Nose, Meet Grindstone

Grindstone, meet nose. Ladies and Gentlemen, time is a-tickin'. And eventually, it's time to quit mooning about and produce! I am working towards an aggressive deadline of this Sunday for a first draft of my screenplay.

But Mel, you'll say, you've only been there two weeks, aren't you supposed to take your time? But Mel, you'll also say, shouldn't you be going by 'feel', writing whatever you feel like, whenever you feel like? But Mel, you will less likely be saying, are you going to try and make one of the living statues by Notre Dame laugh and fall off the little box they balance on?

Well friends, gather 'round. It's tough love day.

Living a dream and mucking about in the woo woo is fun. Navel gazing is fun. Woolgathering is also fun. But there comes a time when you need to put down the self-help book and pick up the pace. Sometimes introspection is good, sometimes it's a time-wasting, suck-hole.

We are now entering Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is zone. It's time to stop thinking and start writing...a ton. So, that is what I am doing.

Monday morning was the technical beginning of what my triathlon coach Ross would call Peak Week – the week of the most intense training (and in this case, production). This is the week that tires you out, but makes you stronger. This is the week you work your ass off, and do your best to stay in the moment, because tomorrow is even harder. This is the week where you push yourself harder than you think you can go, only to discover you can go there...and further. Yes, Princess. You'll be rewarded with some rest, but that's a long, long...LONG way off.

On Monday morning, I was at a crossroads and a standstill. As I scrolled through the document, I realized that I had a whole bunch of scenes, 40 pages of scenes, but no story. I didn't even know whether this movie was a comedy or not. Which, if you ask me, is a pretty important thing to know.

As far as "feel" went, I had two films pulling at me as inspiration: Juno and Away From Her. The smart-ass humour of Juno. The poetic beauty of Away From Her. For those who haven't seen these two films, they are about as similar as a ballpark wiener and a creme brulée.

What. The. Fork.

I went for a walk to clear the static. I tried hard to listen. I tried too hard. I stopped trying.

Humour and pathos. Are they really two ends of a spectrum? Does it have to be one or the other? One thing I know about myself is that laughing, to me, is critical. It is how I communicate. How I connect. It is how I have endured some sad, sad times. And, as I learned from my one-woman show, it has the ability to take people by the hand, tell them 'It's okay' and lead them gently into the deeper places where pathos lives. Where things resonate with meaning if you are brave enough to open your heart. Laughing opens your heart.

Half of my pages were written as a comedy. Half my pages were not. I put them all together into one document and I rewrote it as a comedy 'with heart'. That is, a comedy that takes you places.

I sat in my cafe and cut and pasted and tried to figure out how someone's wife dying could be funny, even just a little. As I wrote, barely taking the time to sip from my quickly cooling coffee, a little person walked into the cafe. Little person as in man with dwarfism...as in midget. He sidled up to the bar and swung himself up onto a high bar stool with shocking ease and lightness. I was impressed for three seconds. And then I kept writing.

This morning, I woke up and stared at my screen. Lots of scenes. No story. I have a semi-suicidal nurse. I have an old man whose wife just died. I have someone who gets diagnosed with cancer, who happens to be the daughter of the man whose wife just died. And I have this minor, minor character called The Undertaker. (He's an undertaker.)

The Undertaker is there because the old man's wife died. And I had written him as a total cliché: tall, gloomy, pale, black suit. But this morning. Suddenly. Miraculously. Irrationally. Wonderfully. He became a midget.

He's tough. He's all business. He's raking in the cash, hand over fist. He's sexy. He drives a Porsche. He runs a funeral home. And he's a midget. I see him so clearly. I even know who I want to play the role. It's Peter Dinklage.

The little person from the cafe must have lodged himself into my subconscious and burst forth into life this morning as The Undertaker. And I love him. He is the most delicious character that has ever emerged from my brain/heart/soul/fingers. I thought about him all day and I'll dream about him all night. I'm in love with a midget undertaker from my imagination.

This, by the grace of God, was the tipping point.

Suddenly, themes of waiting, living, dying, loving, connection, isolation and purpose all coalesced. I rendered storylines and outlines for each of my four main characters. The Undertaker, a bit part in the first incarnation, became a major player. His is a sweet, sweet love story with a bird.

And now my story has...a story. It has a backbone. It has energy. It has drive. It has direction. It has an undertaker midget with a Porsche. Oh, Great Creator....

What. The. Fork.