Okay…

Yesterday, I went to my first class in Screenwriting with Madeline DiMaggio. It's a really fine group to work with, and I'm not just saying that because I think they might read this. Everyone there was a good writer, which really made me…nervous. I was shaking like a leaf from head to toe. Every time I get up to speak, I shake all over, too. I never hold my paper. The crinkling noise drowns out my speech.

So…

We go to this guy Michael's house, and he's really nice, and he's really cool, and he's really a neat freak! He makes us take off our shoes. I think the bloody scab on my toe where my sandal strap hit it is glowing neon. Michael places a napkin carefully under my saucer before he puts my cup on the saucer. I feel like telling him, "This does not instill confidence in my abilities!" I guess neatniks can spot a messy eater from miles away. It doesn't help that I have a shelf built into my body where all my cake crumbs reside. He is very sweet in allowing us into his home though, and it is very clean, which is a word that occasionally finds it's way into my vocabulary.

Then…

We introduced ourselves, and I am dumbfounded. Not only am I an alien, messy person, I am also in with PUBLISHED authors and people who NOT ONLY have degrees, but they have taught stuff - like PHILOSOPHY. One woman says she is weaning herself off watching the NEWS for FOUR HOURS every night. "I read the comics," I say. I think I should pull out my goggles and hunting cap. I am an alien. I feel my knees joining my jumping, jiggling hands; then, the instructor sits down next to… me. I want to run out the door, but I take out my checkbook and make a commitment, so I can't leave. All of my nerves are shouting in protest, "YOU DON'T BELONG IN THIS GROUP!"

But…

I get up and get another cup of coffee and stay. I tell Michael I feel alien. Then I can't remember whether his name is Robert or Michael. I smile and talk to two women and forget both their names right after they tell me. I feel like the woman who says, "Hey, Sam, was it your brother who died or was it you?" Ms. DiMaggio starts her class oblivious to the jumble of neurosis sitting next to her. Each person is as good and as completely different from the next as could be possible. We have Mary Magdalene's tale as told by herself, kind of like that King Arthur story told by the lady of the lake, then a powerful true story about a suffragette who was our first congresswoman, followed by a story about a medium. Not the kind in the road, the kind that "channels" dead people. I liked the Cancer in the story, but the group decides the Cancer had to be cut out. Then comes an exciting tale of war and intrigue about, Stanley, the reporter who found doctor Livingston, and Theodore, the Emperor of Abyssinia. I keep thinking; he should change that name, Theodore, because it just reminds me of the chipmunks, but he can't. His story is about real history. A woman gives us a Sci-fi TV show episode, which was tough to get into because I don't watch the show, but after I finished her story, I wanted to see it. We had another Sci-fi story with a war in it. It is so riveting; I feel like one of the bolts on the tank. I am in it! Madeline says, "Who'd like to go next?"

Mine…

I present my story, which isn't even in the right format. I only have five pages. Everyone ducks their heads down and frowns reading. Several people turn pages over, and then go back to read the previous page again like they are very confused. Only one lady is laughing. Everyone else looks like they have just been force fed mud. It's taking such a long time. The class looks so…mad.
Madeline asks, "What is this story really about?"
Everything gets quiet while I listen to the blood pounding in my ears. In my head I think, 'I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!' My hands clench in my lap. "I'm really bad at ferreting out a story," I say.
"What is the beginning, the middle and the end," Madeline says.
Oh, how embarrassing. It's that awful that there is no discernible story line. "It's the story about a, about two, or four roommates that uh, live in the same place, the same apartment. One set, one couple is getting married." I stumble all over trying to explain.
"Where is the apartment?" Madeline says.
"Silicon Valley," I say.
"Too bad it wasn't New York."
Oh, damn! I think. I didn't choose the right location! Damn! But I don't think I can write about New York! She rips up the fledgling script in front of my eyes, pointing out all the glaring, missing info and lack of interesting topic. She does this…nicely. I don't know how she does that. Then she releases me to the group.

Group…

They go ape. They tell me they want the whole apartment to blow up. They want knock down drag out fights. They rewrite the whole thing in front of my eyes. In pieces. I just have to go home and glue them all together and make them seamless. That's all. I think we had a very diverse group. No one really has had a story that was anything like anyone else's. Then the very Hollywood looking woman hands out her pages. This woman looks like if she was at a party with Steven Spielberg and they bumped elbows, he would talk first. This woman who just appears so, polished, so savvy, so self assured, so natural, so luxuriously pretty says, "This is a comedy about a woman who is going to have her Mother arrange her marriage." Two comedy weddings in the same class? WHAT? And her story is funny. Her story is so funny; I'm wiping my eyes. I'm giggling; I'm holding my stomach. I'm laughing out loud. Her story is obviously going to sell. My story is left over wet rice on the sidewalk. Not even the birds will eat it.

Just…

I just have to go home and shove all the excellent suggestions they gave me and push my script back together, that's all. Then I have to watch this person who is a really good script writer tell her story about - a wedding - make everyone laugh - hard - each month. So Madeline turns to the guy with the delicious looking eyes next to her and says "What about you, did you bring anything to share?" And the guy says, "I didn't bring anything, but I am working on a story and I want your help." We all lean in, on the edge of our seats. My mind is screaming, Pick me! Pick Me! I CAN DO IT! He looks so tender and so comfortable with himself, like a warm teddy bear right out of the dryer. His gray socks look perfectly suited for a script writing class. And I listen to what he wants to do, and I make a suggestion, and this is the exciting part…HE WRITES IT DOWN!
I take a deep satisfied breath.

Okay.

I can do this. I can write something. I will come every month just to listen to parts of scripts, and I'll love it. Well, I won't love the beating I'll be getting, but I'll love the stories.

Till Next Time.