I haven’t been updating often – and as much as I’d like to
say it’s because I’m having a creative breakthrough, it’s not.
I’m slogging through the first draft of Act One. It’s yucky.
I’m spending way too much time being a perfectionist with the intricate details
of staging rather than just getting it down on the page. The first scene seemed to take forever - though some nice moments are coming through.
A trip out of town last week threw off my schedule, then
got a cold, so wreaked a little havoc with my time in the writing room. I’ve gotten back on
track this week, but still about 15 pages behind where I would like to be. Here’s
hoping for a productive Friday.
The obligatory song for today is SOS by Rihanna.
And I have little else to add, other than no one should ever
write anything. : ) It’s hideously hard work.
I skipped a couple blog posts last week. I think at this point, once or twice a week is more realistic.
Today is the first day of the first draft of Act One. And I got my first blooms on my plant - so let's take that as a good sign.
I won't include first drafts normally, but I thought I'd do so today. It will most likely change, but this will give you a little idea at what I'm considering... This is probably too close to the book - and has too much narration, but it's a beginning.
Hopefully, I'll do about 5 pages a day for the next two weeks - that gives me 50 pages of material in the first Act - which I will eventually whittle down to around 30 before starting on Act Two.
Today's song was Like A Prayer by Madonna.
Below is the first 7 pages. Again - VERY FIRST DRAFTY :) (Which is writer-speak for crappy) And there are no tabs in blogger, so the reading will be splotchy - However, those who care to, can probably get something out of it. I'm experimenting with the idea that, instead of addressing the audience, the characters will talk with the STORYTELLER as their asides-monologues. We'll see if it stays.
AT RISE:
SCENE ONE.
The remnants of an ABANDONED SMALL TOWN. Storefronts and raggedly painted porches with debris - old washers, buckets and wheel barrows - littering the street. A sign hangs from one corner, swinging in the wind. It reads, VR DUNHAM’S Grocery.
The STORYTELLER enters, pushing through and sometimes climbing over debris to arrive in front of the store. He looks in through the window, then up at the building as if it were about to collapse.
STORYTELLER
(Looking around.)
There’s nothing left but the bones. Like an old Indian’s body the farmers used to unearth now and then plowing the fields out by Barfield Point.
(He traces the outline of the sign and then a rail.)
A protrusion. A ridge. The hardened remains of something long since gone.
(looking through the window of the store.)
It looks too small to hold all its memories. (To audience)
In 1812 the strongest earthquake to ever hit North America rocked the Arkansas Delta, causing the Mississippi River to run backwards for three days. Course there was nobody here but the Indians to feel it. Since then two other quakes have measured over 8.0.
LOLA, 17, beautiful, and heavily pregnant walks on stage with determined steps - as if the baby might fall out.
STORYTELLER (CONT'D)
The first, on a hot August day in 1967.
The men and women were out chopping cotton that morning. Working each row with hoes in hand, they gently pierced the ground at the root of each stalk and tore away the weeds with a precision that came from generations of practice.
The STORYTELLER goes and puts the VR Dunham sign back onto it’s hook. As LOLA crosses the stage, the lighting changes, the debris moves away and the buildings, though still drab, come back to life, such as it was, in the poverty stricken town.
STORYTELLER (CONT'D)
Had they not been so hard at work, the people of Lost Cain, might have noticed the tremors.
The sign and some other things hanging, almost imperceptibly shake. STORYTELLER sits at the oak table in front of the store and opens a newspaper.
STORYTELLER (CONT'D)
Noticed that not only the ground beneath their feet, but so much else in their world was about to shift.
LOLA approaches the small porch of a shotgun house.
LOLA
It’s hot as hell out here.
(She puts her hand over her mouth and looks around, embarrassed.)
(to STORYTELLER)
I’ve never cussed out loud. In front of real people, that is.
(whispers)
One of these days, I swear, I’m gonna say hell right out loud for the world to hear.
STORYTELLER
You don’t say.
LOLA nods. BRUCIE, an elderly woman with a shock of white hair standing straight up from her head, emerges from the home and goes to Lola.
BRUCIE
Has your water broke?
LOLA
Yes’m.
Brucie leads her up the steps and inside the house.
STORYTELLER
The death of a small town in America isn’t like the fiery swallowing of Pompei or the crumbling walls of Jericho. A death always begins with a simple act of God. An eruption, a flood, an earthquake - (The shaking is a little more pronounced.)
But some acts of God are less colossal in scale, although equally divine.
From offstage, LOLA screams and continues to do so.
IDA PICO, a tiny, nervous woman, 50’s, enters, carrying a pocketbook over her elbow and two large encyclopedias.
IDA PICO
Lola Jean McAllister, you are hollering to wake the dead! Now hush up before everyone in town hears you.
LOLA (OFF STAGE)
Yes, Ida.
IDA PICO
(Prickling, then to STORYTELLER.)
Both my girls refuse to call me Momma anymore. I blame their father. Truth is, I like to blame Johnny Pico for most everything. (holding up the encyclopedias)
Including these. I have trouble seeing over the steering wheel of most any car, particularly Pontiacs and what did Johnny Pico do? Up and die while we owned a Pontiac. I’ll never forgive my husband for that for that. (Puts down the encyclopedias.)
