Guest Pod with Kristall Burke: Part Two

Fifteen Tips for Screenwriting
with Kristall Burke

Screenwriting was something that I just ‘fell into’ about seven years ago, but when I look back at it now it seems like a very natural progression for me. I love movies, I love to write, why not write movies? I have written several screenplays, started even more, but only have two that I would let anyone else read. After my initial attempt at screenwriting, I decided to do my research, a little backwards, I know (grin). My first attempt was a mess. There are two books that really helped me on my journey; ‘Screenplay, The Foundations Of Screenwriting’ by Syd Field and ‘Writing Screenplays That Sell’ by Michael Hauge. I recommend both of these books, the copies I have are older, but both authors are highly reputable in the industry. The beauty of screenplays is that all genres’ can be translated into one, the sky is the limit. I have compiled a list of helpful tips for anyone who may be interested in screenwriting. I am by no means an expert, but these are a few of the things I have learned along the way. Happy screenwriting!

1. Screenplays have a very strict format. There is an industry standard, right down to the font. There are many books and websites that can provide this information and they will all say the same thing (see above titles). I could fill a page on the tabs, indents, capitalization… but I don’t want to bore you (smile).
2. Each page of a screenplay roughly translates into one minute of screen time.  For an hour and a half movie you would need 90 pages, a two hour movie would be 120 pages. Very few movies reach the two and a half hour mark or 150 pages.
3. Visit your local bookstore or library and read other screenplays. I believe this helps to show the ‘rhythm’ of a screenplay and can help you find your own ‘rhythm’.
4. As with other writings, remember the tenth page is important, this is where you hook your audience.
5. Within the pages of the screenplay try not to add too many (or any) camera directions and director or actor notes. Within the business of filmmaking there are many creative forces that need to stretch their wings!
6. If one of your scenes runs past the middle of the page and your next scene will be longer than the space you have left, start a new page. It looks nicer and makes it easier to read.
7. The dialog of a character should not continue to the next page, unless it is a monologue. I do like to add one good monologue per screenplay, but that’s just me.
8. Every time the story changes location, start a new scene. Some scenes can be “moving” while driving, running, etc. just be descriptive, so the reader is not lost.
9. Listen to the voices in your head; these are your characters… I never “write” the end of the screenplay until I get there, the characters can sometimes surprise you as they develop. I know this is more of a “crazy lady” general writing tip, but if it works for you…go with it.
10. Upon completion of your screenplay, choose 2-3 family members or friends to read it, even if they have never read a screenplay before. I find this helpful in my editing process to check for ‘flow’ and continuity which is important.
11. Write a synopsis of 50 words or more and a logline (One sentence that entices the reader or movie goers). These two items can be on the same page and will accompany your screenplay.
12. Print the screenplay, title page and synopsis on three hole paper. Include a cardstock cover with the title and author. Add a cardstock back and bind together with brads. Some places will accept two hole punched paper. This is just another industry standard, the cover will help protect the pages and keep everything together. It feels good in your hands at this point (smile).
13. In the lower right hand corner of the title page and synopsis type your name, address, phone number, email and website (if you have one). This will be how ‘they’ will contact you.
14. Copyright your work! The Library of Congress has made it really easy to file online now.
15. Once you have the copyright, let people read it. Enter a film festival; there are plenty to choose from. The judges are typically producers and may be able to help you get your foot in the door.

Be creative, enjoy what you write and others will too. Thank you.

Game Pod: Creation -- Story Dice

The Peas are offering up some unique (and overdue!) flash fiction. We're literally rolling the dice this week to find inspiration for our stories. M gave her lucky plot dice a shake and this is a picture of what we were given: 

Flash Fiction Inspiration

Each Pea was responsible for interrupting the images as she saw fit. Yeah, this is going to be interesting...

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

Ozon watched as his brother plucked a handful of glittering dust from his pouch. The task was simple. Enter the bedroom. Assess its occupants. Carry out their assigned tasks. It had been the same routine for centuries, ever since the Rift forced his kind to work in pairs.

Ohon’s ethereal powder drifted to the Sleeper’s head and disappeared. The Sleeper smiled.

Jealousy spiked in Ozon’s heart. “There’s no justice in this world.”

