I have come across some interesting (and free) resources on learning more about the craft of screenwriting, and would like to share them with you here on a more regular basis. Today's gem is from Steve Barnes who shared his 9-week writing class based on what he taught at UCLA, here http://www.lifewrite.com/html/class.htm .
Another blog from which the inspiring screen writer can learn a lot from can be found over at The Black List. The sites official blog called "Go Into The Story" offers advice, contests, snippets of great dialogue and much more. You can find these valuable postings here: http://gointothestory.blcklst.com/
If you have a screenwriting blog, know of a great one, or have news that are valuable to the world of screen writing and movie producing, drop me a line and I will feature them here on Screenwriting Sundays.
Happy Writing!
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Friday, September 27, 2013
No Longer Silent - A Friday Flash Short Story
No Longer Silent
Why are we scared of the Gingerbread house? Is it because the enticing smells, that shoot toward our nose, as we pass across the red brick road? Or is it the old woman, whom smiles so bright, that it lights up her wrinkled face from ear to ear? Are her stories, listened to among the large oak trees, really stories that frighten us? Or are we enthralled by her wisdom and power, that lies within her heart, grown from experience and knowledge shared, one generation at a time?
I spent much time by her side, sneaking away every chance, away from those frightened grown ups, whom forgot that magick does not exist to cause harm. The hours moved faster in her wake, my eyes trying to keep up with her swiftness that defied her age. Revealing another world to me, I listened, I learned, I became and grew. Stronger with each moment, her silent strength transformed and beamed into my maiden existence, enhancing it with a defying power, hard to hide from those whom I lived in their care.
Hours of hiding, waiting, moved toward hours of learning, then hiding again. The Craft growing in my heart, swelling inside of me, ready to burst. But I was warned into silence again and again, her eyes filled with caution as she spoke of the danger from those whom envied power, knowledge and beauty within a woman.
At first I listened, more wanting to honor her guidance then defying her, while in silence I defied them. Ah, how good it felt to know more, even in silence, when in their presence!
With time, it became harder and harder to bow my head to what I knew was wrong, and meant to keep women silent. I bit my tongue until it bleed upon the conversations of my father and his friend, fighting back tears other times, but still, I kept silent.
Until this day, this fateful day upon which the words tumbled out of my mouth. Injustice could no longer be bared, the heaviness of silence way beyond what I could carry - no more!
Not one moment more.
Now I stand here, witnessed by those whom pretended to care for my live, judged, about to burn at their hands. And with it all, in this moment, as fire slowly moves toward me, I am grateful to have learned with her, and to have lived and died to be a Witch.
© Claudia Blanton 2013
This story is my debut for the #fridayflash weekly writing challenge. You can find out more info about this collaboration and how to participate here: http://fridayflash.org/press/the-collector/
Have a wonderful weekend everyone!
Why are we scared of the Gingerbread house? Is it because the enticing smells, that shoot toward our nose, as we pass across the red brick road? Or is it the old woman, whom smiles so bright, that it lights up her wrinkled face from ear to ear? Are her stories, listened to among the large oak trees, really stories that frighten us? Or are we enthralled by her wisdom and power, that lies within her heart, grown from experience and knowledge shared, one generation at a time?
I spent much time by her side, sneaking away every chance, away from those frightened grown ups, whom forgot that magick does not exist to cause harm. The hours moved faster in her wake, my eyes trying to keep up with her swiftness that defied her age. Revealing another world to me, I listened, I learned, I became and grew. Stronger with each moment, her silent strength transformed and beamed into my maiden existence, enhancing it with a defying power, hard to hide from those whom I lived in their care.
Hours of hiding, waiting, moved toward hours of learning, then hiding again. The Craft growing in my heart, swelling inside of me, ready to burst. But I was warned into silence again and again, her eyes filled with caution as she spoke of the danger from those whom envied power, knowledge and beauty within a woman.
At first I listened, more wanting to honor her guidance then defying her, while in silence I defied them. Ah, how good it felt to know more, even in silence, when in their presence!
With time, it became harder and harder to bow my head to what I knew was wrong, and meant to keep women silent. I bit my tongue until it bleed upon the conversations of my father and his friend, fighting back tears other times, but still, I kept silent.
Until this day, this fateful day upon which the words tumbled out of my mouth. Injustice could no longer be bared, the heaviness of silence way beyond what I could carry - no more!
Not one moment more.
Now I stand here, witnessed by those whom pretended to care for my live, judged, about to burn at their hands. And with it all, in this moment, as fire slowly moves toward me, I am grateful to have learned with her, and to have lived and died to be a Witch.
