EASY COME, EASY GO

by Stephen Jay Schwartz

I guess the first really serious bit of writing I did was a short story called "Yahrzeit Candle," which I wrote when I was twenty years old. I wrote it in the months following my father's death. My writing changed overnight--suddenly I had things to say that could not suffer poor writing. And out came this story about a little Jewish boy who comes home one night to find his father stooped in front of a large candle. The boy's grandfather has just died. The candle burns for seven days and the boy watches his father fall apart before it. The boy doesn't understand; he thinks the candle is hurting his father. But when he gets close to the candle, when the smoke gets in his eyes, he is overwhelmed with memories of his grandfather. In the end, he tries to snuff out the candle, to save his father. His father wakes and pulls him back. They hug for the first time in years. The candle, having done its job, flickers out on its own.

I was attending a community college when I wrote it, and I entered two national short story competitions that had ties to the school. The story won both competitions, and there was a cash prize, too. I remember the day I went to my professor's office to get the check for the awards. I remember his words. "You might not write a story this good for many years. Don't worry about it. Just keep writing, and understand that it's part of the process."

We stepped out of his office onto the second-floor terrace and he handed me the check and the award letter. As soon as I took them, a gust of wind came and took them from my hands. The letter and check fluttered down into the bushes two stories below.

"Easy come, easy go," my professor quipped.

Words to live by.

It's interesting how I thought that first story would be the beginning of so much. It was, but not in the way I imagined. At the time, I thought the story would open doors (Eli Weisel called it "Shining, evocative and penetrating"). I thought opportunities would suddenly materialize and I would spend the rest of my life employed as a professional writer and film maker.

This life we've chosen, it doesn't come easy.

I'm beginning to take a long-term look at it. It's not just a job. It's not just a career. It's a life. What we write is what remains. Taken together, it marks our journey. From my very first short story ("Sammy the Dinosaur" at age 8) to this very blog post today. Every story, every screenplay, every poem, every blog. They are the atoms that define me. They are the things from which I evolve.

I might still end up supporting myself by my writing alone. It could happen. I could balance the load writing novels, screenplays and television episodes. Then again, it might not happen that way. I might have other jobs and write on the side. And maybe that's not such a bad thing. As I've been told, "even Spinoza spun glass." I haven't done the research, but I take that to mean that Spinoza had a day job, in the circus or something.

If you think about it, precious few artists support themselves by their art alone. Even the ones we consider "great," the ones who didn't start living until they died.

I have a friend who is a Story Editor on a very popular cable series. He's successful enough to be a showrunner now, for the spec projects he has sold. I told him that I would probably be writing a spec script for his cable show, to use as a writing sample in case Boulevard goes to series. (Boulevard has been optioned by a major TV producer). If I want a chance to write on the series (if a series gets off the ground) I have to show the producer a writing sample -- a one-hour TV script for an existing series with a similar tone to my books. When I mentioned this to my friend he said, "Isn't it amazing how we still have to write for free? It doesn't matter if we've had books published or films made from our screenplays, we still have to write for free to prove to others that we can write."

This is it, guys. This is being a writer. This is the commitment. If the stars align, we could all be millionaires. One book could do it. One spec script. It's the dream I've lived on for years. Since "Yahrzeit Candle," which wasn't the most commercially viable project I've ever written.

But, you know what? It had heart. I wrote another heartfelt short story after that. And then my first feature script, which had heart. That project won another competition, and got me a film agent. And then I learned to write what I thought I was supposed to write. I wrote crafty, slick, commercial vehicles. And I lost my way. I lost my way all the way up to the point that I ditched it all and sat down to write my first novel, Boulevard. And that had heart.

I've spent the past year and a half writing my third novel. It was supposed to be bigger than Boulevard and Beat. It was supposed to be a commercial vehicle. I struggled and struggled and then abandoned it, to write something small and heartfelt. And, lo and behold, my voice came back. I just started writing the new piece when my wife begged me to go back to the other one, to reinvent it so that it wasn't such an obviously commercial vehicle, to find my heart in the story. There was too much there to abandon. I agreed, and now I'm juggling both books. And looking for the day job that will support this passion of mine.