“Come now, brother,” his twin chided as he recorded the reaction in the Book of Dreams. “You mustn’t say such things.”

“It’s true.” Ozon pulled open his own black leather pouch and dipped his fingers into the inky darkness within.

“Are you still questioning our assignments?”

Ozon smeared a bit of oily residue on the female Sleeper’s forehead. She flinched at his touch. “Always.”

Ohon shook his head as he handed Ozon’s the Book. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, brother. You see our gifts as a burden. They aren’t.”

“No, they’re a curse.” Ozon tucked the Book inside his robes.

The twins sauntered from the bedroom, gliding silently down the hallway. “We’re Sandmen, brother. We reveal all that is locked away and hidden. None have power to rival ours.”

“And yet we’re incapable of acting alone.”

Ohon laughed. “Are you tired of me?”

Ozon remained silent.

“There are reasons why Sandmen are paired. If one of us had command of both Desire and Fear...” Ohon shuddered. “No, it’s best to keep the powers separate.”

“Of course you’d say that, brother. You only deal with pleasantries. I’m the monstrous shadow, the one they label Nightmare.”

Ohon sighed and paused, forcing Ozon to wait. “If one Sandman had the ability to grant both, Sleepers would fall to him like sheep before the butcher. It would be the end of all Sandmen.”

“Not the end. A restoration.”

“Are suggesting we return to an autonomous state? Have you forgotten the horrors of the Rift?”

“Perhaps.”

Ohon chuckled and brushed past Ozon. “Glad to see you’re finally developing a sense of humor.”

Anger swelled as Ozon slammed his twin against the wall. Before Ohon could cried out, he smeared a handful of Fear along Ohon’s forehead.

Convulsions wracked the Sandman’s body. Soundless screamed contoured his face.

Ozon ripped away his brother’s pouch. The weight of Desire thrilled him. The warmth of the dust within warmed the leather and his cold skin.

As Ohon crumpled to the floor, Ozon smiled for the first time in his existence. “Sweet dreams, brother.”

(Weighing in at 423 words, J goes over word count for the first time!)

No one ever tells you to watch out for your shadow. 

Why should they? It's your constant companion. Trustworthy. Reliable. There with you through everything, even when you can't see it. So what happens when it peels itself from the ground, grows claws and horns, and starts hissing its fork-tongued whispers in your ear?

No one ever tells you to watch out for your shadow because no one has ever had one possessed. Until now.  

My name is Finnigan Swiftfoot, and I have a demon tethered to my skin. 

In fact, it's sitting beside me right now, watching me write this to you in a letter I will never send.

Having a demon shadow is not painful. Not physically, anyway. I suppose you could call me lucky. After all, my shadow is the one possessed. I'm just fine... Aside from the way it follows me around, lurking, stalking, murmuring a list of all my fears over and over so I'll never forget them. 

It's a real joy, my shadow.

I've tried to force it away. I've planted myself directly in the sun, where only happiness could possibly survive -- where darkness withers under my feet -- and allowed myself to believe this is all some dream. But time, like the sun across the sky, passes. And soon my shadow drags itself up and faces me, and the truth is painfully clear. I will never be free of it. Not until I find the key to unlocking the shackles that bind us. 

I can look down even now and see the keyhole tattoo on my wrist where the shackles appeared, only that first few days after it happened. Sometimes I can forget. Even when it sits beside me, staring at me, muttering. I can forget.

But not at night. When I sleep, my shadow cloaks itself in darkness, slithers into my bed, and worms its way into my dreams. My nightmares.

I haven't slept well in months. 

I look out the window of my sixteenth train car since I reached this side of the world. The sheep grazing in the passing fields entice me. I almost want to count them. I wonder if it would help to keep the demon at bay. Maybe an hour of untainted sleep...

I look beside me. My shadow is curled on the red upholstery of the bench seat, darkening it to the shade of blood. Its eyes never leave me.

So loyal, my shadow.

I finger the edges of the ancient book in my lap, wishing I could read the language. I'm pretty sure it contains the answer I'm looking for. If not, I've got no other options but to flay myself alive, and even that's not a guarantee. 

