Okay, I’ll admit it. I’ve ridden the Harry Potter wave from the Thames to Timbuctu. I’ve celebrated book releases with so many midnight rides, I still scream one if by land, two if by sea when I climb into the Kia. I’ve worn graduation gowns turned wizard’s robes and painted more lightning bolts on the kids than you find pictures on cave walls.
I can’t help thinking we would have taken care of Harry Potter’s pesky bad guy a little quicker if He Who Shall Not Be Spammed had popped up here in the colonies. Let him get a taste of The Big Apple, and Lord V might just end up squealing like a Lady. If his little turban hopping habit landed him on the wrong head in New York and he ended up bleached, braided, and mohawked, there’s not a stylist in the world that could return him to the man he was.
And I’d like to see those Dementors float into Harlem. One try at a Kiss of Death with a gangland switchblade and they’d be begging for admission to a Happy Place. Don’t even ask about the hubcap implant they need removed or the need for free dental care. They’ll just have to wait for the new health plan like everybody else.
Now let’s talk mythical creatures. There’s folks lying in the alley out back of Times Square who have first hand knowledge of flying elephants. Dragons don’t put out much of a scare factor to folks who ride Screaming Meanies every day of their lives.
Most important of all is the knowledge that the minute His Badness was spotted floating free-form around the No-Fly Zone, the White House would have authorized an 8 ½ x 11 family portrait suitable for framing and a sprinkling of F-16s to scramble as an escort to a Location of Interest.
Don’t make us call in Iron Man.
Or the Incredible Hulk
Or the Ghost Busters.
Yep, get Bill Murray and his ghost gathering gang on the job and we'll see how much the Evil One can do after he’s sucked into the business end of a Dirt Devil. And once you’ve been slimed in New York, it doesn’t take seven books and a flying broom to figure out your haunting days are numbered.
So as much as I’ve enjoyed the action and suspense of wizarding a young man through the throes of pubescence and delivered him at the door of his destiny, I’ve got scarier things to think about.
I’ve got teenagers of my own. And no magic potion to give me all the answers.
Laugh
Showing posts with label wizard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wizard. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
In Cahoots
Collaborating on a novel with your spouse is like sharing a piece of bread that only one of you wants toasted. When one is heartbent for modern romance and the other is set to strike out down the stony path toward gothic horror, it seems like the easiest thing to do would be to meet congenially in fantasy or science fiction. But by the time the opening sentence finds its place on the electronic media screen, things are already personal. If redecorating a house together leads down the long and winding road to relationship stress, collaborating on a novel is the short, straight path to dividing your assets.
My husband, Damien Spielberg, took a perfectly lovely and sincere story about the relationship between a maiden apprentice and her mentor and turned it from a lively, endearing romance into a Renaissance Wizarding Extravagana complete with recreational lightning bolt action. And he made it a screenplay, to boot.
“If we’re going to be in cahoots on this thing, you’ve got to learn to give a little bit,” he said, striking through an entire page of my rich, descriptive prose with a wide-point permanent marker.
I snatched my beloved pages from his jagged claws. “Cahoots? You make it sound like a bad western. We’re collaborating.” I bit the eraser off my pencil.
“What happened to my colorful description of Abby meeting Bob for the first time?” I asked, wrinkling my brow as I flipped through the pages.
“Here it is,” he said, wiping out another paragraph as he gestured nonchalantly with his Sharpie.
“Scene I. Abby meets Bob.”
“That’s all? The humor of the scene comes from Abby, a modern businesswoman accustomed to a sterile and structured environment, coming to terms with the fact that she is competing for a promotion with a man whom she’s just discovered is a 500 year old member of wizarding royalty who is grandfathered into her company’s pension plan.”
“I put wizard in the script notes. See here in the margin? Bob wears a pointy hat.”
“A pointy hat? Bob is not a dunce. Bob is a staff-wielding mage who served in some of the most influential governments in history. He talks to fish!”
“Calm down. I mentioned the fish. See here in Scene III. There’s a nice bit here in the willows by the pond.”
“So how do we know he talks to the fish?”
“Easy. Dialogue.”
“Dialogue? You mean a conversation? This is coming from the man who told me he was in a wreck two hours after he totaled his new car and the rescue team delivered him to the emergency room? You didn’t call me until the nurse dialed the number for you.”
“And after they gave me enough painkillers to make me count to ten in three languages and sing the Lumberjack song to a burly intern. But this is different. It’s Bob talking. Not me.”
“That’s a good thing. Otherwise it would be the world’s shortest book.”