I'm writing what I want to write, what my heart tells me to write. It will take as long as it takes to do it well. I decided a while ago that novels are where I'll put my best. In this one realm, I won't compromise. It's different than writing a zombie film, which, regardless of how much heart I manage to stuff into it, remains a zombie film to the end. It's a commercial venture.  I know that going in.

My novels, however...well, I hope they are commercial successes. I really do. But if they aren't, so be it. I write books to make me happy. If I'm not enjoying it, I shouldn't be doing it.

Easy come, easy go.

RESEARCH, HUH?

by Stephen Jay Schwartz

Yes, I'm still writing blogs about research. But this one serves a greater purpose.

I've got essays in two books out currently.

The first book is the new edition of the NOW WRITE! series, called Now Write! Mysteries. The book features essays from loads of outstanding mystery authors and each author includes a set of exercises designed to give the reader the opportunity to learn the skills discussed in the author's essay.

I've attached a link to my contribution, so you can get a sense of how the book works. I haven't really given anything away that cannot be found by clicking on the "Look Inside!" button on the book's Amazon page.

Some of the many talented authors in the collection include Aileen G. Baron, James Scott Bell, Rhys Bowen, Rachel Brady, Robert Browne, Rebecca Cantrell, Reed Farrel Coleman, Deborah Coonts, Bill Crider, Meg Gardiner, Gar Anthony Haywood, Harley Jane Kozak, William Kent Krueger, Robert S. Levinson, Sophie Littlefield, Tim Maleeny, Christopher Moore, Kelli Stanley, John Lutz, Louise Penny, Lorenzo Carcaterra and many, many more. I apologize for not including every contributor; the names themselves would fill a book.

The NOW WRITE! series includes other notable publications, such as Now Write! Fiction, Now Write! Nonfiction, and Now Write! Screenwriting.

The books are edited by Sherry Ellis and her niece Laurie Lamson. Laurie took over finishing the new book after Sherry passed away unexpectedly last year. It was a terrible loss to our community. And I'm honored to have been part of her last creative effort on this planet.

The other book I'm in is called WRITERS ON THE EDGE: 22 Writers Speak About Addiction and Dependency.

My essay here finally answers the big question I get when I'm on panels at conferences. The question: "How the hell did you do your research for Boulevard and Beat?"

When I don't want to get into the specifics, I go with the answer I have in the Now Write! series. I discuss the passion I have for boots-on-the-ground research, how I love to meet and interview people and learn the details of their lives.

When I get down-and-dirty, I talk about the struggles I had with my own sex-addiction, how I went to twelve-step meetings and marriage counseling and therapy and took a potentially life-threatening problem and turned it into something life-affirming and creative. My essay in this book is open and honest and, ultimately, uplifting. I discuss the things I did, how the addiction began, how it affected my psychology, my relationships, my marriage. It's the most personal discussion I've had on the subject. I was actually reluctant to write the piece, but the editors, Diana M. Raab and James Brown, convinced me that my experiences should be shared with others who might be struggling with their own addictive behavior. After all, it's Twelfth Step stuff - helping others along the path to their own sobriety.

All the essays in the book are fabulous. The authors speak from their hearts and I admire them for the vulnerability they exhibit.

The book also features a forward by Jerry Stahl, author of PERMANENT MIDNIGHT.

For those of you in the Los Angeles area, we will be launching the book from Book Soup on Saturday, February 25, at 4:00 pm.

That's it for now, folks.

MOTIVATION

by Stephen Jay Schwartz

I got a great opportunity recently when the film I wrote this year, GRINDER, attracted a quality actor. The screenplay came to me as a rewrite assignment almost exactly a year ago. I worked with a group of producers and the film's director to produce a new outline, treatment, two full drafts, and two polishes. The result was an intriguing action film with intense, zombie-like creatures and a structure similar to the film "Momento." The final draft got the film its financing as well as a number of exceptional crew attachments. The lead actor came to us and made his attachment contingent upon an additional rewrite to satisfy his notes.

The actor looked at the script through the eyes of an actor. And thank God he did. He pointed out the fact that the central characters lacked motivation. He noticed that the clever, intricate plot actually disguised the fact that the characters had not been properly developed. The plot served as eye-candy to keep the viewer (or reader) turning pages, offering no additional dimension, no "soul." It was Story 101 stuff, and I should have caught it earlier. But the development process is complicated and a great many perspectives need to be considered along the way. We could have moved forward with the script we had, parting ways with the actor who had so generously given his time and feedback, or we could have taken his notes and worked to give the film the depth it deserves. We decided to do the rewrite, and I've spent the last two weeks writing a new treatment for the film. I'll have about two weeks now to write the draft. Eleventh-hour stuff, but exciting as hell.

