Day 63, Be Brave Project; Agony and Upstate

After the last entry I reclined on the sofa like a Victorian housewife, gripping my upper arms and trying not to scream. . .that was a long 4 hours. Time in which I began to move from Victorian housewife on the verge of hysterics (due to extreme corseting of body and mind) to a cornered animal. I began to think about what I would do to STOP THE PAIN. Take a sledgehammer to the face, if I were guaranteed the pain would stop?? Well. . .

Yes. After a while the answer was yes, please.

Crawled up to the dentist's office, only 11 blocks away, and waited in a chair clutching an Us magazine with Madonna and her ex-husband on the cover. That kabbalah she practices seems to have given her a great level of calm maturity, hasn't it? (Nope.) Dr. F came in, all curling brown toupee and gentle smile. He looked at the ex-ray, said my sinuses could be inflaming the nerve endings of my tooth that had the root canal and the crown--and he filed the crown down.

20 minutes later, reduction of pain at 80%.

Yesterday stayed at 80%. . .but enough to bring me back from the animal, to make me leave my Victorian sofa.

Now I'm going up-state for Halloween. I can be a silent, suffering warning to all children about the importance of proper dental hygiene.

Or I can just scare the crap out of them by telling them the story of my root canal last year. . .

Be Brave Project, Day 62; Back to the Dentist

Ugh. Oof. Gra%d*(!

I'm in serious dental agony here.

Tooth whitening vanity project went just fine. . .except that one of the gently used cups seems to have dislodged a crown on my Upper East Side (of the mouth), and I spent the night gulping down Advil and trying not to weep.

Have a dentist's appointment in 3 hours. . .roll on, time.

That crown has been giving me trouble since it was installed, but the last few weeks I kept thinking, "Has that thing moved?"

Now it has, into the Zone of Agony.

2 hours 58 minutes.

Gak. Urrrghhh.

Day 61, Be Brave Project; Standards and Saccharine Sentiments

Just looked at the opening sentence of my previous entry, and found that it made me want to beat my head with a shoe whilst vomiting abundantly, due to the excess of saccharine. Not the response I was hoping for or expecting.

"I have come to believe that working towards a goal is the only satisfying way to lead a life," or some such stuff. Well, it's sort of true--the most satisfying time I've spent since I quit drinking was when I was working on the screenplay adaptation. It's true and yet it sounds as if I'm some Oprah-watching, capri-wearing, cinnabun-munching housefrau who thinks her every little discovery is hers exclusively, yet fascinating to the rest of the world.

But. . .isn't that sort of self-absorption what a blog is about? Particularly a blog that is, however much I might chafe under this description, about self-improvement?

Urgh, well. . .urgh. . .yes. And my fear of being a frau really is nothing more than a form of sexism seasoned with envy that I have picked up from my gay male friends: They have a detestation of their married up/babied up/don't give a crap about their weight female co-workers so vehement that it clearly contains an enormous dollop of envy. The fat seems to bother them more than the smuggery (which is the part that gets me), but the result is the same and results in my gay friends coming out with this opinion: Big Fat Married Women are Like Children.

They get to stuff anything in their mouths at any time, look ghastly, and still have the expectation (How dare they think it's a RIGHT, my friend Will once asked) of being admired by their femininity and loved by their husbands. Will sat weeping in a darkened room the day before he turned 30, and when I tried to console him he whipped around dramatically--just like he was Crawford and I'd waved some metal hangers at him--to tell me, "For a gay man, 30 is the end. The end of dating as I've known it." And sadly, as Will's swimmer's build turned more solid from maturity and years of office work, it did turn out that the men no longer chased him as they had. This creates bitterness.

My gay friends starve themselves with incredibly expensive high protein diets. They are obsessive about gym memberships. They always know of a tooth-whitening deal, or of a discount on cashmere. There are very, very strong opinions on the wearing of flip-flops for men over 25. There is still, amazingly, even now the sort of self-loathing that societal disapproval can engender: A phrase popular after a particularly 'gay' sentiment has been expressed is, "That is why they hate us."

So my gay friends, many of them, loathe fat married women. Slender well-dressed women they can tolerate, because they're used to losing men to high-maintenance hotties. And the years of their endless bitching bitching bitching seems to have sunk into my head as well. Age if you must--Judy did, horribly and heartbreakingly, squandering love and talent along the way--but don't get fat. Or smug.

So that is why the 'living for your goals' statement clearly kicked something off in me--I do believe it. I do. But there's some part of me that also believes that if I start spouting such conventional bits of (irony free) wisdom, I'll suddenly start wearing Liz Clairborne clothing and socks knit out of shedded cat fur.

I want to be sober, but the life of the party. I want to be slender, but eat my Lindt chocolate. I want to find a relationship, but one where I cannot get hurt. I want I want I want. . .well, I want to remember the 'goals' comment and to live by it.

But I also am getting my teeth whitened today. And wearing fabulous shoes on my way there.

Day 59, Be Brave Project;

Working towards a goal is the only really satisfying way to lead a life, I belatedly believe. (I also am beginning to come around to other radical concepts like paying my bills, and the benefits of not ingesting poison on a regular basis.)

But back to the goals: Not even I can delude myself into believing that no one told me about this 'achievement' thing, so I can only come to the embarrassing conclusion that I suffered from deafness in addition to depression. I come from a family of high achievers, but both of my parents hated their jobs, their lives, and drink far, far too much. It was a lot like living in a mini-series entitled: John Cheever's People: The Next Generation. I was early on infected with the concept that one achieves basically to impress other people, and I didn't see that the flip side of that coin is obviously "because otherwise they'll find out you're crap."

Ish. No wonder my brothers and I are all anxious at best, and angry/evasive at worst. And my poor parents have never been content within themselves, not for a moment.

Anyway, The Achieving Goal thing. This BBP--Which I recommend to anybody, even if done in my rather raggedy and roaming manner--has really shown me the satisfaction of that. Since July I have done my terrifyingly belated taxes, received refunds for all three (most of which just ended up paying fines, but that's still a fantastic step forward). I have got myself health insurance at a price I can almost afford. I have paid my bills and paid off one credit card in full--and my credit rating has gone up 50 points. I have battled with my landlords, written a letter to bargain them down to a more reasonable rent, and then seized the bull by the horns and accepted a fabulous opportunity to move. It's a bit uncertain, and frankly required accepting an un-official lease, but the financial and safety advantages are enormous.

