For those of you who are just joining us, here’s what we’re up to: it’s roughly 5:00 in the morning, you have to be at your monkey clock fuck-around in about three and a half hours, your cat is cleaning his asshole, and you are about to jump all over the second draft rewrite of the fourth act of a four act novel that started its humble little life ages ago as a screenplay…

This sounds odd, I realize, and even a bit hopeless. But, you’re already awake, so, what the hell? Might as well give it a shot, right?

Now, a little bit about this story we’re working on. It’s a “romance,” an idea that, during its initial run as a “workable” screenplay, was envisioned as a throwback of sorts to a Clark Gable type romantic comedy, mixed with all sorts of hip, delusion filled commentary on the modern movie going public and the movies they champion. You see, this “romance” you’ve had rolling around in your head for the last four years is set inside a movie theater, and it tells the story of an usher, a popcorn and soda slinging Lolita, and the usher’s live-in girlfriend who is supporting her underachieving man’s dream of being a big time screenwriter by letting him write during the day and work a pointless, part time job at night.

Sounds good, right?

Hang on, because before we get to meat of this little exercise, we need to talk a bit about why, exactly, you’re still working on an idea that’s four years old. As we’ve mentioned, this particular idea began life as a screenplay because, back then, all you could think of was SCREENPLAYS!!!!

This was way back when, before the failed internship at the alt-weekly paper, before the journalism, before the freelancing, before the film/lit/restaurant reviews, and way the hell before it ever occurred to you to even try and write a book. Yeah, this idea happened sometime before all of that nonsense, but after the formless ruminations and observations that plague early writer-hood, right around the time you decided: “Huh, I really like movies, so, I sure as shit bet I could write one!”

This idea came to life sometime after that revelation, but before you heard the greatest of all writerly truths: write what you know; you just so happened to finally take this advice when all of those little molecules were just begging for cohesiveness and clarity and a bit of exercise. (Oh yeah, you were also working at movie theater, being supported by a woman growing tired of your shit, and your dick got hard every time you walked by the concession stand with your broom and bucket. What a coincidence, huh?)

The real truth is: these first ideas, like your instincts or feelings, always ring the truest because they sing to a period of time being romanticized by your pitiful little subconscious. They stay with you until they are dealt with or exorcised, which, most of the time means the same thing. You can run from these ideas, come up with newer or fresher ones, and bust your head against a brick wall just trying to rationalize their various incarnations. But they’ll always be there until they are properly handled, and that’s all we’re trying to do here at five in the morning: just handle this stupid shit.

So, let’s get down to business and take a look at the fowl, gut-wrenching process of rewrites. We’ll start with a passage from the first draft of the first act (of the book, not the screenplay). To wit:

Every time I walk by, she smiles. Why? It’s her job to smile and be nice, but she doesn’t have to be nice to me, right? She smiles anyway and I smile back because it’s my job to be nice, too, yet it still feels like I’m cheating. Maybe if she didn’t acknowledge me it would be easier. But she’d still be cute, right? And I’d still be in the same boat.

The manager calls me over to the back door of the box office and gives me instructions. She’s worried about tonight’s showing of Scary Movie 5. She thinks it’ll incite violence and hatred among those too young to get in. It’s my job, she tells me, to stand guard at the door and check ID’s, to make sure everyone is of age.

This annoys me, because all I want to do is sweep. That’s what I was hired to do. Not bust the kids. But I say I’ll do it anyway, and just as I’m about to leave she stops me again.

“I forgot to tell you,” she says, flipping through a copy of tonight’s schedule. “Call home as soon as you can. Your girlfriend,” she puts a little something extra on that last part. “ Says it’s very important.”

Now, what’s wrong with this? The better question is: what isn’t wrong with this piece of shit? I do realize we are picking up in the middle of a story, but the lack of detail is amazing. The girl at the concession stand is cute, but who gives a fuck? Why is she cute? What does she look like? Better still, what does the lobby look like? Where is the box office door in relation to the concession stand? What’s the relationship between the manager and the Usher? How does she know the Usher’s eye is straying? And even though the lack of detail is staggering, what’s up with the inner dialogue? It’s not a screenplay any longer, right?

These are all questions that must be answered in order to proceed. And that’s what we’re doing here, proceeding through all the muck and grime and trying to get at the good work, which is out there somewhere.

So, let’s see if we can fix this mess:

Every time she smiles, I melt. I can’t help it. It’s the way she does it. She’ll keep her head down, like she’s working, then toss her long strawberry hair over her shoulder and look up. Her head is still down when she does it, so her gaze is sharp, direct, and focused entirely on me. It just kills me.

The manager calls to me from across the lobby, her voice booming like we were working in an enormous and ornate chapel. “Trevor, come over here!”

I saunter over to the back door of the box office never taking my eyes off concessions, wondering how many other guys she smiles at the same way. “What’s up?”

The manager snaps her fingers in my face just to get my attention then lets her thick Brooklyn accent do the rest. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“What do you mean?”

She nods toward concessions. “You remember why I hired you, don’t ya’? You guys need the money. That’s enough of a problem. You don’t have to start up another one.”

I wave it off. “What did you call me over here for?”

She stares at me for moment, trying to gauge my ignorance then carries on. “That goddamn Scary Movie is tonight.”

“So?”

“It’s gonna suck.”

“No shit, all those movies suck.”

She pops me across the head. “Not the movie, the crowd. All the kids are gonna try and get in.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“You’re gonna watch the door, be my bouncer.”

I contemplate throwing my broom and bucket down in a fit of protest, but then I remember the proviso by which I was hired: no one can know that Terry and I are old friends, let along old cousins. Instead I huff and start to walk off, but she stops me.

“Listen,” she says, taking hold of my arm. “I know things are all fucked up now, but just keep your head down and do what you have to do to keep working during the day. That’s what you want, right?”

I shrug.

“Well, then, keep your dick away from my concession stand and your mind on your goal. You’ll be fine.”

I can’t really back talk because it’ll do no good. She always wins the arguments. Have since we were kids. “Is there anything else, my dear?”

“Yeah, there is. Your girlfriend called,” she put a little something extra on that last part. “She has some good news for you.”

There, don’t you see? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think the second attempt is a grand piece of writing, but it is much clearer and more descriptive. All of the inner dialogue has been waved in favor of outer dialogue, which is good. And you get the sense of the bigger picture in a compressed, clean amount of time.

So, now you’re probably feeling good, like a “real writer”, having rewritten, say, one thousand of your hard earned words. And you get the sense that if you could spend the entire day like this, then maybe that one thousand will become two, then three, and your book would only take four months to write, not four years. You may also have all sorts of other questions starting to form in your mind, questions about printing, ISBN numbers, advertising budgets, niche markets, self promotion and so on…

But then you realize that all those questions will have to wait because the sun is up, the time has evaporated, and you have to be at your monkey clock fuck around in less than thirty minutes. That means you’re going to be late…

Welcome back to world.

It’s time to be someone else.

Now just try to hold onto that feeling…

Good luck.