"What did I do to deserve you?" I ask. The scales of paranormal justice have so clearly been tipped in my favor...


My shadow flashes me a razor-sharp grin. "I'll never tell," it answers in a sing-song voice that has yet to stop being creepy, even after all this time. 


"Super helpful answer. Thanks," I say, turning back to the fields flashing by the window. 

(At 520 words, A is unsurprisingly over the limit)

Donavon Dinkle stuck the worthless finance book in his back pocket and stared at the scrawny mud caked sheep.

He hadn’t slept for days worrying over the question posed in the letter.

Would you rather pay me the six thousand pounds or forfeit the property?

“Neither.” He heaved the pitiful animal onto the scale. Not quite six stones. “The price of the meat on your bones ain’t worth the effort.”

The sheep baaed then blinked dully at him.

“How am I to get this demon off my back,” he said, dragging the animal off the scale. He sighed, looked down at the sheep, and patted its head. “I have to get the money somehow. They’ll take the farm.”

The sheep lifted its chin to him as if to say, It’ll be all right, Mr. D. 

He tossed the worthless ledger onto the scale and walked out of the barn as the creature trailed behind him.

The farm was rundown and hadn’t turned a profit in some time. But he couldn’t bear to part with it. It’d been in the family for ages. Losing it would be the end of his world.

A low whistle sounded from above. The sheep startled and skittered off with a bleet. He scanned the sky and saw a dark moving object growing larger. Taking a few steps backward, he stumbled and watched as the object streaked toward the earth. It crashed into his barn with a boom. 

“Bloody hell!” he said, picking himself out of the mud. 

He carefully approached the smoking rubble pile in front of him and climbed over the barn’s shattered walls to get a closer look.

Settled in the splintered crater of wood laid the mangled remains of one of those keyhole satellites he'd read about in the paper. It bore an American flag.

Donavon turned and found the sheep looking rather pleased with itself and standing not but a stone’s throw away.

He smiled and said to the animal, “I reckon those Yanks’ll be wanting to keep this quiet.”

The sheep bleeted happily then scampered out to the field just as a caravan of unmarked vehicles raced along the road toward the farm. 

(Words totaling in at 363. M scores pea points with the lowest word count for this round.) 

Thanks for reading. Next up, the missing Hunger Games edits, a recap of my YA Day, and who knows what for next week. You'll just have to wait and see.

Peas out. 

Game Pod: Creation -- Six Word Inspired Flash Fiction

This week's Game Pod is taken from a little game Alexis and her mom used to play on long road trips. Each Pea was tasked with contributing two words. The Peas then created a story using all six of the words at least once (in three-hundred words or less). And this is what happened:

Princess  Iguana  Cartography  Sanguine  Horizon  Hoarding 

Island Vacation

Lacy stared at the iguana sitting on her hotel bed.

Her mother expressed her fears about her vacationing alone in St. Thomas. She doubted this was the worst of them.

Flicking her keycard at it, the iguana blinked, taunting her with its sanguine expression. It was as if the reptilian beast enjoyed the attention.

“Shoo!” She waved her fingers at it. “This is the fourth night in a row!”

She gazed toward the burnt orange and pink horizon. It was paradise. Just what she’d imagined, sans wildlife. She had to admit, the view was stunning.

She hated feeling like a helpless princess and prided herself on self-sufficiency. When she’d called the concierge last night he’d treated it like business as usual. “Yes, miss. Of course, miss. I’ll send someone over.”

The maintenance man, Jacamo, had suppressed his laughter the first night when he found her in the hallway with her pepper-spray at the ready.

“You have to be assertive,” he’d said last night, rustling the lizard out with a broom. “They’re like dogs. You have to show him who is the boss.”

“I didn’t come here to tame the local wildlife,” she’d told him. “I just wanted come to an island, have a nice guy buy me a drink, and enjoy the beach. This…” she jabbed her thumb at the intruder “…is not part of my resort package.”

She sighed and eyed the iguana. Be brave.

She imagined herself hoarding bravery like coins against her chest. She tried to think of someone who was adventurous. Lewis and Clark were the first to pop into her head. This wasn’t exactly continental cartography she was facing, but certainly they’d overcome wildlife on their adventures.

