False Promises

            When I use the term “False Promises”, I promise you all (and not falsely… hehe) that I am not talking about politics. I’ve decided to re-coin the term for writers. I’m not sure how this will pan out, and in fact, it probably won’t, but just go with me here for a second.

            Next to politicians, Writers  can be the “next in line” for the biggest abusers of false promises. Constantly, I find myself starting a story, and promising myself that I’ll finish it, only to drop the plotline the following week. However, I believe that this lack of follow through can actually be good for us (as opposed to my politician counterparts.)

            So here we have it, is my first Public Service Announcement. For any writers out there like me, who beat themselves up about abandoning a hero or heroine at the beginning of their adventure, don’t feel too bad about it. A lot of times we just need to write to write, so to speak. At least, that’s what people keep telling me. “Practice makes perfect,” my piano teacher once told me. And although writing is hardly like piano, I think it applies. Sometimes, when you feel a story isn’t going anywhere, or you lose interest, you simply need to let it go, and thank it for a great run. (Okay, so maybe you don’t have to thank it out loud… people might think you’re crazy when they find you talking to your Word Document.)

            Why are you making this PSA? You might ask. Well, to be honest, it is because I’m breaking a promise that I made to all of you. I did not, in fact, continue my “The Complex” idea. While the title was seductive, I just couldn’t make myself fall in love with the characters or the premise. I might come back to it, but I don’t want to make anymore false promises.

            So after saying that I don’t want to make anymore false promises, here’s another. I HOPE (keyword here, hence the CAPS lock) to finish this story that I’ve just begun writing. I have the first scene here, and while I might play around with the format (maybe try writing as a screenplay? Thoughts?), I see more potential in this story than the last. Which is improvement, right? Maybe this blog post is more for me to justify myself, rather than apologize to you. But no matter the reason, here is what I’ve been working on this past week. Enjoy mi amigos!

UNTITLED THUS FAR

I felt like a telephone pole, waiting at the airport, tilted to the side with the duffle bag on my shoulder. Still. There were only three people waiting for cars to pull up in front of the Akron/Canton airport, and I was one of them. A tall man in a navy suit and red tie mumbled into his blackberry thirty feet to my right. And an old woman leaned on her suitcase thirty feet to my left, unwrapping a purple piece of saltwater taffy. When a beat-up Volkswagen puttered up to the curb, all I could think of was my new life as a telephone pole.

            Green paint was peeling from the sides and I wished that it had stopped in front of the old lady, who dropped her taffy wrapper to the ground when she thought no one was looking. The silver handle on the passenger door was warm to the touch. I yanked it.

            “Grandpa Mac, unlock the door,” I yelled. A fat man in an Indians baseball cap drummed the steering wheel. I knocked on the glass and he finally turned.

            “You have to unlock the door.” I pointed to the handle and yanked it again. He laughed.

            “You have to wiggle it.” Grandpa Mac shook his meaty fist in the air and I bit my lower lip to keep from rolling my eyes. I yanked again.

            “Wiggle it,” he repeated, “just wiggle it.” The man in the navy suit looked up from his business call as I shook the door handle as hard as I could. I smiled at him and waved, and he turned his back on me.

            “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Grandpa Mac grumbled. His arms shook as he lifted himself off of his seat and stepped out of the car. I stepped back onto the curb as he shuffled up to the handle.

            “See, you just have to—” Grandpa Mac yanked on the door and it opened, “wiggle it,” he said, out of breath. I hopped in, setting my duffle bag on my lap, and winced as my knees hit the dashboard.

            “Sorry, the seat doesn’t go back anymore. It’s jammed.” Grandpa Mac patted the steering wheel twice like he was patting an old dog on the head.

            SCREENPLAY PAGES WRITTEN: 59

            NOVEL PAGES WRITTEN: 105