Now I have two more things to do, apart from the Big Book Project:

-Get my Social Security card, now I'm cool with The Man. Then use that to re-new my driver's license.

-Go see a doctor and get a check up already.

And yesterday I called to make a doctor's appointment, with a woman who is highly recommended by a friend in AA. The appointment is two weeks from today: I frankly am frightened. I feel pretty good, I work out all the damn time and eat like a refined but famished linebacker. . .but it's been a while.

2 weeks.

Before that time I would like to get that Social Security card. Which means going back to Mid-Town to deal with NYC bureaucracy. . . .It's Halloween, so time to talk about SCARY!

Day 57, Be Brave Project; Insinuating Myself, via Halloween

Since I returned to the States, Halloween has been one of my favorite holidays. First, it comes at the absolute best time of year, when one can wear both bulky sweaters and stilettos, when people are still friendly on the street and not dashing by in a huddled hurry in the freezing cold. Secondly, when I lived in England the English--though lovely people with a beautiful country and admirably evolved senses of humor, plus a social ferocity that keeps their politicians nice and tame--well, the English suck at Halloween. It's a Celtic holiday before we Americans grabbed and ran with it, and consequently has a whimsy that the Brits don't really get.

Back in the days when I was engaged to the Posh Bloke and living in his flat, I encountered many of the children of the privileged. They all understood that Halloween = Free Stuff, but didn't quite know how to go about it. If you saw a child in costume, it was a sure bet one of their parents had lived in the States. More usually, I would find myself in the somewhat Dickensian situation of finding myself suddenly surrounded by children who were holding out their bare, cold hands for food.

These children were also wearing Barbour jackets and $400 running shoes. And they thought they were Trick or Treating.

Tap on the shoulder. I'd turn. Five hands held out as they chirped "Trick or Treat!" "Do you think I walk around with my pockets filled with candy?" I asked. "No," one kid with Sideshow Bob hair explained patiently, "You just give me money."

Didn't happen. I told them where to get off and said that if they weren't wearing costumes and being paid in chocolate, their actions amounted to little more than extortion. Immediately their faces assumed expressions they'd seen in rap videos, and as I walked away I heard, "Fuckin' Septic."

That's Cockney rhyming slang, and is now now much beloved by the landed gentry: Apple and Pears = Stairs. Trouble and Strife = Wife. And Septic (Tank) = Yank. Slang for American. I turned around, walked back up to the kid--who did look frankly terrified--and laughed in his face.

But I still felt it was extortionate, and that these kids believed the world was going to rain money on them.

For the last 2 years I've gone upstate NY for Halloween in Sullivan County. My aunt has a house up there in a working class town where the majority of shops are closed up, and the bowling alley has closed down. More recently some people moved in to the area from NYC, and tried to establish posh antique and gift shops--which don't do very well. Times are tough, and a walnut veneer-front desk doesn't seem to be at the top of people's priorities. There's a lot of 80's hair and leaning on walls while smoking cigarettes--there's also beautiful countryside and gorgeous Victorian houses. It's a nice mix.

Anyway, the kids up there don't have money. But they still have a healthy respect for free candy and the people who give it to them, so they dress up properly for Halloween. Most of them make costumes at home (their mothers actually sew?!! See Picture above), or once they get older and cooler, they do a lot of scary gothic stuff with blood and lipstick and pillowcases. Remarkably effective. Last year more than 200 kids came to my Aunt's house--we gave away quality stuff: Mars bars and butterfingers and something called "Body Parts" which were severed fingers and ears made out of gummy jelly.

We were very popular, and the kids were so charming and happy just to walk around and see their friends and get their candy, that it sort of choked me up a bit. Felt like America can't be quite so fat and indifferent and spoiled if these kids are all so sweet. Very few of them seem to suffer from the personality loss that accompanies 'being cool'.

So I've devised a candy scheme here in my glorious Manhattan building, too. It is part of my nefarious and cunning plan to endear myself to the door people: I will present them with a pumpkin shaped box filled with candy to give to the kids in the building as they go by.

They might already have something set up, for all I know, but who's going to bitch about excess chocolate?? The door people need to stay awake and lively.

And I'm bringing out the big guns in my search for door-man respect: I'm giving out Snickers bars.

Yes, I am good.

Day 56, Be Brave Project; Ah, Autumnal Sundays & Curbside Treasures

When I first stopped drinking I joined a gym, less for the health aspect than for a very real need to reduce anxiety. I was at that gym everyday, plugged into my two (not nearly as effective but at least not liver-damaging) new distractions, the reclining exercise bicycle and silly magazines. Every day another 60-70-90 minutes on the bike, gulp down a guilty magazine or two, 100 arms 100 abs, stretch sauna shower and back out the door to figure out what the hell to do with myself.

Unsurprisingly, I began to lose weight.

I was gratified--because in addition to cycling and silly magazines, I was also rather compulsively eating sugar. Sugar in any form, though my two far-away favorites were either a) chocolate or b) home baked goods. I swung from respectable sugar fests of homemade apple cobbler with sour cream or banana bread toasted with pats of icy butter, to boxes of Chips Ahoy! cookies downed with skim milk straight from the container. . .

And still the weight came off, slo-owly. Around 2 pounds a month. I continued to find this to be quite exciting. For years I never ate sweets (got enough sugar through the booze, anyway), walked my ass off, then would eat a glamorous dinner consisting of 3 fish-sticks and some sliced carrots. And I really thought that was a healthy meal; protein and vegetable. Yet both my waist and face were swollen. Thanks, vodka.

Now, In my ugly and oddly counter-less little kitchen near Columbia University I started putting together feasts of Marcella Hazan's Spaghetti Bolognese, Joy of Cooking's Chili Con Carne, or Poulet a la Fermiere (a fabulous chicken/potato/vegetable/tarragon and cream dish). One Autumn Sunday I was coming home with food laden bags strung from my newly gym toned arms, and I saw something on the street--it was a heavy waist-high wooden wine rack. Hmm.

I dashed inside and dropped the plastic bags on the floor--was glared at by the cat--and ran back out to seize the wine rack. I dragged it up the stairs, down the hall, and into the kitchen. The cat glared again and slunked under the bed. The rack, though very heavy with a thick butcher's block top, was a bit rickety. I wedged it in tightly next to the oven until it didn't wobble at all. And--voila! I had a kitchen counter!