“Get out, Mr. Iguana.” She glared at it and pointed at the doorway. “I mean it.”

The lizard cocked its head then blinked each eye. It opened its mouth, exposing its fleshy tongue. She shuddered. It took one step and she ran out into the hallway and let the door slam behind her.

Jacamo was there with two unopened beers. He smiled, offering her a bottle. “Tonight’s my night off. Forget him. Let’s take a walk.”

Lacy took the beer and smiled.

(word count 364) by Michelle

The Care and Feeding of Dave

Princess Sidhemana hated cartography. Studying musty old charts and maps made little sense when newer versions were available on microreaders. Yet her father insisted she know how to read the stellar graphs their ancestors had used when they settled on Delta Plantation 9, a planet five star systems removed from their home world of Earth.

Sighing, she gazed out the window at the northern horizon. Epsom and Colga, DP9’s smallest and largest moons respectively, shimmered along the spiny back of distant mountains. Their combined light cast a sanguine glow on the vast altine fields.

Sidhemana longed to lose herself among their indigo stalks and tubular white blossoms. She closed her eyes and imagined the thick sweetness of their fragrance. A rich earthiness undercut with a slight sulfuric bitterness would coat her tongue if she tasted the nectar dripping from the flowers.

Angry voices outside the literacy chamber shattered her daydream. Mother was yelling at Tarken again. Sidhemana rolled her eyes and focused on the tattered map spread on a wide slate table.

“But, Mother,” Tarken’s whine pierced the outer doors. “Dave needs the beetles! He’s a growing iguana and--”

“I understand, but why do you insist on hoarding gosha beetles?”

“They’re Dave’s favorite.”

“Tarken, gosha beetles are disgusting, not to mention dangerous,” Mother lectured. “If they escape, they’ll eat this entire home in less than a week.”

“If they get out, I’ll unleash Dave. He’ll track them.”

“Tarken...”

“Truly, Mother, you shouldn’t worry.” His voice faded as though he were slowly retreating. “You’re starting to get a crease between your eyes.”

“Tarken!”

Quick footsteps reverberated through the literacy chamber as Tarken fled their Mother’s disapproval, pulling peals of laughter from Sidhemana.

(word count 288) by Jeannie

*under word count award

Princess and the Pea

Princess took a sure-footed leap across the gap between dilapidated rooftops and settled himself in a sit, his back against a crumbling chimney. He gazed at the vast glittering castle and its verdant grounds. The sun, slipping below the horizon, cast everything in a cherry-gold glow that reflected his unusually sanguine mood. For once, his life was perfect.

He made a clicking noise with his tongue, coaxing a pea-green iguana from the depths of his oversized jacket. The lizard sauntered to his shoulder and shot him a proud, ill-humored glare.

"Our work has paid off, Pea," Princess said, beaming. "The shit ends for us today."

Pea blinked.

"Aren't you excited?" Princess inquired. "No longer will we be treated like vermin on the street! No longer will we have to beg for the food we missed out on because of the other orphans and their greedy hands!" No longer would they taunt him, either, for the clerical mishap that was his name.

Pea stared. Then burped.

"Pea! We want to remember this moment forever. Don't ruin it."

Pea curled his tail into a question mark as if to say, "So?"

Princess shook his head. "Soon, you will have your own room. And you can stop hoarding shiny objects in the pocket of my jacket. Doesn't that make you happy?"

Pea cocked his head.

"And I'll no longer answer to Princess Boy Noname, Pea," he declared. "I will be: PB Nomer, Master of Cartography for the Royal Family." This he said with a grand flourish of his arms.

Then he grinned and snatched the iguana from his shoulders, holding him close to his face. "At least until I get into the map room and use the key you stole to get that treasure."

Pea scrunched his face.

"You do have the key, don't you, Pea?"

The iguana gave him a tiny nod. Then shook his head.

The grin slipped off Princess's face. "Well where is it, then? You had it when we stole dinner."

Pea's stomach grumbled. His face turned uncomfortably.

Princess narrowed his eyes. "Peeeeea?"

The lizard's stomach rumbled again.

"Pea! You ate it?!"