But then there’s plenty blame to go around in this family. That one’s big sister, Trudy - it’s just like her to be down to Memphis shopping when you really need her. If she hadn’t run off and married that cripple, Leon McAllister, then none of this would have been laid on my doorstep at all. Lola would have never even met his little brother, Dip, who I knew was too handsome to come to any good the first time I laid eyes on him. Hmph. If I had to do it all over again, I’d have shipped Lola and Trudy both off to my Aunt Nema’s over in Calico Rock the minute they turned 13. (a martyred breath)
What I’d give to have birthed three plain daughters instead of two beauties and Glinda. Thank God for Glinda, my eldest.
STORYTELLER
You don’t say.
IDA PICO
I most certainly do say. Ever since I’ve had those kids, my whole life has been one long nervous breakdown. And now my little girl, pregnant with a honeymoon baby.
IDA gives the STORYTELLER a look that says, “Don’t even.” HE puts his head back in the newspaper.
Suddenly LOLA appears at the doorway, both her hands on the sides, up high, dramatically.
LOLA
My God, I’m on fire!
IDA PICO
(horrified, looking around to see if anyone can see.)
Lola Jean! You get back in that house right this minute, you hear me!
LOLA (running back and forth on the porch before sitting down on the swing upstage right.)
Oh Lord - it hurts! I’m so hot! I think I’m dying!
IDA PICO
I’ll make you wish you was dying if you don’t get--
BRUCIE, non-plussed, exits with a small stool and sits it down in front of LOLA on the swing.
IDA PICO (CONT'D)
Brucie, we got to get this girl over to the hospital in Blytheville. This baby’s come early.
BRUCIE looks at Lola, cocks her head to IDA with a knowing glance. IDA wills the thought gone from the atmosphere. BRUCIE goes back inside.
IDA PICO (CONT'D)
(To STORTYTELLER)
I know that baby hadn’t come early. But I been around long enough to know that as long as I act like I don’t know any better, there’ll never be another word about it. So as far public discussion is concerned, this is a premature birth and should be treated as such. Understood. (The STORYTELLER nods.)
One word to the contrary and that child will be labeled a bastard the rest of its days. Every blessed woman in the county will just pat me on the shoulder and nod their heads like they was so sorry for me every time the subject comes up. I’ll not have that.
(Back to LOLA)
Girl, if I had the strength I’d drag you back in that house myself. I hope you know how much you’re hurtin’ your momma. Lord know who’s gonna see us out here. I’m just petrified.
LOLA screams again. IDA goes to her, the first sign of compassion she’s shown and even that’s not easy.
LOLA
It hurts like heck.
IDA PICO (this is what indulging children gets you - language)
You watch that language, missy. That word's just a substitute for what you really mean. What’s someone liable to think if they walk by and hear you cursing like a sailor? They’d think you wasn’t raised right is what they’d think and they’d be absolutely correct. No one is ever gonna say that Ida Pico didn’t raise her girls right.
LOLA
Don’t be mean, Momma.
IDA PICO (softening, taking Lola’s hand.)
All I’ve ever wanted from you girls is to do right. To be happy and do right. But when in doubt, do right. (Lola screams again. Ida is scared.)
Brucie, we need to get this girl to a hospital.
BRUCIE comes back through the doorway.
BRUCIE
Don’t believe in hospitals. Every person I ever knew that went into one, never come out. Now, Ida, I’ve birthed many a baby at seven months and not lost one yet. (a gentleman’s agreement - I’ll go along if you’ll go along )
Go in and get something to cover her up.
IDA reluctantly gives up her power to Brucie and starts toward the door.
LOLA
Am I gonna die?
IDA PICO
One more word, Lola, and I swear --
IDA exits.
BRUCIE (to LOLA and to the STORYTELLER)She’s a nerve-eater, that one.
Neither disagrees.
The STORYTELLER gets up while IDA and BRUCIE tend to LOLA on the swing. IDA throws a lace tablecloth over the railing in front of LOLA and constantly brings out things to try to barricade LOLA from view.
STORYTELLER
The whole morning passed with all of them on display. By two o’clock Ida Pico had dragged out all of Brucie’s TV trays, three potted plants and a hanging macrame table onto the porch.
BRUCIE (as IDA straightens the cloth on the rail)
Careful with that, Ida, my momma give it to me.
(under her breath)
Woulda been polite to ask.
IDA PICO (to STORYTELLER)
Me and hers about to go round and round.
Several ladies, in casual skirts, some smoking, walk through and spend time with Lola and chatting with each other.
STORYTELLER
Despite Ida Pico’s best efforts at camouflage, several ladies from town stopped by to pet Lola with reassuring words. Telling her not to worry, that they had plenty of children without being in a hospital and that things always worked themselves out. Ida Pico was quick to tell them this wasn’t just any birth, but a premature one. However, Lola wouldn’t be talked into going inside, as her mother repeatedly pointed out -
IDA PICO
(to Lola)
Any sane person with an ounce of pride would.
