriter—that me and the more than 10,000 readers of his Facebook discussion board were being bamboozled, conned, fooled, punked, getting the wool pulled over our eyes.

I thought this despite that I’d called his studio to confirm with his assistant that this was the real deal.  I would think this until the day I found a way to speak with Mr. Screenwriter on the phone.

Read how this story started:

Prologue: The Fine Line (between persistence and stalking)

1) a-The Fine Line: “Do What You Want”

b-Emails from L.A.

Read the NEXT Chapter: “You’re Not Being Punked”

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The Fine Line: Emails from L.A.

“Your friend’s on T.V.”

“My friend?”

“Your friend whose name I can’t pronounce.”

“Ohhh! My FRIEND! Mr. Sitcom Actor!” I squealed, and ran from the kitchen, where hubby and I had been making dinner together, to the living room. It was three years after the Crazy Phone Call, and since that time, not one restraining order had been placed against me. Wait, that didn’t come out right. I have never had a restraining order placed against me. Seriously. Please, keep reading.

Mr. Sitcom Actor had, in fact, recently told me I should refer to him as my friend, “even though you’re in Montreal and I’m way over here in L.A.” It never surprised me when he responded to my emails—he’s a dear-heart like that—but I knew it was a rarity for a famous person in Hollywood to give a rat’s ass about someone who could do nothing for them. I enjoyed our rare yet lively e-conversations.

I caught the tail end of the ad that was on for his series, but it was enough to get me jumping up and down, clapping, as I always did when hubby told me my friend was on our TV screen. Our one-year-old was sitting in her high chair, and started clapping along with me.

“Dat? Dat dere?” she asked, big eyes blue and wondering.

“That’s my friend. Mr. Sitcom Actor. He sends me emails from L.A. Well, not really.
I email him, and he’s sweet enough to email back.”

“Nice haih, dat,” Monkeydoodle mumbled through her peas.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. He really does have great hair.”

I’m going to stop typing immediately and clarify something before I get deluged with excited emails from you, dear readers. This is a fun game to play, keeping you guessing about all the parties in my story, but no, I didn’t get emails from McDreamy in my in-box. Patrick Dempsey wouldn’t return to our TV screens, set my heart racing, and make me put extra mousse in my husband’s hair until a whole year later.

As I finally sat down on the sofa, dinner plate on lap–this has got to be one of Murphy’s Laws–our daughter’s face turned beet red, and she announced an event to us for which anyone with an operating olfactory nerve required no announcement:

“Poop!”

I laughed, and was reminded of an email Mr. Sitcom Actor had sent me a few weeks back. We’d been comparing diaper duty–he’s quite the hands-on Dad and had admitted he and his wife were “knee-deep-in-it” –and, having read some of my poems, he’d told me I should write a Mommy Rap about changing diapers. “That would be hilarious!”

I never did write that rap. Life gets in the way; or perhaps that’s just not how it was supposed to happen. If I’d started practicing my rapping when Mr. Sitcom Actor suggested it, maybe I’d have learned to sing on key and sound bad-ass enough. But then I wouldn’t have earned my “The girl can’t rap, but she sure can write” t-shirt sent to me by The Sex People, along with a delicious strawberry cheesecake, delivered to my door.

Who the hell are The Sex People? I’m sure that’s what the cheesecake delivery guy wanted to know, with every inch of his being, since I wasn’t expecting him, and had answered the door in leggings and the new black stilettos I’d been modeling for my girlfriend Artsy Mommy. He must have thought I was running a very different kind of home business.

Back to The Sex People. The simple answer is I met them online when Mr. Sitcom Actor joked with me tongue-in-cheek, “Yes, Heather, let’s be friends, officially,” when I’d asked him if that was really him on Facebook—as if you have to be on Facebook to make your friendship official. He soon posted a link to a discussion board led by Mr. Screenwriter, which I thought looked quite interesting, so I joined.

Before I knew it I was online every day with a bunch of friends I’d never met, chatting about the in’s and out’s of screenwriting, sex in the movies, baseball, and our messy, beautiful lives.

It was the stuff movies are made of.

Read how this story started:

Prologue: The Fine Line (between persistence and stalking)

1) a-The Fine Line: “Do What You Want”

Read the NEXT CHAPTER: The Fine Line: I’m Afraid to Ask, but What Is Poking?

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The Fine Line: “Do What You Want”

“You’re getting wrinkled.”

“It’s not that hot,” I coughed through the steam.

“You’re getting drunk.”

“It’s rosĂ©. I’m pretty sure you can only get tipsy on the pink stuff,” I laughed. Still, I decided he was right. It was time to get out of the bath. At 31 years old, this newlywed was already a little too wrinkled for her liking.

Hubby handed me a towel. Before he even got a word out–typical, really–I looked up at him and asked him one more time:

“Do you really think I should do it? I’m gonna do it. Should I do it?”

“Do what you want.” He smiled at me, then walked into the other room.

“What are you doing? Hey!” I hated when he did this. Leaving decisions up to me was a very bad idea. And yet, he did it all the time. His philosophy is, so long as no one gets hurt, I’m a grown woman, it’s really all up to me. Once, I e-mailed him from the 27-floor building where I worked, saying I hated all the bureaucracy, hated the tediousness of the work, and wanted to quit. Could we afford it?

He typed back: “Do what you want. Do what makes you happy. Do whatever doesn’t involve jumping out the window of a high-rise building.”

I finished getting dressed, wrapping the towel around my head like a turban. As I walked out of the bathroom, I found Bill standing at the kitchen counter, pouring me another glass of wine.

“Here you go,” he smirked, handing it to me.

“What’s this for?”

“Liquid courage.”

“See! I knew you knew I was gonna do it.”

“Of course you’re gonna do it. You’re showing off how good you are at finding phone numbers on the Internet. Show-off.”

“Do you think I’m crazy? I mean, it’s probably not even his phone number.”

“I’ve always thought you’re crazy. This just makes you crazier.”

I didn’t even stop to stick my tongue out at him. I took a quick swig of the wine, picked up the phone, and started dialing.

One ring. No one was going to answer. Come on. It was his home phone number in New York. How the hell did that end up on the Internet? Two rings. Did this mean I was a stalker? It just popped up on my screen! It’s not like I’d even been looking for it! Three rings. Someone was answering. Holy hell, someone was answering!

“Hello?”

“Um, Mr. Sitcom Actor?”

“Yes. This is Mr. Sitcom Actor.”

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d answer. I’m Heather. In Montreal.”

“Hello, Heather in Montreal.”

“I, er, um, I just wanted to call and tell you how much I’ve loved your work in movies and television. I’ve watched it all.”

“Hey, that’s really nice. I’m about to go to dinner with my girlfriend and my Mom…”

“No, no, I’m married, Mr. Sitcom Actor. He’s right here, actually. I’m just outgoing like this. I just felt like you might need a pick-me-up. I had this gut instinct that I should call. It must sound crazy.”

“No strings attached? Really? Wow, that’s really sweet. I’ll tell my Mom!”

“Cool. Have a good dinner.”

“I will, Heather in Montreal. Thanks so much for the call.”

I hung up the phone, turned to hubby, and performed a jiggly-jumping-up-and-down-quick-spin-around-“Oh Yeah! I did it! Oh Yeah!” ritual that I would come to refer to as my Heather Dance.

“Ha! He answered! And he was touched!”

“Or maybe you’re touched.”

I laughed and clicked my wine glass with his.

And that was how it all began.

So, as you can see, clearly, it’s all my husband’s fault.

Prologue: The Fine Line (between persistence and stalking)

Read the next chapter here:
The Fine Line: Emails from L.A.