The iguana burped, his breath carrying a distinctly metallic scent.

Princess rolled his eyes and glared at the castle. "Great." He sighed heavily and set the iguana down. "Well, the shit ends for us tomorrow, then."

(word count 409 {yeah, yeah I went over -- but it's my birthday so I can! Ha!}) by Alexis


*funniest/most clever award

Next week...well...we're not quite sure. It'll be a surprise. *grin*

Judging a Book by its Cover: Alexis's take

Book Covers

These two simple words inspire a passion of opinion and eagerness to discuss that you'll rarely see from me. Maybe it's my graphic design background, or my creative spirit. But honestly, I think it's just common sense -- aesthetically speaking -- regardless of my profession or hobbies.


It's been hammered into our skulls to "never judge a book by its cover" and as true as that is {for there are several books I absolutely loved which I refused to read in public without first taking off the dust cover and hiding that sucker} they have the saying for a reason. Because we do judge books by their covers. If we didn't, the publishers wouldn't spend so much time and money on cover art and artists to begin with. Covers matter. Plain and simple. They're signposts to the masses, beacons to individuals, tiny billboards working hard to get your attention.


But like billboards, and anything in advertising, not all covers are equal. {Why else would vanity presses and special edition covers do so well?} If the book's cover doesn't grab you, you won't grab the book. It gets passed by. Worse, if the cover turns you away, well... the book is being turned away as well.


Now, I'm not saying that the cover will make or break a book {my experience with Westerfeld's Leviathan/ Behemoth/ Goliath hardcover-dustjacket-redesign-midway-through-the-series-debacle is proof of that}... {I'll get to that later... possibly*}. I believe the title holds a fair percent of the initial pull, your loyalty to a story or author is another consideration, and then, if those things do their job, the back cover copy and the inside flap.


What I'm saying is that book covers get the coveted "first impression" moment. And for a reader {well, a reader like me... and most of the readers I know} that's a big moment.


The problem, lately, especially in YA, is that I'm starting to get a lot of bad first impressions. I'm being turned away. The publishers, who think they've hit gold plastering actual photos of actual people who may or may not look anything like the actual characters or have anything to do with the actual story, are instantly turning away an entire set of customers; those who hate to have images planted in our minds for us {hence why we read the books before we see the movies -- though "movie versions" of book covers are not my target}. It's almost insulting. We, the readers, the cultivators of imagination, are being told how we should imagine. We are, essentially, having to take creative direction on our own creativity.


Where before I'd be drawn to a beautiful, interesting, or original cover -- something that evoked the feel of the book and drew me in {which I have always prided the YA genre as doing} and maybe even inspired me as an artist -- I'm now overwhelmed, dismayed, and put off by the ceaseless sameness that seems to have pervaded the shelves. I skip entire sections... because they're all the same cover. Just a different title. Maybe a different shade of black or a different splash of color {I'm starting to wonder if maybe there's a shortage in cover artists and the YA publishers are just sharing the same person}.


So we have a problem. Luckily, there's a solution. {No, my suggested solution will never be "just switch to digital books and ignore the covers entirely," thankyouverymuch}.


Publishers need to stop regurgitating designs because they're afraid to take risks, constantly going to what's "safe" and what's "working"-- terms I've found they really enjoy. For one, there's no growth in that. Sure, it's working. For now. Just like Twilight-inspired wanna-be stories are "working." {Forgive me for the reference. I feel nauseous using it}. But eventually, safe becomes same and the market over-saturates. At that point, everything becomes a fad. There's no art in that.


Now, I'm not published. But one day I will be. And I certainly don't want the book cover equivalent of 80's hair or parachute pants holding a place of honor on my bookshelf -- with my name on it. I want a reflection of my work and thus a reflection of myself. How can you do anything but be original in your cover design if you focus on the individual in that way? If you stay true to the art? Art is risk. Art is outer expression of the inner. Art is rebellion against sameness and embracing the unique and creative. And book covers are art.


So for the love of the written word... somebody tell those publishers to let their artists create art again.


*for my opinion on this, visit the comments {I'm like, the 12th post. My "name" is Alexis} of a great little article I read the other day about book covers in YA (paranormal romance)... CLICK HERE :)