I’m sure all you out there who like a good moving short film will like this. Let me know what you think. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2cFdKrks7ig

I think you will like this. Check it out. If you like evocative photography, moving poetry and edge of your seat writing, this will be just what you were looking for. Enjoy. https://www.createspace.com/pub/community/demo.review.do?id=1066291

I’m finding these days that it’s just as enjoyable to write my stories as it is to send them out to awaiting readers.

I always looked at writing as write now sell later, or write then sell, then write, then sell, like 2 distinct actions, demarcated by some sort of fence. But, now I see that what makes me happy as a writer is just knowing that someone, somewhere, is waiting to read what I have written.

I feel this is a step since I recently held strong to the idea that I as a writer must write, write and write some more, then hit the pavement, and push, push, push.

But now I am sensing a melding of these two actions. I thought I had it all under control until the real world intervened. It seems that now is the time to deliver, for I have FINALLY let a sufficient number of people know what I am all about (writing novels and screenplays) that I am getting requests from publishers, producers, readers, friends, and folks who have joined up on my website to read my book.

I think it’s funny when I tell people about my work. Some sigh and explain how happy or fulfilled or interesting their life could be if only they could tell stories for a living.

I tell them it’s not as easy as they may think.

I find correlations almost everywhere I look.  For most of my working career, I’ve made a living as a home improvement contractor. Looking back on some of my most interesting and memorable jobs – ones that I seem to return to when I describe successes – are the ones where I had no real idea at the outset of how I was going to do the job.

This is not to say that I was flying blind, totally unprepared. I knew when going in that the job was something I was going to be able to figure out. I had done it so many times before, so my faith in these instances was strong.

For me, writing is a lot like that.

Each day I know I will be writing that night. Each night I find myself a little unsure as to how far I will go, what I will write, or how happy I will be with my work. But each night, I realize that it does come. My intention is strong. My patience great.

by Geoffrey Zimmerman

I’ve had many methods that I used to get me to where I needed to be when preparing to write.

First of all, I would call myself a “ritual” writer. I like to know what to expect from myself. It helps my unconscious juices get ready for what is to come – staring at the blank page or going over my outline notes. The “place” where I want to get myself is almost like a far-away place, a place where the world I create, my characters, their words and feelings are real.

I find it ironic, that although this “place” seems to me to be my optimum state of mind to write -  to say what I want to say the way I want to say it,  takes some real intention,  patience and faith to get there.

Some writers say “Keep your butt in the seat.” Some say “Write eight hours a day.” Some say “turn out at least three, five, nine or ten pages a day (or whatever the number they use.)

I say “Find what works, and keep doing that.” It may take time, but be patient, have faith and realize that you alone know what works best for you.

There are many devices and documents a writer can use to catch people’s attention and demonstrate their ability. One of these devices is a treatment.

This document is usually about ten to twenty pages long. The treatment I wrote for my feature film screenplay “Love Never Dies” is 17 pages long. The document describes only the major characters, (protagonist and antagonist)  and perhaps a few secondary characters. It describes the major plot points, events in the story that force the protagonist and antagonist to act or react while pursuing his/her main goal. Some dialogue can be included as well.

This treatment has been read by some agents and producers in La., but just because they read it doesn’t mean they’ll request my screenplay or decide to invest in me. The desired reaction after someone with decision-making power reads the treatment is a request for the screenplay. In my case, the subject matter of my story did not fit the current needs of the industry.

I’m curious to find out how many of my readers would like a look at this treatment and then my first screenplay in a trilogy. I hope to hear from you.

-Geoff-

PS: Because of the value and power of this document, I am asking those who wish to read it to register. Just a simple matter that shows me you are interested in taking a look at my writing and story telling abilities. I’ll email you the password to read the entire treatment.

Having worked in the film industry, I have no problem talking with agents, directors or actors. I’ve recently been pitching my murder mystery idea to some New York publishers and some agents in New York and Hollywood. My first few chapters have been received with surprising enthusiasm, and the agents in Los Angeles know this story will be adapted to a screenplay, and then a TV show.

“I don’t know why you would want to leave this place,” her friend, Babu said with finality. “Silly Scilla, silly Scilla,” he taunted as he left her room and went outside to greet the guests that had already arrived. She plopped down on the small velvet chair and gazed at her 24 year-old image in the wavering mirror.

“I will so leave this place,” she said turning to throw the words over her shoulder. She sniffled and lifted her head and gazed into the misty reflection of her uncertain eyes.

“Do you have it in you? Do you really have it in you?” she asked her beseeching face.
A brisk knock on the door pulled her from her reverie, and she knew she had just seconds to answer her own question.

“Yes,” she said to the mirror, pushed back her chair, and dashed around the room, searching for any tool or amulet that would help in the contest.

“Come in,” she said after concealing her finds among the folds of her dress. The door was slowly and deliberately pushed open. “It is time,” Mamm said, filling the doorway with her commanding figure and flowing dress.

Walking through the cavernous granite hall, she passed by the two lines of smiling faces and well wishers. “Good luck,” one said. “I know you will succeed,” another said. She smiled at these wonderful souls, but had to force back tears, for she knew she might have to wait a long time to see them again.

Then she and ten others were released into the garden. She watched as some sang, danced or stood still and chanted. Then she remembered the seeds she’d taken from her room. The mustard seed she said to herself. All of life’s answers can be found within that tiny seed. She let each seed fall onto the earth, blessing each one with a heart-felt prayer. She plucked a few violets and placed them in her hair. My own reward, come what may, she said to herself. She absentmindedly poked the ground with her toes as she strolled the garden and watched the others.

Then she felt it. Something hard in the dirt. She knelt and scooped aside the dirt. A small purse, she whispered, her eyes widening.

Mamm walked around the garden, enjoying the contest, then glanced over at Scilla. “It is time,” she said.

Scilla rose, walked to the revered hall and joined the line of ten that stood before the Grand Seven. The well wishers, thousands of them, sat around the hall. Each of the contestants in their turn now had the coveted opportunity to present their find to the grand seven.

Why am I doing this? Scilla asked herself. But, she knew the answer. It was her destiny. She knew the purpose of the contest. And she knew her reward was one of the most coveted in the universe. She also knew that among the innumerable rewards, the challenges would sometimes appear impossible to confront.

Am I really going back? Will I really have to forget all this, except for just a few fleeting moments?How could I ever forget this?

“Next,” said the Grand Seven in unison. She stepped forward.

“Little Scilla, you understand what you have chosen?” they asked. She nodded.

“Then show us all what you have found in the garden,” they requested.

She pulled the tiny purse from the folds in her dress. It shimmered as if alive. The whole crowd gasped.

“Open it,” the Grand Seven requested.

With trembling fingers, she undid the clasp. She peered in, but as she did, a rainbow of colors and gold light flew from the purse, throwing her hair back and nearly blinding her. The crowd gasped again, as the brilliant light swirled and coalesced, becoming an all encompassing vision.
It was a life. A little girl’s life. They all watched as the girl was born, grew, became old and wise, then lay down to pass over – and return.

“We’ll see you in eighty seven years, Scilla,” they all said.

And she was gone, like the memory of a kiss in the wind.

THE END