I washed the wine rack with bleach and hot water, dried it carefully, and put my cookbooks on the lower shelves. I'd of course heard of curbside treasures in NYC--but this was my first experience. The wood was pale and gleaming, the cookbooks all laid out on their backs on three levels.

For some reason I think I'll always remember that day--when some things sort of came together. My apartment was more complete, my cooking easier. I appreciated a free counter/bookshelf and also the irony that it was an empty wine-rack in a lush's house. I cooked a lot of excellent meals there--no more 3 fish sticks for me--I'd eat bowls of food, second and third portions after years of denial. . . then I'd take cookies to bed with me.

Last night the weather was again just like that Autumn day. Perfectly clear, crisp. I'd been to the gym, and to an AA meeting on CPW. At the gym I'd weighed myself and found that my weight was, in my opinion, too low. At 105 I look all right--but at 103 I frankly begin to lose my boobs altogether. It was time for another feast: I bought a chicken for roasting, and boiled some potatoes. Put a lemon in the cleaned chicken, dried the thing off, salted it and plopped it on top of the potatoes and carrots, and popped the whole thing in the oven. Waited an hour and made a salad. Ate 3 portions of roasted chicken dinner and followed that up with butter pecan ice cream.

It was excellent, a true 1958 dinner. But something was missing.

As I looked around my wonderful new apartment, at my lovely parquet floors and my northern facing views of Manhattan, I realized. . .I rather missed my old ugly and counterless kitchen, where I first figured out how to eat.

Be Brave Project, Day 55; Vague Phone Calls

I was about to write "There are few things that worry me as much as a vague phone call out of the blue. . .", but then I realized that's not true at all. Many things worry me a great deal. Like:

• flying


• vague aches and pains


• important looking envelopes in the mail


• emails from the more rage-fuelled members of my family.


• no emails from the more rage-fuelled members of my fam, which means they're plotting.


• ageing


• lack of financial stability


• what I've lost through the drunken years

But, few things kick up the worries about what the hell I am going to do--if anything is possible--about my cirrhotic mother quite like a phone call, out of the blue, from one of her dearest friends. Last night I got home (oh! you should see my home nowadays!) and came upstairs to read the New York Times front page story on Obama and McCain's debate the other night--when I noticed the light on my phone flashing.

No one calls my home phone, except my mother. And I just spoke with her.

So I check caller ID, and the call is from her life-long friend Anne. Anne and my mother went to school in Cleveland together, became debs together, went to Smith College together--and my mother set Anne up with her husband, the very wonderful Danny. When I saw the caller ID number, I immediately catastrophized and thought that my mother had finally died, been found with her head cracked open behind an arm chair, and somehow Anne had been elected to tell me.

But no--it was simply Anne wanting to ask me out to lunch, either here in the City or up in Bronxville where she lives. . .

However.

However. Anne has just seen my mother in the last few weeks, she has never asked me out to lunch before, and I am afraid that the drinking has got out of control (because it usually is), and that Anne has some really grim story to tell me (because there usually is one).

The whole thing bumps up anxieties in a big way, and make me want to not return the call. It makes me want to do some Christmas shopping and to see matinees and get massages and date gorgeously accented witty diverting men who sadly do not exist outside of my imagination. But, instead of spend money I don't have and date men who don't exist--which even I realize is not a particularly viable pair of options--I will call Anne at 10 am and set up a date for lunch.

What a fucking endless stress alcoholism is. The pain and the selfishness, the delusion and the weakness, the grotesque physical results and the contemptible emotional state all serve to bind people irrevocably to you with coils of steel, while making them dread the very thought of you.

And if you're the alcoholic child of a lush you get the old double whammy, because Boy, do you want a drink!

***

Yesterday I printed and created a file for the 'plot' information--I also went to good old Butler Library to read the file through, get some ideas on where to start, and look up books. . .for weeks, months, I've been trying to look up Writing Manuals that discuss plot. I type into the subject heading, "Plotting Novels", and receive information about Plotinus. Hmm. Yesterday I cracked the code, found that the phrase to use is "Fiction--technique". From there the computer led me to 9 pages of relevant books and to the potential Momma-Load of valuable information--a book on plotting suspense fiction written by Patricia Highsmith herself!! Oh, let the feet of the NYPL be fleet in getting it to me!!

Day 54, Be Brave Project; Three Act Structure, Final

The Third Act.

The main tension of the screenplay has been brought to a head at the end of the second act--the Statement of Transformation make sit clear that tension is building. How will the changed main character resolve the situation? Or is the change just temporary? The end of the second act asks the question, "What happens Now?" The third act provides the answer.

• the conflict is resolved


• the central question is answered


• the sub-plots are tied up


• characters are settled in new circumstances

Here are the two pivotal points for a Third Act Structure:

Climax. External events and/or the actions of the main character have pushed the situation to its most extreme state. The Statement of Transition promises a change in how the Main Character deals with it: This is where that SOT is put to the test and mus be demonstrated through external action. The climax offers the final opportunity for the character to succeed--or fail--in their mission.

Resolution. The problem has been dealt with and a new order has been established. We are given a sense of how the main character's life has been changed as a result of this experience.

Probably the most obvious examples of a Third Act climax and resolution are in traditional mystery novels. In books like those of Agatha Christie, the Statement of Transition is a sudden realization of the detective--s/he has been looking at things entirely wrong; once the kaleidoscope is shaken, the missing piece fits into place and the truth emerges.

This leads to the final (usually very brief) third act, when the characters are gathered in the study. The detective tells their story in a leisurely and vague manner, only coming to the point--the Climax--when telling of how they figured out the truth and then by naming the murderer. The Resolution is the brief series of scenes afterwards, telling of the restoration of order (or of the new world order) within the community after the removal of the murderer. Secondary characters are glimpsed in their new lives, love affairs are resolved.

Today I will

create a folder for organizing this plot work.

print up website information I've found on plot.

begin with chart/graph for plot.

eat something for breakfast, just because it's silly not to.

Be Brave Project, Day 53; Three Act Structure, Cont'd

Three Act Structure, Cont'd: Act II

1. Midpoint, discussed yesterday. An action is taken which increases the jeopardy or which makes it harder to turn back OR the midpoint takes the form of a reversal, making things significantly worse or forces main character to more desperate action. Not every story has a midpoint, but it is a useful way of focusing the second act, and pushing the main character towards. . .


