A Screenplay Rhythm
Beside Corey Smith there was a glass of gin. There were two ice cubes in it, as there always were when Corey made himself a drink. It was a tall glass, with fresh squeezed lemon and topped with club soda.
The table was hard concrete. It had been purchased when Corey was working for the local radio station and had done a fundraising event for a local Community that was adding outdoor furniture to its new parks. They offered Corey the chance to go in on a discount. He took it.
Corey liked the solid nature of the stone. It was polished, hard, off white concrete. It had probably been poured in a mold, but Corey did not pretend to need furniture that came from craftsmen who died out prior to the fifteenth century.
Corey was a simple man. He liked people, but he did not go out of his way to seek them. He loved to talk, but could be silent as well. There were contradictions.
Twenty years ago, Corey had started writing a novel. The idea had come as part of a summer course at the Community College. The English teacher, a cute blonde only three or four years older than Corey, had said during the final days, “everyone has a novel in them”. Inspired to try, Corey had started down the road.
“Why didn't you stop”, she asked, looking up from across the table.
“I didn't know that I could.” There was more truth to what Corey said than the simple words expressed. Like anyone who has failed over and over, Corey had attached more and more meaning to the effort, even while the work itself started to become farther from what he had in mind. Each time that he sat down and tried to write, Corey became frustrated by the complexity of plot and structure and characterization and movement and, just getting real. “It had become something other than journalism.”
“That shows”, she glanced down at the manuscript on the table. It was double spaced, well typed, and ran 195 pages. It was not to thick, and not too thin. It had in the neighborhood of 90,000 words in it, which were more than the publishing guidelines had suggested. Had Corey been worried about the publisher's view, he would not have changed anything anyway.
At first Corey had written many starts. They never made it past twenty pages. He had read books about writing, he had read books about characterization, he had read books about scene and structure. When he was put to sleep by one book about description, he decided he had read enough books about writing.
A few friends had grown so tired of Corey's talk about writing a book, they asked him why he didn't just write a screen play instead. “Well I have tried that” Corey replied, “and in fact that's how I wound up in radio”. He let the story die there. It was usually enough. People aren't that interested.
Corey sipped from the glass of Gin. He wanted her to comment. She must have liked it because she had picked it up again and had been fumbling through the pages as she had said, 'that shows'. At least she wasn't looking at the sky or the neighbors. Now Corey was worried though. What if she had been searching for some inane comment. 'That shows' could qualify. She hadn't really said anything, not yet. “Are you still writing”, he asked.
“Oh yes”, she smiled. “I have fourteen novels published now.” This was something Corey had not realized about her. “Three were best sellers in paperback”, she paused, “and I have written five biographies, although those don't sell as well – they usually end up being given away by the publisher.” She stopped talking, as if to let the air settle.
Corey had seen her at the opening of a new mall. He was there for the commercial cut in from the station. He would say, “I'm here at the new mall today, and let me tell you, you just have to come on down here and check this out. There are stores with just about everything you can imagine or need, and there are grand opening sales galore! I'll be down here giving away tickets to Wally's Water Village until two, so stop on by and pick a number out of the hat. Pretty little Kristen is holding the hat today, so let her do her thing. Three in five will qualify for the chance to win the drawing from the morning crew on Monday. We have some other prizes to give away too, so make sure you say hello ...”. And then they would cut back to the station.
Previously, Corey had not seen her since she taught at Community College. She hadn't changed a bit. He remembered her immediately. Twenty years isn't that long to a man approaching forty, and his visual recollection was immediate. She was the first teacher in College that he remembered being attracted to. It hadn't been easy listening to her talk about dull novels and prepositions and verbs and paragraphs. He'd just sit in class thinking about her. Dang she looked like a model. But he was too young to know about those things, and he had to pass the course, had to keep his grade point average above 3.0 if he was going to get into the engineering school that his Uncle had said would take him if he made it through the two years of what he called “prep school”.
“Have you stayed in the area”, Corey asked.
“On and off. I've been around. It takes time to do these books right. I've heard you on the radio, though.”
“You have?”
“Sometimes I remember when I hear you as I'm reading by the pool. I don't know why I thought it might be you, the same you from all those years ago.”
“I didn't think you'd remember me”.
“I'm a writer. I remember things.” She looked around the table, her eyes drifting off, looking into the background. Then she looked back at Corey. She said nothing, just holding the manuscript in one hand, picking up the ice water Corey had given her in the other. “I'm glad you gave this to me”, she finally ventured.
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