© Claudia Blanton 2013
This story is my debut for the #fridayflash weekly writing challenge. You can find out more info about this collaboration and how to participate here: http://fridayflash.org/press/the-collector/
Have a wonderful weekend everyone!
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Logline Contest
I am always looking for opportunities to practice my craft. Contests are a great way to do so, which is the reason I entered in this weeks logline contest over at "Go Into The Story" by Scott Myers.
A quick reminder of what a logline is:
A logline is a quick description of a script that is meant to describe the story you are trying to pitch, while grabbing the attention of the person whom you are pitching to. The format is generally around 25 words or less.
If you want to check out the contest, you can find it here:
http://gointothestory.blcklst.com/2013/09/word-cloud-logline-challenge-3.html
Deadline is Friday, September 27th 2013 at midnight pacific time.
The following is the logline I submitted, which is the pitch for the novel I am currently working on.
"After five bizarre suicides occur at the exact same time, in his small South Cal town, the new police chief accepts assistance from an unlikely source with powers he does not yet understand."
Copyright Claudia H. Blanton
Have a wonderful day!
A quick reminder of what a logline is:
A logline is a quick description of a script that is meant to describe the story you are trying to pitch, while grabbing the attention of the person whom you are pitching to. The format is generally around 25 words or less.
If you want to check out the contest, you can find it here:
http://gointothestory.blcklst.com/2013/09/word-cloud-logline-challenge-3.html
Deadline is Friday, September 27th 2013 at midnight pacific time.
The following is the logline I submitted, which is the pitch for the novel I am currently working on.
"After five bizarre suicides occur at the exact same time, in his small South Cal town, the new police chief accepts assistance from an unlikely source with powers he does not yet understand."
Copyright Claudia H. Blanton
Have a wonderful day!
Sunday, September 22, 2013
The Son - A Flash Fiction
The Son
She knew Maggie would not have killed herself. She just knew.
Wiping the tears out of the corner of her eyes, she glanced at the infant sleeping in his crib. Innocence in a cute blue onesie. He was too young to grasp, that he had just lost his mother.
So far she had been able to comfort him, give him the heartbeat, the closeness any mother would give to her own son, but how long was she able to keep the loss from him? Would he completely forget her, never feel any connection to this lovely woman who’s life ended far to early? How would she explain to him, that his mother would have never leave him behind, not on purpose?
Pulling out a napkin from the nightstand she dried her eyes, and stepped away toward the pictures on the wall. Pictures of all three of them, happy. In others it was just Maggie and her son. Yet another, her with a big belly and a tub of ice cream.
She had been radiant, full of energy and so exited about life. There was no way she would have shot herself.
Angela sighed painfully, her chest heavy, her eyes burning from the tears of the last 24 hours. Turning toward the dark wood dresser, she began to pull the young child’s clothing, carefully one, by one, placing it in the open suitcase on the floor. It was time for change, to take him with her, to keep the boy as her own.
The cracking of the floor boards preceded a deep, cold, voice.
“Kyle, I am home! Daddy is home!”
Frozen in terror, Angela dropped the clothing onto the floor. Of course Maggie had not killed herself. The nightmare had returned, to claim his son.
© Claudia H. Blanton 2013
She knew Maggie would not have killed herself. She just knew.
Wiping the tears out of the corner of her eyes, she glanced at the infant sleeping in his crib. Innocence in a cute blue onesie. He was too young to grasp, that he had just lost his mother.
So far she had been able to comfort him, give him the heartbeat, the closeness any mother would give to her own son, but how long was she able to keep the loss from him? Would he completely forget her, never feel any connection to this lovely woman who’s life ended far to early? How would she explain to him, that his mother would have never leave him behind, not on purpose?
Pulling out a napkin from the nightstand she dried her eyes, and stepped away toward the pictures on the wall. Pictures of all three of them, happy. In others it was just Maggie and her son. Yet another, her with a big belly and a tub of ice cream.
She had been radiant, full of energy and so exited about life. There was no way she would have shot herself.
Angela sighed painfully, her chest heavy, her eyes burning from the tears of the last 24 hours. Turning toward the dark wood dresser, she began to pull the young child’s clothing, carefully one, by one, placing it in the open suitcase on the floor. It was time for change, to take him with her, to keep the boy as her own.
The cracking of the floor boards preceded a deep, cold, voice.
“Kyle, I am home! Daddy is home!”
Frozen in terror, Angela dropped the clothing onto the floor. Of course Maggie had not killed herself. The nightmare had returned, to claim his son.
© Claudia H. Blanton 2013
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