2. End of the Second Act/Second Turning Point. The main character is pushed to her limits. Things have gotten as bad as they could possibly get short of death--OR the mc has lost the thing they value most--OR the journey they undertook at the beginning of Act Two has completely runaground. In On the Waterfront, Terry's brother is killed and Terry knows he is next. In "Tootsie" Michael will not find happiness as Dorothy and must re-assume his male identity to find fulfillment. With his/her back up to the wall, the main character makes a statement of transformation. A new course of action takes shape. With everything else having failed, the main character now sees what must be done in. . .

THE THIRD ACT (tomorrow)

I always have a problem getting my mind around the end of the second act, and find it easier to think of it as the second-act turning point. It seemed to me that it was a sort of shifting of gear that would inevitably lead towards the slide into the third act, as in "A person isn't getting the results they want, so they change-this change forces the situation so that they either get what they want or they finally irrevocably find it's impossible. Quick slide into home."

But when I was working on the screenplay adaptation it was clear that it wasn't that simple or that reductive: At the end of the second act you have at 30 pages to go (that's 30 minutes in a film, or 60 pages in a book). If it's all a long slide towards home, that'll be a little boring. I realized that for me, what is most important about the End of the Second Act is the statement of transformation. In that screenplay the SOT was when a former drunken frivolous London party girl states her intent to stay in the Irish countryside--this statement indicates an enormous change in character and focus--and results in 2 deaths by the end of the third act.

So with the Augusta novel, she will be in London, she will have been chasing after her 'dead' ex-husband. . .and she will discover--what? List of things it could be:

• that he's married


• that he has a twin and she's been chasing the twin


• that he put out a hit on her


• that he loves her


• that he left a note behind--and someone else destroyed it


• that he took money to go away


• that he was ill when he left--thought he was dying--and believed she couldn't take it, so just took off. When he lived he didn't know how to go back to her.

And how will it change her??

The most important change that happens to her during the book is that she will stop drinking. At the beginning she is a daily black-out drinker, but something happens in London that will force her to stop. She will have a bad 3 days or so. Will this stopping drinking happen this late in the book, at the end of the second act?? Or will it happen earlier, and the end of the second act will result in A. going to buy a big ass bottle of vodka. . .reverting to drunken type but afterwards emerging stronger, with her mind made up.

I am going to print this out and think about it. . .

The Be Brave Project, Day 52; Three Act Structure, Act II

So we've covered Act I:

1. The Set-Up


2. The Inciting Incident


3. The First-Act Turning Point

Though I think what I wrote about the (very important) end of the First Act is somewhat lame: First, I used the phrase "internal decision", one of the silliest tautologies I've ever heard of. Secondly, I over-complicated it all while neglecting to make my point--it is election season and perhaps that's catching.

Anyway--First Act Turning Point is the first major turning point in the story, the event towards which the first act has been headed. Turns the story around in an unexpected direction and contains an element of surprise. Pushes the main character deeper into the problem. Here's what I didn't say: In response to the first act turning point the main character makes a decision and embarks on a new course of action. We now know what the heart of the movie's about--i.e. what the second act is about.

Examples: In Tootsie, will Michael Dorsay find success and happiness by becoming Dorothy? In House of Games will Margaret Ford find the adventure she craves by returning to "The House of Games"? Will Thelma and Louise make it to Mexico before the cops find them?

Act II

1. Midpoint. The middle of the second act is often a place where a pivotal moment occurs. Sometimes the main character takes an action which increases their jeopardy and makes it that much harder for them to turn back. (In On The Waterfront, this is when Terry punches out the gangster who's heckling the priest; in Tootsie it's when Michael/Dorothy becomes a national celebrity.) Up until this point the main character could conceivably go back to being the person they were at the beginning of the story. After the mid-point, the character crosses over the 50% mark. In other stories, the Midpoint takes the form of a reversal--a major setback that makes thing significantly more difficult for the main character. In Thelma and Louise, Thelma's negligence allows all of Louise's money to be stolen. In Hamlet, Hamlet tries to kill Claudius but kills Polonius instead. Not every script has a midpoint, but it is a useful way to focus a second act.


2. (Tomorrow. . .The Second Turning Point)

Okay. So the First Act Turning Point is needs to be something that would shake Augusta up, take her out of her comfort zone. I want her to go to London, so she is obviously going in search of something.

Her ex-husband.

What would make her go after him, after a considerable passage of time?

• Hearing something new about him, something that reverses her previous expectations. She always thought he had. . .died? And now it turns out he'd taken money to pretend he had? Or that he'd been bribed by a family member? Or that he was actually someone 'important' (inherited importance), and a lord or something? (That does sound like a 30's movie plot, but not a noir.)


• What would then occur or she then discover in London that would make it harder for her to turn back, and impossible that she become the person she was at the beginning of the story?

So I'm still on the end of Act I questions, but I think it's important to get these answered before moving on to the Act II questions. This plotting is a major part of the BBP--this novel is--and I need to get the pieces together before writing.

My goals for the Be Brave Project for this Winter, now to New Years are to:

1. Complete a first draft of this book.


2. Go see the doctor already.

Both scary in different ways.

Day 51, Be Brave Project; Classical Cont'd

I just applied for the deferment of my student loan. . .I am picturing thousands of people around the country doing the same just now; men unaccustomed to not being in suits at this time of day, women who've anxiously been clinging to their jobs for the sake of the benefits and who now have to pay for the 'benefits' themselves, despite the lack of salary--because being born a citizen isn't enough to get your child medical care in this country.

It's going to be a bumpy change, this. This adjustment from the lop-sidedness of the world of late, with the US as the only 'super-power' getting fatter, more indifferent and arrogant at every turn. We are going to have to share the power, and it'll probably end up being one of the best things that have happened to us in a long while. China and Europe will have to step up--China with great (and worrying?) willingness, Europe with slightly less willingness--it was nice to have America to bail out the world, and to blame when we didn't do so. But no longer. They are now the United States of Europe, running their empire on a far, far more evolved scheme than we are. And we Americans can get a little thin and nervous, perhaps stop fearing education as we learn that education teaches us what not to fear.

