Rainbows Echo

Glory Days

Sorority Girls and the Creature from Hell
starring Seinfeld's Uncle Louie behind the mask (in undoubtedly leaner times)

Coming out of film school, I worked on a series of low-budget Indie films ranging from a full-length suspense movie shot on Super-8 to USC masters projects to honest-to-goodness low-budget 35mm genre films.

None of the films, as final products, were particularly memorable. But one, for the experience alone, has a soft spot in my heart.

I came into what was then called Blood Hungry --later renamed Sorority Girls and the Creature from Hell by its distributor--during a vitally necessary reshoot. It seemed the low-budget monster flick was both too short and offered far too little exposed nipple for its running time.

So, our charter, on this second shoot, was to inject suspense, violence and nudity.

In a twist of cruel fate, it turned out the female star of the film was indisposed (ran for the hills? entered the witness protection program?) at the time of the reshoot. So, what was an industrious director to do?

Well, I don't know what an industrious director would have done, but the one I was working with hired a second woman, a woman who was more amenable to topless acting (see her front and center on the poster above), and then he proceeded with the shoot like nothing had happened.


As a jack-of-all-trades on the set, I was called to (among other things) operate the boom mic, lay dolly track, set up lights, and, later, edit sound.

One day early in post-production, long after all the nudity had ended, the director handed me a Sharpie and approximately 22 million feet of 16mm mag stock (sound track for editing), asking that I write the footage count every foot with the pen.

Now, for the unitiated, film sound labs had machines to do this kind of work. And they did it for perhaps 5 cents a mile of stock (exagerating a tad in all directions here, but you get the idea).

When I told the director in no uncertain terms that I wasn't going to be writing numbers on mag stock for the next thirty years, he told me I'd never make it in the world of film post-production.

And in a sense, I guess he was right.



P.S. The film was famous for a day when it aired on USA's Up All Night, a nationally syndicated show in which commedienne Rhonda Shear lampooned the movies at the commercial breaks.

P.P.S. If you should foolishly get the idea that this film might be bad enough to be a sort of guilty pleasure, forget about it. Guilty, yes. Pleasure? No chance.

Another Interesting Word Processing Option

I've taken to using Google Docs & Spreadsheets for a large part of my writing lately, and I can say simply that it has a lot to recommend it.


What Works?

• It's free. So all you risk to give it a try is your time.
  
• It's web-based, meaning anywhere you go--assuming you've got a web connection--your word processor and your documents go with you.
• It has a nice built-in document versioning feature. At any time, you can revert to any save point. It also has a view that allows you to see the changes you've made between saves.
  
• It has nice collaboration tools. It's easy to allow others to view and/or edit your documents with you.
  
• It has very shallow learning curve. It's not the most feature-rich word processor in the world. But that's more virtue than vice when it comes to writing fiction. We don't need four-thousand formatting options, tables, a clip-art editor, snaking columns, and a slow-witted grammar checker. Instead, we need basic fonts, double-spacing, word count, and spell checking. Docs & Spreadsheets provides these features and more.
• It both reads and writes to a wide range of formats.

How do I get it?
All it takes to get hold of Docs & Spreadsheets is an active gmail account, which is another great free service from Google.

Words That Resonate

Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence.

Talent will not; nothing is more common that unsuccessful men with talent.

Genius will not; unrecorded genius is almost a proverb.

Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts.

Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.

Calvin Coolidge

I'll have more on the wisdom of my pal, Cal, in the next post...

How Hard Can It Be?

Last week, for the first time, I started working seriously on a piece of flash fiction (loosely defined as fiction under 1200 words, but I'm thinking well under 1000). I gave myself an hour-and-a-half to come up with a story that I liked.

I know, I know...how serious could I have been to think I could accomplish something in the time it takes some fiber-deprived people to relieve themselves? What can I say? Sometimes hubris gets the better of me.

The interesting point, though, is the fact that I did have something interesting in an hour-and-a-half. At least I thought so when I first read through it.

But that feeling lasted only three seconds beyond The End. In as little time as it took me to have a coherent thought, everything felt mushy and imprecise. So, back the story went for some surgery.

I carved out words. I reinforced thoughts. I shuffled sentenced and phrases.

Then I read it again and still found it wanting.

Five or six times I went through this edit-print-crumple cycle, marking my dissatisfaction with a red pen.

Finally, perhaps six hours beyond my initial budget, I got to a place that the story doesn't scream at me for further face-lifts. I can't say for sure whether it works yet, but it's better than it was, and, for now, it's as good as I can make it.

The point of this post, I guess, is to tip my metaphorical hat to the writers of good flash fiction. Yours is a consice, efficient, energetic discipline.

I hope I don't embarrass myself too badly with my early attempts to join you.


P.S. The title is--I hope obviously--tongue in cheek.

The Favorite Place I Know

I spent summers in my youth on this lake in New Hampshire. It was easily the most uncomplicatedly (to invent a word) joyous time in my life.

