After my last post I was planning to do my next review on a couple of kids books, and I will get back to that. Promise.
I'm also writing a short story, "Froggie and the Gravedigger." The title may give you a clue as to the reason for my unplanned time away from routine. Our family's experience, though very sad, has been filled with transformative energy. Hence the "holiday from routine." Froggie has an interesting perspective.
Anon ~
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Story Notes for The Kids Are All Right
When Joni turns 18, legally an adult, she and her brother Laser track down their sperm donor dad. That’s the plot.
It’s a familiar plot. What usually happens is: kid finds donor, donor meets mom, mom is furious to have anonymous man invade family space, mom falls in love with donor and voila—a reconstituted nuclear family. What makes All Right different from a typical romantic comedy is that the mom who raised the children isn’t just one mom, it’s the “moms”--two married women.
What makes this story different on a deeper, structural level is it crosses the territory like a literary novel—with multiple, interwoven story lines. This is not an action-oriented rom-com. I don’t mean it’s boring, far from it. But the action is in the shifting relationships, the humor is in smiles of recognition, and the story follows the design philosophy “more is more.” There are five main characters, each with a relationship with the others. Throw in some triangulation, and you do the math.
The kids are great, and it’s interesting to watch them get to know their biological father. He’s a hip, old “spermy”—that’s what the older daughter calls him. After all, his only previous contact had been via a collection cup. What else could he be? Ah. Turns out he listens well, loves female vocalists, grows organic produce, and he’s a bona fide foodie and fab cook. A straight man with well-developed feminine sensibilities. Huh. Interesting.
Mark Ruffalo plays the loner Paul, whose world is cracked open when he meets his progeny. He clearly longs for more family connection. But the response to his presence ricochets around the family members, from defensive, even hostile, to curious and welcoming.
On the defensive end stands Nic, played by Annette Bening. She’s a doctor, a functional alcoholic, and the breadwinner of the family. In a traditional marriage from the mid-20th century, this character would be the one “wearing the pants,” but I would be hard-pressed to label Bening a dyke. She’s a gorgeous woman, even without glamour make-up and lighting. (Kudos to director Lisa Cholodenko and her cast for having the guts to allow a woman’s true age to show, complete with wrinkles and puffy eyes. The moms look like they’ve raised a family and weathered a life together.)
Nik doesn’t place much value on Paul’s Y chromosome contribution, and she tells him point blank, “If you want a family so much, go out and make your own.” She means the real work of making a family, and that requires a sustained investment of time. But, she’s definitely the outsider on lots of family issues. In the moms’ public battleground Nic rails against heirloom tomatoes and composting.
Remember “more is more?” That line comes from Jules, played by Julianna Moore. She’s the more intuitive, femme of the married couple, a fledgling landscape architect who favors heirloom tomatoes and composting. Jules dives into her first garden assignment articulating her more-is-more design philosophy. She could have gone minimalist, but she chooses fecund. And when she embraces flagrant fertility in the garden, she releases dormant sexual desire and ignites a level of heat rarely seen on the screen.
This movie will very likely disturb anyone who is uncomfortable about in-your-face eroticism and direct talk about the nature of sexuality and sexual orientation. It will disturb anyone who is afraid of same-sex marriage. It may also disturb lesbians because the moms’ sexual allegiance is challenged. I found the peek into a lesbian home—sometimes comfy, sometimes chilling—authentic and bracing.
Finally, All Right transcends the specifics of a family with two moms. It’s about an unconventional family, the power of genetics and the infatuation with other. It’s about sustaining central relationships over the long haul. Jules articulates a challenge we can all relate to: “Marriage is hard . . . It’s a fucking marathon.”
About my rating – I sketched some thoughts directly after screening All Right, but it’s taken me a week to weave my notes together, allowing my thoughts to follow the pace of the movie, including time for self-recognition and reflection. I’m going 9 of 10, for the authentic fabric of life, and the staying power of this film. This one’s staying with me for a while.
It’s a familiar plot. What usually happens is: kid finds donor, donor meets mom, mom is furious to have anonymous man invade family space, mom falls in love with donor and voila—a reconstituted nuclear family. What makes All Right different from a typical romantic comedy is that the mom who raised the children isn’t just one mom, it’s the “moms”--two married women.
What makes this story different on a deeper, structural level is it crosses the territory like a literary novel—with multiple, interwoven story lines. This is not an action-oriented rom-com. I don’t mean it’s boring, far from it. But the action is in the shifting relationships, the humor is in smiles of recognition, and the story follows the design philosophy “more is more.” There are five main characters, each with a relationship with the others. Throw in some triangulation, and you do the math.
The kids are great, and it’s interesting to watch them get to know their biological father. He’s a hip, old “spermy”—that’s what the older daughter calls him. After all, his only previous contact had been via a collection cup. What else could he be? Ah. Turns out he listens well, loves female vocalists, grows organic produce, and he’s a bona fide foodie and fab cook. A straight man with well-developed feminine sensibilities. Huh. Interesting.