Anyway, it's a bumpy ride right now and reminds me of the old Chinese curse: May You Live in Interesting Times. BUT back to our scheduled programming, more because I need to get my mind around this than because anyone out there gives a rat's ass--------

An Introduction to Three-Act Structure, Cont'd!

Yesterday we left our heroine at the cliff's edge of Act 1, point 2: The Inciting Incident. Now we get to . . .

3. The First Act Turning Point. The first major turning point in the story, this event is where the entire first act has been headed. It usually turns the story around in an unexpected direction and contains an element of surprise. The main character is pushed deeper into the problem, and there are new complications which make the problem more difficult and more pressing. This leads to (or is) a moment of internal decision on the part of the main character from which they take their first step that will lead them towards the story's resolution. The conflict has been set up and something must be done about it causing the main character to choose a course of action that DRIVES the narrative of the story into the second act. At this point the MAIN TENSION of the story (see Tools of Screenwriting) can usually be recognized.

Hmm. Hm. I need to see about getting that TOS book. I also need to think about what A's move would be after seeing her ex--let's call him Martin--at the club. What would she do? She's a drunk--so she would really, really tie one on. And wake up the next day to find. . .what? What might she have done?

Could she find herself having passed out on the sofa of M's only friend? She could have drunkenly gone to find the guy, thinking M. might be there. He wasn't. A. had shown up with some tough pretty boy on her arm, and Martin's friend, (who could be a good character?) got rid of him. . .A opens her eyes. She's on the sofa.

What has she learned? What can he tell her? How do we get her out of the US and to London to track down M? (Is there any reason for her to go to London apart from the reason that I want to write about it? Not that that's not reason enough--cheaper than airfare. But must come up with a reason.)

OKAY. So the First Act Turning Point occurs at the End of the First Act, when the main character not only recognizes that the status quo is fucked up, but decides to do something about it. In this case, she goes to search for Martin, who she thought was dead. Turns out he's been living in London. . .

So had it been he that she saw at the club?

And how does this best friend fit in?

Be Brave Project, Day 50; Novel/Classical Story Structure, ACT I

A few years ago, when I was drinking and talking about writing but getting absolutely nothing done, a friend who now teaches at Columbia sent me a short, anonymous document entitled An Introduction to Three-Act Structure. In my many moves I managed to hold on to this document, and did so without really being conscious of it. It was just 4 sheets of paper I'd tuck in somewhere as I moved from NYC to Chicago to London (1, 2, 3 apartments there), back to NYC.

After I'd dried out I pulled this much-folded and stained document out again, re-wrote it, and used it as the guideline to structure a screenplay adaptation I actually--I haven't been able to get the rights for the novel, but I did complete the adaptation and it's damn good.

Now I want to use it to finally get this book started. It's time. I have some money to tide me over for a few months before I have to get a job. I have an agent who's said that she'd love to look at a novel of mine. I have an idea--an old one that's never left my system.

And I have the Be Brave Project, my redemption and my curse!--forcing me to get my finger out and face this big task once and for all. This document refers to screenplay length projects, but I think I'll just double it all and take it from there. So when it says an opening act should be around 30 pages, I view that as 60. That will ultimately create a 240 page-length novel. I'm not going to italicize it because, frankly, I always find that annoying to read.

So here, with apologies to whoever wrote it, are the opening words of

An Introduction to Three-Act Structure:

"Classical story form, handed down to us from the ancient Greeks, is based on a three-act structure. In the most general terms, the three 'acts' are what ensure that the story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Within each act, there are functional points which, when fulfilled, will help give the story an effective progression from beginning to end. When a writer departs from a classical story form, it should be done in a purposeful manner that serves the dramatic effect of the story.

Three Act Structure: The average screenplay is 95 to 120 pages long, based on a measurement of one page per minute of screen time, and contains approximately 60-75 scenes. There are three 'acts' which guarantee that the story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. In very general terms, the first act is measured at approximately 30 pages and 15 scenes, the second act is approximately 60 pages and 30 scenes, and the third act is approximately 30 pages and 15 scenes. These measurements should be taken as guidelines as opposed to rules and should be modified to serve the story. The most common variations are that the first act may be longer when a large amount of complex information needs to be established, and the third act may be shorter when little needs to be done to resolve the story.

The First Act

The first act introduces the main character, sets up the basic situation, the time and place, sets the tone and style of the film, introduces the "world of the story" and establishes the main conflict, central question, or the main character's goal or objective.

1. The Set Up. The 'once upon a time' part of the screenplay. Introduces the main character and the current situation in the character's life. Shows us what 'normal' is for this main character--and perhaps what is lacking in this character's life. Gives us a sense of the 'world of the story' and introduces other important characters. Sets up the status quo which will be disturbed by. . .


2. The Inciting Incident. (This is also sometimes called the Point of Attack, Catalyst, Hook.) Approximately 8-10 pages in but sometimes earlier or sometimes, but less frequently, as late as page 25. SOMETHING HAPPENS. An external event upsets the balance of forces in the main character's life. From this moment on, the story begins to take shape. We don't yet know how the main character will deal with the inciting incident. (Will Sheriff Brody be able to fight the shark in Jaws? Will Macbeth ignore what the witches have told him? Will Terry Malloy in On The Waterfront, be able to live with the guilt of setting up his friend Joey?) We do know that they will have to take SOME action in response to what has happened, and we are interested in finding out the outcome. The inciting incident gives a sense of what kind of story this will be--and what is at stake."

So, If I may break away for a moment--and dammit I shall!!-- this has us to the point I discussed yesterday, where Augusta is in her club, doing her depressing work in a dead-end job she's rapidly getting too old for, when she sees her husband in the crowd below her cage--she shouts for him--but when he sees her, he quickly pushes through the crowd and disappears.

That is the Inciting Incident, and I picture it as a sort of ledge that you push the main character toward and toward and toward until she and all her baggage go tumbling over--the fall into the new status quo is the plot of the novel. Begin with one status quo and move to another. . .

Tomorrow I'll finish with Act One.

Today I need to do boring but necessary things like buy ink for my printer so I can actually print out some of the plot-structure documents I have found on the web. Also need to go to the gym, to AA, to go to the library to write some notes on how Act one will play out.

Tomorrow I need to call the student loan people about deferring payments--I have a feeling there are a lot of people doing that right now, and that this might prove to be difficult. Ish.

