I finished it.
It ain't as good as I hoped. But I finished it.
INT. WORK ROOM
Nick BANGS the keyboards, tries to make sense of what appears on the screen.
NICK
Sweet! Act One is done!
He raises his fist in solidarity for all other screenwriters sitting alone in a room.
INT. WORK ROOM -- DAYS LATER
Nick TAPS the keys with a dancer's grace, smiles.
NICK
Act Two, I'm through with you!
His cheeks flush red as he realizes that he's a huge dork.
INT. WORK ROOM -- WEEKS LATER
Nick SLAPS his palm to his forehead.
NICK
Act Three, why are you being such a fantastic pain?
He stares into
THE BLANK NOTHINGNESS
and his soul DISSOLVES.
You see, since my Secret Screenplay Idea (t'ain't new no mo') is a apocalyptic tale, I was zooming along ninety-to-nothin' on the open freeway when I slammed into an abandoned car on the clogged bottle neck of Act Three. The only chance I had of finding the other side was negotiating little gaps in the wreckage.
It turned out that Act Four was just as treacherous, if not more so. The problem getting through the borderland was the fact that I'd spent so much time laughing about how easy it was to get through the first two acts that I found myself lacking in the solutions and weapons departments when the baddies attacked me in the middle of Act Four.
I made it through the wilderness. Somehow I made it through. Yet I can't help but feel that I haven't found a new utopia or even a safe haven. I feel more like I've found a dilapidated house with a basement full of flesh starved zombies.
Guess we'll see when I get to the second draft (after tackling draft numero dos of "The Next Big Lance", of course).