Motivation. Why our characters do the things they do. The challenge with the script is that it's non-linear, so it's very difficult to mark the "scene before" moments that guide each character's motivation through the story. I had to pull the story apart, create a linear time-line, then restructure the puzzle in a way that made sense. In the process, I had to give the protagonist a reason to do the things he does. The actor asked a few crucial questions about his character - "Who is he now? What was he? What does he want to be?" Simple stuff. Sacrificed by a complicated plot. What motivates him to do the things he does?

The questions got me thinking about my own motivation and how it has changed over the years. I've noticed that I don't have the same kind of passion I used to for writing novels. Why is this? What happened to me?

When I was writing BOULEVARD I wrote every single night after my day job. After a ten-hour day I'd go to the cafe and spend another five or six hours writing the book. I spent all my weekends, holiday and vacation time writing the book. I did this for three and a half years. What was my motivation?

I think the big motivator was a decision to change my life. The novel represented my last opportunity to prove that I had something more going for me than selling lighting products to support myself and my family. It was my ticket out. I had already spent what felt like a lifetime in and out of the film business and it left a bitter taste in my mouth. The novel seemed like the perfect way to fulfill my creative aspirations.

When I got my book deal, I was motivated to please my editor and write the best book I could. It was a two-book deal, so the motivation to write my second book, Beat, was wrapped right into the first. I expected all that hard work to pay off. I expected to support myself as a writer from that point on.

But I learned it could be a long, long road to that goal. I quit the day job a year ago, determined to write my third book without the stress and frustration I experienced while writing the first two. I had a screenwriting assignment, a little bit of cash from the books, and some savings.

I've been writing the book, but the motivation hasn't been there. Why? Well, there's no book deal, for one. I'm writing on spec with the hope that it'll sell when I'm done. But that's how I wrote the first book, so why was I motivated then and not now?

I think it's because, in the beginning, the possibilities seemed wide and endless. I didn't know anything about the publishing industry. I figured a two-book deal would net me, what, two million dollars? Seemed about right. Now I'm educated and depressed. I tend to think, "What's the point?" All this hard work, all the sacrifice. I made a big deal of spending a lot of time with my family this year, to make up for all the time I didn't spend with them when I had a full-time job, writing those first two books. I didn't want to resent my writing for taking me away from my family, so I quit the day job in order to balance it all. But now I resent the writing for all that it requires of me, while not providing me with the kind of income necessary to support a family. I get tired of the dream that says, "after I finish this screenplay/novel/film/whatever, I'll sell it and everything will be all right." I've been living that dream for twenty-five years.

There is, of course, a different kind of motivation to write, and it has nothing to do with paying the bills. There's writing for writing's sake. I'm all for that, but it means a complete restructuring of my life. It means I write for myself and if it sells, all the better. It means I should have a real job, something I love, something that I want to do for the rest of my years. All of my day jobs have been just that--day jobs. Designed only to get me to the next film or writing assignment. Because all I ever really wanted to do was write and make films. What else do I love? I mean, love enough to do forty hours a week? The only thing I can think of involves animals. I could work at a zoo forty hours a week. Or a gorilla reserve in Uganda. Or I could do ocean animal rescue. Maybe I could work at Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Kanab, Utah. I could do these things, for the rest of my life. However, they wouldn't pay the bills.

I'm told I'm only a couple years away from really "making it." Hmmm. It does seem plausible now, for the first time in my life, providing the film gets made and it becomes a success, and that the TV option I recently sold for Boulevard and Beat actually goes to series. And that I finish my third novel and sell it.

But where's my motivation to finish that third novel? Why does it feel so much like work?

I have to find my motivation. Story 101. Without it, my life is just a clever, sometimes intriguing, oddly non-linear ride toward a zombie-like climax. But the soul, man, where's the soul?