Day 47, The Be Brave Project; All the King's Horses, Plus Movement on the Novel Front

Howzat for an original title? Cos' things are falling apart here in North America, you see, and now in Europe. Failed European conference over the weekend resulted in Monday's blood bath at the NYSE, and yesterday was worse. I read last night that Iceland's money is worth 40% of what it had been the week before.

The Wall Street Journal has cut their on-line staff, the New York Times has 86'd its "Metro" section due to costs, Los Angeles Times cut their staff by 75 people, and papers are discussing the "long slow bleed of journalists out of NY's capital" after the New York Sun folded last week.

I only got this home because the guy living here was relocated back to California, due to his office being shut down. . .let's hope I can continue to earn enough to live here. It is very very cheap for NYC, but if there's no work there's no rent.

In short, this might be the perfect time to stay home and work on a book. Looks like plenty of others will be doing the same.

At least I know how to wait tables. Just hope there are some customers.

Anyway: 2 months' worth of money is what I have, so I'd better get cracking on the book.

What do you want the book to be?

Novel, first person narrative by a woman. Film noir voice, hard-boiled. . .dark atmosphere, comic undertones, lively description, a sense of what it feels like to live nowadays but always poured through that noir filter.

Length: 250 pages. The least I can get away with.

Plot, as far as I know: Augusta Gunn, aged 35. Ageing cage dancer recently moved over into management but still working the floor sometimes. She lives in a family owned apartment in _________. Every day she wakes out of a blackout, puts on a filmy old robe and negligee, fixes a cuppa joe and obsessively watches old films on tv. . .every day she does every thing she can to not think about her past. The man she loved and (this is where a lot of research needs to be done), the child she thinks she lost/killed.

Or perhaps she should think she killed the man??? Probably should go with that.

Anyway, one night she's at work, out on the floor, swinging in a cage in the strobe light that makes her still look young, that highlights her body parts like packaged meat; a flash of thigh, a dead white expanse of arm--and then she thinks she sees him.
Her ex husband.

She stands above him, shouting for his attention, but he keeps looking around. She screams, her face Toulouse Lautrec-ed in the garish light, over the throbbing tech beat--for some reason he turns and looks upward--he sees her. And then turns and pushes his way out of the club.

So that would be the first 1/3 of the first act, pretty much--the status quo and what happens to change that status quo.

And if Augusta did think she killed him (maybe the child thing is just too dark, though it is extremely similar to what happens in Women's films of the 1930's when kids were offed for sentiment and plot development all the time, and also to make depression-era mothers feel better about their secret resentment of their children's stranglehold on their lives)--she's going to start investigating what really happened.

Which means that she'd recreate that last night they were together in her memory. She'd start asking people who were around that evening questions. She'd really focus on whoever told her the guy was dead, and what evidence they'd come up with that convinced her it was true.

She would have required evidence: She is hard boiled but extremely sentimental beneath. Who provided the evidence? And why? Booze has made her selfish and lazy, but it has also increased the sentiment--there will be times when she gets choked up over the littlest things. Think of John Self in Money.

OK. That's good work for today! Tomorrow I will try to move forward.

-Create a document that is the plot synopsis.

-Use structure model you used for screenplay adaptation.

• think of screenplay length, but 2x as long.
• screenplay structure works with this, as cinema (and "partiality of perception" is woven into this book.
• take screenplay structure work to library today and work on it.
• draw up map for structure.

Be Brave Project, Day 46; The Big One

I've written about this before--I dance around the subject sometimes, before retreating from the floor to go have an ice with the ladies--but there are two big things I need to complete before the BBP, in its original format, is complete.

1. Now I actually have health insurance, I need to go see a doctor. To establish that relationship and to stop being so paranoid about my health.

2. Oh. . .well. You know. It's The Bloody Book.

I have so much anxiety wrapped around this book that it seems almost insurmountable. Then I look around my apartment and I think: How Long Will This Last? Beautiful apartment, gorgeous view of the UWS skyline (picture above, taken at 6 this morning) heading north, just enough money scraped together so I have the time to write. . .

And yet I am very very frightened.

What if I can't do it? What if the whole thing turns out to be a bundle of crap; plotless, soulless, meaningless drivel? Well. . .

If I follow that line of reasoning, then I will have proven that I cannot do it. I will have actually proven that, at this time, I cannot do that well. In which case I can stop beating myself up for NOT doing it--I mean, I don't constantly berate myself for not completing a forward pass. Or for not having proven that the papilloma virus can be halted by a vaccine. Some things you're not meant to do, to the extent that it would be absurdly illogical to waste time in one short life trying.

If I pass up this chance, however, I will simply have given myself another reason to be angry at and disappointed in myself. I have NYC's dream apartment. I have a computer and a cat to sit by its side. I have characters and a tone, a voice that I think I can pull off. I need a PLOT. No more writing into the void for me.

And, I know an agent who has said she'd look at the book.

In the London Times yesterday I read an interview with Elmore Leonard and his son, Peter. Peter has just, at age 56, come out with his first book. They talked about character and plot ( E.L. claims he doesn't worry about it, it just comes to him), but more about the simple efficacy of hard work. The son seems to have a tough road to hew, with his father being one of the most successful writers on the planet in terms of profit. But it made me want to look at one of E.L.'s books, just to see what path it followed. . .the Times said that none less than Martin Amis is a huge fan of Leonard's work, the adjective-free purity of his writing.

Ok. I will go have a look. And I need to get cracking on a schedule.

Today I am getting my first haircut since February: Since discovering the very real difference between a good haircut and a cheap one, I've been getting no haircuts at all. Just going at my bangs with scissors--which actually has been remarkably successful. But now I've got that IRS refund, so it's time to go through with a proper haircut at the TwoDo Salon on W. 82nd Street.

Cannot believe I'll be paying $100 on a haircut.

I also will go to the gym and the library, to pick up some EL books. And also returning to my search for plot, plot, plot. . .

And call my doctor.

BBP yesterday: Did speak to financial guy at Smith Barney, but since the European makets were flipping out, he was a bit distracted. However, am glad I am 85% out of the stock-market right now: Can't take the suspense.

Be Brave Project, Day 47; L'Argent L'argent, Toujours L'Argent

One of the first--if not the first--films I ever saw outside of the home was the 1939 MGM Production of The Women (I've written a blog entry on the utterly inadequate re-make). The film was screening at the Children's Museum of Chicago, for some reason, and was showing in a cordoned off area on the South Side of a large ramshackle room. The other activities varied in quality: some were rather inferior and involved paint and string and metal bit o' crap that you'd glue to paper. Others were quite good and produced a very large neon green ashtray that hung around the house for decades.