If you've seen On Golden Pond, you've experienced something very close to my story...reluctant suburban teenager spends time with seasoned adults, learning the joys of a simpler rural life.

When I'm terribly stressed as an adult, I often relive an afternoon spent on the lake--on a floating air-mattress, to be precise--intermittently napping with my hand wound round a buoy rope. It was breezy that day, and I can still feel the tiny waves lapping at the side of the mattress, can still hear the oak and birch leaves chattering.

I had no-where to go but that spot, nothing to do but enjoy the moment. And I knew, even at fourteen, that it was something special.

More Great Short-Form Writing

Find some more fine writing at flashquake, first brought to my attention by Renee (see below)

And Now, For Something Different

In an effort to spruce up the Writer's Hearth neighborhood, I've invited Renee Holland Davidson, a fellow writer who focuses on flash-fiction, to contribute to this blog on a semi-regular basis. I'm hoping her skills won't so obviously dwarf mine as to make me look puny by comparison.

I'll let her take it from here.

Hello, all. I'm Renee. On good days, I brazenly call myself a writer. On not-so-good days, I'm a wannabe, and when the rejections pile up, I'm a fraud, a poser, a has-been who never was.

You'll be seeing some of my stories, and maybe the occasional poem, pop up every now and then. Despite--or perhaps, due to--my schizophrenic self-assessments, I welcome any and all reader comments. Flattery is appreciated, honesty even more so.

Thanks to Trevor for graciously inviting me to share a bit of his cyber-space.

~Renee

The Scarf

by Renee Holland Davidson

I know I shouldn't have come here tonight. But I just couldn't resist her anymore. Every night she calls me, whispers that she loves me, says she needs me. She says it over and over again, pushing out the words in raspy breaths.

I still have her scarf, not ashamed to admit I'd kept it with me all this time. Even wore it around my neck at night, her scent of peaches and musk spicing my dreams. That last night we were together, she'd come running out of the house with that thing wrapped around her head like Doris Day in an old black and white flick. Jumped into the Mustang and flipped the top up before she even said hello. "Come on, Babe"--yeah, she'd called me "Babe"--"Come on, Babe, let's go for a ride."

That was three long months ago.

I stuffed the scarf in my pocket and headed for the lake. Rode with the top down even though the wind clawed at my ears like a hissing cat. Every once in a while, I caught the scent of wood burning in someone's fireplace, made me feel that much colder and alone. Started feeling sad and blue like one of those lonesome cowboys in a Hank Williams song.

I couldn't keep my eyes on the road; kept looking over to the empty passenger seat and thinking about her. Remembered about that last night, how she tore off her scarf to let the wind catch her hair. She shook her head, singing nonsense rhymes to the setting sun. Lord, she looked so beautiful. I couldn't help myself. I turned to her and told her that I loved her. She stared at me, saying nothing; her eyes grew big and wide, like a cartoon character that's about to fall over a cliff. For a second, I thought she was going to tell me that she loved me, too. For just a second, I was flying over the treetops, flashing on white picket fences and lazy mornings snuggled in bed. Then she closed her eyes and let loose with a high-pitched laugh. The wind whipped her hair wild and crazy while she laughed and laughed.

I hit the ground hard and fast--she was laughing at me! Laughing at me like I was insane.

And I guess I was. Insane to think that a pretty young thing like her could fall in love with me.

Don't know exactly what happened next. I slammed on the brakes, begged her to stop laughing. I tried to put the scarf back over her hair, but it slipped down around her neck, real pretty--like a red ribbon around a Christmas present. I tugged on the ends of the scarf, pulled her close to take a taste of those sweet lips. She was saying something, her lips were moving, but I couldn't make sense of the words. I kissed her lips, her nose, her forehead. And then I saw it--that look in her eyes--like she was some damned Salvation Army bell ringer offering a blanket to a tramp.

That's when I knew she would never be mine.

But I've come here tonight to forget all that crap. I'm standing at the edge of the lake, fingering the scarf in my pocket, trying to clear my mind. The wind's howling through the trees; the branches flailing around like shipwrecked survivors flagging down a rescue chopper. Bony fingers point at me. I close my eyes. I tell myself it's just my sleep-deprived brain playing tricks on me. The wind blows even harder; the howling turns to laughter. I clasp my hands over my ears as the scarf flies from my pocket, snatched by the wind.

I open my eyes; the wind quiets to a gentle rustle, like raspy whispers traveling from tree to tree. The scarf floats on the breeze, then slowly falls to the lake--a shimmering splotch of red that grows darker as the water swallows it bit by bit.

I follow. My legs move of their own accord; my brain barely registers the frigid water. The water climbs up my legs, my waist, my chest. I cannot stop. A flash of light hits my eyes as the setting sun breaks through the trees. I blink as the realization comes to me.

Now, I am hers.

Mischief in Flight

Neglect

On Balboa Island, this sad little boat deteriorates just a few yards from some of Orange County's ritziest homes.