OLD SCHOOL COOL

by Stephen Jay Schwartz

My sense of cool is Old School. I don't even know what cool looks like today. When I was young and cool, things like comic books were the definition of not so cool. Now comic books are IT, man, but you have to call them "graphic novels." Comic Con is supposedly cool, and yet many of my friends say they go there to "geek out." The pictures I've seen of Comic Con make it look like the height of Geek Civilization.

Cool to me is white T-shirt, blue jeans and tennis shoes (or biker boots). Tattoos add an element of cool, too, although that's a more recent phenomenon. It wasn't so cool when the tattoos said, "MOM," or "Semper Fi" or when they featured images of sea anchors and raunchy, naked women.

I think the image of cool, Old School, is Steve McQueen.

I'll also throw in Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy, both of whom I consider "Literary Cool."

 

And I probably shouldn't leave out the young Ernest Hemmingway.

Cool has an element of "bad" in it. Bad boys are cool. Jack Nicholson, Dennis Hopper, James Dean. There's usually an element of danger in the mix. Selfishness, temper, physical strength.

The Fonz was supposed to be cool, but not really. He was "television executive cool" or "Madison Avenue Cool." Manufactured to appeal to the largest demographics. He was just Henry Winkler, really, a scrawny Jewish kid from New York. That ain't cool.

 

Butch and Sundance were cool.

Cigarettes were supposed to be cool, but I never bought into that. If I'd been born a decade or two earlier I would have, though. And, of course, I'd be dead by now.

Oddly, however, cigars are a little cool. I'm not exactly sure why. I think it has something to do with Fidel Castro. Who isn't exactly cool, but he's a rebel, which makes me think of Che Guevara. Che must be cool, because he's on all those T-shirts that cool guys wear with their bluejeans and boots.

Malcolm X seemed pretty cool, yet Martin Luther King was merely kind. He was a great man, yes, but I wouldn't say he was cool. Mother Teresa and Ghandi weren't cool, for that matter, either.

Fast cars are cool. They always have been and they always will be cool. Unless the Comicon crowd ends up ruling the world. With their Toyota Priuses. Yeah, I know, it's responsible, but it ain't cool. There's no element of bad in it.

Cool is Porsche, Corvette, Ferrari, Lamborghini, Ford Thunderbird, Jaguar...most any car from the '50s and '60s. Muscle cars are cool.

So are muscles, in fact. When I was in high school, cool was a young body-builder named Arnold Schwarzenegger. Before Conan the Barbarian. And Lou Ferrigno, before The Incredible Hulk. Of course, they were all doing steroids, which we ultimately learned was not so cool.

The Matrix is cool. It reeks of cool, and yet it feels organic. It's cool by design, yes, but it's designed so well. Pulp Fiction, too, is cool.

Sports figures are almost always cool. In my day, Muhammed Ali was cool. I'm not a big sports fan, so I don't know all the cool sports figures. They're mostly football players, basketball players, baseball players, boxers. Maybe Indy car drivers. Testosterone sports. Not a lot of tennis players or golfers on that list.

I'm sure there was a day when Elvis was cool, but to me he was always an advertisement for what people who never knew cool thought cool should be. Just because he did that thing with his hips. Oh, that's so cool. But cool came before Elvis - Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, John Coltrane. Dangerous cats with their reefer ways. My God, you could lose your mind listening to their devil jazz.

The Beatles were cool, for sure. They started off kinda dopey, but they got their shit together as the war dragged on.

And Jim Morrison. Scary cool.

 

For that matter....Jimi Hendrix. I mean, really. Uber cool. Backed by overwhelming, misunderstood talent. And Janis Joplin. Too bad about all that overdose shit.

Maybe I'm past my expiration date. I'm an old man already. But, old men can be cool, too. Maybe it's just what they represent. William S. Burroughs and Charles Bukowski, old and still fighting the fight (when they were alive and fighting the fight). They were rebels. Their long lives represented the fuck you I can live my life the way I want to attitude that defines cool.

What's cool now? Justin Bieber? Really? It can't be.

Ask your kids, will you? Maybe your grandkids. You gotta tell me what passes for cool these days. I gotta know, because I'm too old to see it.

And, how do you define cool? What is this concept, and why are we drawn to it?

And, dare I try to relate this to novels? What would you consider a cool novel? I consider Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk the ultimate in cool. Or Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Tell me, please. Educate me. Bring me up to speed.