You could get your picture taken in a Model T Ford, which was the highlight of the event, though sadly it would soon be over-shadowed when my father took us to an Auto show where they had an old car from The Godfather that was riddled with bullet holes.
The excitement of it!!

Ah, Chicago.

But to return to The Women, after I'd finished making my 13 pound green ashtray and had my picture taken in the Model T, I'd wanted a little peace and quiet from the hurly-burly of my fellow children. . .so I stepped behind the curtain, where a bunch of mothers and au pairs were quietly hiding from the same children, and I watched the film.

From the first I thought it was excellent because all of the characters were introduced by first showing which animal they resembled: Joan Fontaine--who I never did like and was her usual cud chewing self in this film--was represented by a deer. Roz Russell by a spitting cat, Joan Crawford by. .. I can't quite remember. A snake perhaps? If one can imagine a big eyed snake in a bias-cut dress and a frizzy perm, that was J.C. in the film.

But my favorite character of all was the Countess, who appears half-way through the film on a train to Reno. The Countess is older, puffy-eyed, with gem-encrusted rings jammed onto her sausage fingers--but she had a girlish belief in Love (and in the healing benefits of Champagne). As she sipped from her flute and told Norma Shearer about her latest gold-digging young husband she'd intone, "Ah, l'amour l'amour, toujours l'amour!"

Sadly, I have no gem-encrusted rings or girlish belief in the power of love, but I do have all sorts of financial messes to sort out--my taxes, as I wrote recently, seem to be very happily sorted out. I am awaiting a reply on a credit card application. I used some of my tax money to pay off another credit card bill in full. I also set aside one month's rent in a money market account for "Oh My God" money. But student loans are due again, starting on the 11th. And I have an appointment with a financial advisor this morning.

No idea what to say to the guy, apart from pointing out that I'd prefer to have more money rather than less. And that I'm not going to make any decisions today, which I think will hardly break his heart. If I'd only had a little more confidence around money I too could have bought myself a McMansion when mortgages were being given out to ham sandwiches.

One think I don't get about this credit crunch: Why is Citibank putting so much pressure on people to apply for credit cards? I understand they make a lot of money on them, boy do I understand that--but every phonecall to Citibank nowadays ends with their people doing a hard push on one of their cards. I don't like it. I am picturing the Citibank bankers as un-humbled, watzing top-hatted around town like Eddie Arnold in the picture above.

And I don't know what to say to financial advisor guy. I suppose listening is the best option, and then taking it from there. . .

I wonder if that's how the Countess chose her husbands. Uh oh.

By the way, here is a link to a lovely elder lady's blog--she's going to be the smash hit of the internet: Margaret and Helen

Be Brave Project, Day 46; Fruits of Being Brave.

I think one of the first things I did as my opening act in the Be Brave Project was to go to the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles on 34th Street.

Brave indeed.

The entire outing was pretty much a humiliating fiasco in the way that urban endeavors even in the most glamorous cities can be: When I was living in say, Chicago, trips to the DMV always ended in success. . .but even if they hadn't I'd still be driving home in the splendid isolation of my car, an over sized diet soda wedged between my knees, bellowing the words to Hall and Oates' Private Eyes to the radio as I cruised along the expressway.

But in NYC I was ignored and mocked, put back out on the street, and had to jostle down 34th Street towards the 1 train. No soundtrack. And when I say 'jostle', I mean 'get shoved around'. When you're 5 foot 3 and weigh a whisker over 100 pounds, people aren't big on getting out of your way--you get a lot of handbags in the upper arm and elbows to your shoulders. This explains the popularity of the tortuous devices known as stiletto heels: They make your feet ache, but they can really do some damage to someone's ankle. Accidentally, of course.

Of course.
The size-ist bastards.

So, that hot July day I did take the subway back to 116th Street, the Columbia University stop. I hadn't done my very basic task for the day--head to the DMV, get license renewed. A chimp could have done it, provided she had her Social Security number and reading material for the 3 hour wait in line. But I hadn't been successful. . .and it made me feel like crap. I was never going to be able to do this Brave Project, it was always going to be more of the same: Me running from the mess I made of my life when I was boozing it up. And I was drinking so much partially to check out, another way of running away.

But that day I sat down on a low bench, and got out my folder. I found a phone number and I called it--I called an accountant and explained my tax situation (hadn't paid in years, was hugely terrified of what would happen, was a lush in recovery, etc. . .). By the end of the conversation I felt better than I'd felt in years. In years. I had a plan--get my financial info. for 2007 organized, send it to the Dream Accountant, keep doing same for earlier years until done.

Skip forward a few months to an entirely different situation: I walked into my new building, with its clickety-clickety bank floors and concierge at the desk, and pulled mail from my mailbox. There was an envelope from the IRS.

But nowadays, or for the last 3 months, there's always been an envelope from the IRS, and they all say the same thing: You Owe Money. They say it nicely, which truly was a relief since I sort of though the IRS would be the epistolary equivalent of a drill sergeant ("You useless piece of shit--drop and give me 1400, dollars that is!"). But it is always the same.

Not yesterday. Yesterday the envelope was smaller and rather more cheaply made than they usually are. And it wasn't squishy, so there were no envelopes or lists of debts. Hm.

The elevator skimmed its way up the building, 8th floor, 10th floor, 12th floor.
I tore open the envelope, and I was floored.

It was a check for $1921.00.

I'd paid enough, it seems.

Be Brave Project, Day 45; Other Side of the Looking Glass, Part II

Vernal sat behind her high desk, reading a magazine and chewing on a muffin. I approached her desk and gave her what I fear was a watery smile--this was my last barrier between me and my illegal sublet. She responded by picking up a clipboard marked "Mail Delivery".

I cleared my throat.

With infinite slowness she turned her head to look at me, which I viewed as a cue to watery smile #2. "Uhm--I'm moving in, and I'm supposed to check in with you about it. The truck is at the back door."

"Yeah?"

"Gerard said I was supposed to check in with you."

"Yeah?"

"The truck is waiting outside." I was beginning to realize I had to put some attitude into this relationship.

"Yeah?"