“We’re supposed to be working on this together. Be nice.”
“I’d rather be the dental hygienist in the tiger cage at Ringling Brothers.”
“Need references?”
“Never mind. Tell me more about our wizard’s wonderful world of words.”
“The only way you can see into the man is to hear him talk.”
“I’ve got to hear to see? What about my searing description of their awkward encounter in the elevator?”
“I covered that. In the second scene you see the looks on their faces when she realizes he can read her thoughts and she splashes peanut butter milkshake all over his topcoat, tries to scrape it off with his cane, and accidentally pokes him in the n---.”
“Stop!”
“I was going to say nose. When you see that, you can hear their hearts.”
“Okay, now I have to see to hear.” I turn a page in my narrative version and mark out several paragraphs describing Abby’s clothes. “So how do you come up with all this clever conversation?”
“I listen to people talk. Then I write it down.”
Easy enough. “By the way, back at the pond, what are Bob and the catfish discussing?”
“Whether he should take the job.”
“What do they decide?”
“The catfish advises against it.”
“And why is that?”
He says that Abby is a bad influence and Bob should leave the company entirely.”
“I’ve given her a beautiful home, a killer figure, and a sparkling wit. Why doesn’t he like her?”
He sighed and scratched his head. “She talks too much.”
My husband, Damien Spielberg, took a perfectly lovely and sincere story about the relationship between a maiden apprentice and her mentor and turned it from a lively, endearing romance into a Renaissance Wizarding Extravagana complete with recreational lightning bolt action. And he made it a screenplay, to boot.
“If we’re going to be in cahoots on this thing, you’ve got to learn to give a little bit,” he said, striking through an entire page of my rich, descriptive prose with a wide-point permanent marker.
I snatched my beloved pages from his jagged claws. “Cahoots? You make it sound like a bad western. We’re collaborating.” I bit the eraser off my pencil.
“What happened to my colorful description of Abby meeting Bob for the first time?” I asked, wrinkling my brow as I flipped through the pages.
“Here it is,” he said, wiping out another paragraph as he gestured nonchalantly with his Sharpie.
“Scene I. Abby meets Bob.”
“That’s all? The humor of the scene comes from Abby, a modern businesswoman accustomed to a sterile and structured environment, coming to terms with the fact that she is competing for a promotion with a man whom she’s just discovered is a 500 year old member of wizarding royalty who is grandfathered into her company’s pension plan.”
“I put wizard in the script notes. See here in the margin? Bob wears a pointy hat.”
“A pointy hat? Bob is not a dunce. Bob is a staff-wielding mage who served in some of the most influential governments in history. He talks to fish!”
“Calm down. I mentioned the fish. See here in Scene III. There’s a nice bit here in the willows by the pond.”
“So how do we know he talks to the fish?”
“Easy. Dialogue.”
“Dialogue? You mean a conversation? This is coming from the man who told me he was in a wreck two hours after he totaled his new car and the rescue team delivered him to the emergency room? You didn’t call me until the nurse dialed the number for you.”
“And after they gave me enough painkillers to make me count to ten in three languages and sing the Lumberjack song to a burly intern. But this is different. It’s Bob talking. Not me.”
“That’s a good thing. Otherwise it would be the world’s shortest book.”
“We’re supposed to be working on this together. Be nice.”
“I’d rather be the dental hygienist in the tiger cage at Ringling Brothers.”
“Need references?”
“Never mind. Tell me more about our wizard’s wonderful world of words.”
“The only way you can see into the man is to hear him talk.”
“I’ve got to hear to see? What about my searing description of their awkward encounter in the elevator?”
“I covered that. In the second scene you see the looks on their faces when she realizes he can read her thoughts and she splashes peanut butter milkshake all over his topcoat, tries to scrape it off with his cane, and accidentally pokes him in the n---.”
“Stop!”
“I was going to say nose. When you see that, you can hear their hearts.”
“Okay, now I have to see to hear.” I turn a page in my narrative version and mark out several paragraphs describing Abby’s clothes. “So how do you come up with all this clever conversation?”
“I listen to people talk. Then I write it down.”
Easy enough. “By the way, back at the pond, what are Bob and the catfish discussing?”
“Whether he should take the job.”
“What do they decide?”
“The catfish advises against it.”
“And why is that?”
He says that Abby is a bad influence and Bob should leave the company entirely.”
“I’ve given her a beautiful home, a killer figure, and a sparkling wit. Why doesn’t he like her?”
He sighed and scratched his head. “She talks too much.”
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