Thank you and now I'll shut up.

WE UNDERSTAND, BUT WE ARE THE FEW

by Stephen Jay Schwartz

 

I finished the first draft of my current novel last week. Ninety-seven thousand words; three-hundred seven pages.

I'm tired. It tires me. I printed it out for the first time and there it is, a big, hulking year of my life.

A friend slapped me on the back, "Congratulations, man! Now what do you do, send it to your editor?"

What part of first draft did he not understand? First? Draft?

Fortunately, it's a pretty solid first draft. That's what happens when you do a year.

It's plot to the nines. It better be, I planned every scene in advance, wrote a beat-for-beat outline and rewrote that a dozen times before writing page one. Spent months and months doing research. It's got the twists and turns and all the psychological shit I could put into a psychological, international thriller.

But, God, if it ain't wooden. Hollow. Sans character. But that, my friends, is what draft number two is about. Character, character, character.

Of course, I wasn't entirely aware of its deficiencies until I handed it to my wife, Ryen, a.k.a. uber-editor, who brought out the red pen. And I realize all over again how much I fucking depend on her. I'm continually reminded that she's the best I've ever seen. I used to fight it, her voluminous notes. They gave me indigestion. I hated not having the final word. But I'm more mature now and I know that she only wants the best I can deliver, and, fortunately for me, she knows how to get it.

I had my glass of wine last week to celebrate, but the next morning I went back to the trenches. Celebrate what? I'll celebrate on pub date. I'll celebrate when I know it's really done. Because nothing's done until it's done. I would, however, find cause to celebrate if I received a million dollar advance. But that's the Lotto dream and I'm too firmly fixed in reality to fall for that one. Again. Of course, they say the third book is the break-out...

I think it will be good, but, then again, I've lost all perspective. I'm drowning in words. Thank God my wife is there with a net. I'm not sure it's for me or the words. Either will do, I suppose.

So, now I'm back on PAGE ONE. Rewrite. Where it all comes together. First chapter rewritten, redone, re-conceived, re-novated. And the characters are real. Finally. They breathe and feel pain and anguish and strive to bring justice to an unjust world. That's what's happening in Chapter One, anyway. Chapter Two is hollow and burdened with plot. Chapter Two is tomorrow's battle. I'll wait for Ryen's notes.

It's a journey. We understand, but we are the few.

I was in a book store recently and the staff asked when my next book would be out. "You should be due for another book by now, Steve."

Simple statement. Accurate expectations. Do they know what this entails? The hours and days and months of struggling against self-doubt to produce sentences and paragraphs and chapters of what would ultimately become First Draft Dreck, after hours and days and months of research and experimentation in style and voice and characterization, writing a hundred pages in third person close, then rewriting in first person, then converting it all again to third person close with alternating chapters of omniscient narration, only to turn those around again to third person close from the antagonist's point of view...

And doing this unpaid. While savings dwindle. Or doing it after hours, under the whip of the deadly day job. Doing it and stopping it on account of sudden family misfortune or financial crisis. Putting it aside for weeks then returning, re-reading, re-working, re-writing.

"Won't you have a book in 2012, Steve?"

The sheen of Debut Year has begun to fade.

I once read an interview with the great screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky (Network, Altered States) where the interviewer asked about his "art." "No one I know calls it art," Paddy said. "We call it our work."

It is work. If we're lucky some will see it as art. Art is hard work. I have a hard time comparing a Rembrandt to a giant blue dot on canvas. One I would consider art, the other, not so much.

I don't know when my book will be out. It's going to take a solid two months of rewrites from this point forward, complete with additional research and input from specialists I know in the FBI and the Amsterdam Police Department. Then I'll get story feedback from several authors. And, of course, never-ending notes from my wife. Put it all together and bring it to boil and there's soup on the table.

After that it goes to my agent -- thank God I've got one of those. If he doesn't love it I'll be rewriting to his notes. Then he'll go out with it. We'll have to find a house to pony up. If-and-or-when that happens, I'll have to deal with an editor's notes. That could go on for months. When said editor is satisfied, when the book is officially "accepted" for publication, it will proceed into production. Ten months after that...voila! It's on the shelves. (Damn, Steve, where did you go these past two years? We thought we'd see a book...)

I finished the first draft.

Maybe I should celebrate now.