"Actually, YEAH." We glared at each other for about 30 seconds, before she slowly reached out a beautifully manicured hand and picked up a walkie-talkie. (A walkie-talkie?? They still make them?) Keeping her eyes on me the entire time, she called the garage and told them to open the doors, that there was a truck out back. When she put the w-t down, I leaned forward and held out my hand. "My name's Elusive D." I said. Reluctantly she shook my hand, and then her attitude improved slightly.

It wasn't friendliness, it was the $20 I'd just slipped her. Should have started with that. I'd realized I was going to be raining $20 on people that day, and Vernal was the place to start. Also donated to the garage door guy (who had a face like an eager teddy bear).

20 minutes later I was in my apartment, and the furniture was coming up. . .slowly. Slowly the boxes came in, and I was directing the traffic. My sofa had been wrapped in saran wrap, and appeared without a scuff on it--same with my Grandmother's chairs. Nothing was broken, nothing was dented, nothing was lost. Once again I will recommend New York Magazine's choice for Best of Movers--they were absolutely stellar. And that ride in their Pope-Mobile was fantastic.

By 5:00 I was alone in my apartment--in 3 hours they'd moved everything, and set up the furniture, put the tv on its stand (which I could have done, but it wouldn't have been smart or pretty). They'd put all of my pictures in a box for transport, wrapped the furniture, set up my futon, and done it all in an hour less than their estimate. They did charge me $30 for the wrapping up of tv, pictures etc. . .but that's all right. All in all, the move cost me a whisker beneath $300. Pretty flipping fabulous, I think.

And outside my window the lights of Manhattan were gleaming, I could see Columbus Avenue below--cyclists speeding along, taxis gliding, pedestrians beginning to feel the chill of a late September night. I can see tennis courts and roof-top gardens, brownstones and walk-ups, and long thin trees stretching towards the light, waving in the wind.

And I was home.

Long may it last, please God.

Long may this odd and wonderful gift last!

Be Brave Project, Day 44; Other Side of the Looking Glass

Here I sit, surrounded by those same boxes. . .but I'm at the new apartment. My father's old station master's chair is here--and my beloved graduate-school desk that's elegantly constructed of 2 filing cabinets and 2 birch planks. Same modem, same old chatchka hold-all from Pottery Barn.

But over my right shoulder is a stunning view of the Upper West Side of Manhattan, buildings and water-towers, trees and pale streaked sky.

Downstairs the furniture is mostly set up, the kitchen organized, soap on a silver dish in the half-bath (I have 1.5 bathrooms!!)

Monday morning I woke up with 6 hours until the movers arrived--had a leisurely cuppa tea and told myself to relax for an hour, enjoy my last bit of time in the old place, in the dear old neighborhood. . .but some feminine instinct kicked in, and next thing I knew I was hauling the remaining clothes into suitcases, taping drawers shut, shoving a printer into a box, and keeping an eye on the increasingly uneasy Gigi Colette (who knew I was up to no good whatsoever.

Three hours later I was in a froth of activity still--madly taping things shut, putting numbers on boxes and noting the numbers and the boxes' contents in a red notebook--My Moving Bible. Caught a glimpse in the mirror; I had the mad eyes of a prophet and the hair-do of an 80's video star, was covered in a thin glaze of dust and sweat, and hadn't eaten in 20 hours. Staggered to the Appletree for an egg sandwich (the lunch crowds parted before me like the Red Sea and I realized that disgustingness can be an under-rated quality; I was served immediately).

Got home, brushed teeth and was gazing disconsolately at my suitcases wondering where the hell I'd put my underwear and t-shirts, when there was a knock on the door. Threw on some granny pants and an itchy woolen sweater the color of dead hair--and opened the door.

It was a small white haired man with absolutely beautiful olive skin and small almond eyes. He held out his hand, and it was small with the long sensitive fingers of a pianist.

This was Igor, the Mover.

80 minutes early.

Igor the mover was accompanied by two wiry, dark, and attractive young men who immediately began picking up boxes. "They're numbered!" I cried, "So I know what order to go in at at the other place!" The guys nodded, grabbed boxes number 7 and 23, and headed to the truck parked outside. Igor had pastel colored papers for me to sign, all tissue thin with much writing in very small letters, and I was hunched over reading when my friend Kendall arrived.

She was 30 minutes late, and we were supposed to have had an hour and a half to get the cat to the new apartment and all set up with litter and food. . .but K. stopped to check out a new cell phone deal on the way. At this moment Gigi Colette streaked out from under the futon in a mad dash for the door. Kendall moved fast-- got the cat by the front paw in a magnificent lunge.

So now I had to leave the movers with every possession I own, and head to the new place with the cat in a box (not a new fast food), and Kendall. K. kept talking about the pilot she works with--she's a chef for a millionaire and flies all over the world providing him with omelettes and profiteroles--while I pictured the movers ripping madly through my possessions searching fruitlessly for anything of value.

The car trip was a mile and a half, thirty city blocks, but it seemed interminable.

When I returned to 122nd Street, the movers were pretty much done--there were a few boxes left, and I checked the Moving Bible to make sure numbers 1-27 were accounted for. Suddenly the apartment was empty, completely empty except for a small bookcase I'd pulled off the curb, and a poster from a Film Distribution Company that I'd worked for which I decided I no longer liked.

And suddenly, my moving bible was missing.

I checked my handbag and the truck, I checked the top of the fridge and the bathroom--was so distraught by this disappearance, which left me feeling like an explorer without a compass, that I forgot to say goodbye to my old apartment. . .just got in the truck with the movers, and headed south.

The moving truck ride was just fantastic though, once I forgot my anxiety and loss of the Bible. The front of it was entirely glass, so it was like riding high through the city in some magnificent Pope-Mobile, if the Pope travelled in very, very close proximity with delicate yet wiry Russians.

And it was when we arrived here at the new building that I had to do my Being Brave thing: Face the Woman at the Concierge Desk.

Her name is Vernal, and she has hair dyed in an aggressive eggplant color. Her lower lip is very large and slack, and she likes to ignore you when you stand in front of her. And, I worried, she had the power to keep me out of the building, out of my (illegal) sublet--and I'd have to wander the streets forever, until the Russians kicked me and my stuff out of the Popemobile.

I threw open the front door of the building, and tried to hide my nervousness as I walked up to Vernal's seat of Power. . .

(cont'd tomorrow.)