Mark Ruffalo plays the loner Paul, whose world is cracked open when he meets his progeny. He clearly longs for more family connection. But the response to his presence ricochets around the family members, from defensive, even hostile, to curious and welcoming.
On the defensive end stands Nic, played by Annette Bening. She’s a doctor, a functional alcoholic, and the breadwinner of the family. In a traditional marriage from the mid-20th century, this character would be the one “wearing the pants,” but I would be hard-pressed to label Bening a dyke. She’s a gorgeous woman, even without glamour make-up and lighting. (Kudos to director Lisa Cholodenko and her cast for having the guts to allow a woman’s true age to show, complete with wrinkles and puffy eyes. The moms look like they’ve raised a family and weathered a life together.)
Nik doesn’t place much value on Paul’s Y chromosome contribution, and she tells him point blank, “If you want a family so much, go out and make your own.” She means the real work of making a family, and that requires a sustained investment of time. But, she’s definitely the outsider on lots of family issues. In the moms’ public battleground Nic rails against heirloom tomatoes and composting.
Remember “more is more?” That line comes from Jules, played by Julianna Moore. She’s the more intuitive, femme of the married couple, a fledgling landscape architect who favors heirloom tomatoes and composting. Jules dives into her first garden assignment articulating her more-is-more design philosophy. She could have gone minimalist, but she chooses fecund. And when she embraces flagrant fertility in the garden, she releases dormant sexual desire and ignites a level of heat rarely seen on the screen.
This movie will very likely disturb anyone who is uncomfortable about in-your-face eroticism and direct talk about the nature of sexuality and sexual orientation. It will disturb anyone who is afraid of same-sex marriage. It may also disturb lesbians because the moms’ sexual allegiance is challenged. I found the peek into a lesbian home—sometimes comfy, sometimes chilling—authentic and bracing.
Finally, All Right transcends the specifics of a family with two moms. It’s about an unconventional family, the power of genetics and the infatuation with other. It’s about sustaining central relationships over the long haul. Jules articulates a challenge we can all relate to: “Marriage is hard . . . It’s a fucking marathon.”
About my rating – I sketched some thoughts directly after screening All Right, but it’s taken me a week to weave my notes together, allowing my thoughts to follow the pace of the movie, including time for self-recognition and reflection. I’m going 9 of 10, for the authentic fabric of life, and the staying power of this film. This one’s staying with me for a while.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Story Notes for Dinner for Schmucks
"That was my wife's favorite finger," is the funniest line in a great date movie. It’s delivered shortly after a hilarious visual image, a relaxed vulture seated at a formal dinner table.
Who are the schmucks, and why are they having dinner together—with or without the vulture? First of all, what is a schmuck? According to my dictionary, a schmuck is Yiddish for penis, but the connotation is contemptible, so a better translation might be dickhead. If this frank language shocks you, you won’t like the picture, for much of the humor comes from philosophical cracks about human sexuality.
Stop reading now.
If you’re still with me, here’s the story: To get a promotion to the seventh floor, Tim (Paul Rudd) is charged with finding an “idiot” to invite to his boss’s annual dinner. The idea is to bring together a collection of fools and imbeciles, to give the power elites something to laugh at. But does Tim really want to humiliate some poor schmuck to put himself in a superior position? Julie (Stephanie Szostak), his lovely lover, thinks the dinner sounds horrible and she’s unlikely to marry a man who would participate. And to satisfy her ethical stance, Tim might have gone on to earn his promotion the hard way. But that would have been a different story.
Instead, what happens is Barry (Steve Carell) steps in front of Tim’s car in moving traffic. The collision is executed with perfect slapstick form and, despite a flip in the air and a roll across the windshield, Barry emerges unhurt. This simple action—Barry stepping in front of Tim’s moving Porche to rescue a dead mouse—is the first in a string of choices and socially inappropriate behavior that make him appear to be an utterly senseless person. He even mistakes Tim’s interest – for Tim immediately sees Barry could be the ringer at the dinner party—for friendship and proceeds to stalk him, not maliciously, but because he thinks Tim is wise and kind.
Meanwhile, Julie, a gallery curator, is involved professionally with an artist whose animal magnetism threatens her relatively tame relationship with financial analyst, Tim.
This last plot twist may sound like a love triangle. It is. But the artist isn’t just another guy threatening the sanctity of true love. He’s a larger-than-life character whose narcissistic canvases are gigantic self-portraits, some of which involve cross-dressing as mythical beasts. (Another funny visual to picture in your mind’s eye: Celebrated artist dancing in hooves.) His character defines the playing field of the entire story, for the heart and soul of Dinner is a meditation on the thin line between genius and idiocy.
Barry is also equal parts genius and idiot, and Carell is a master at playing the idiot savant who soars above the worldly sophisticates who mock him. (I’m fondly reminded of the innocent he played in 40-Year-Old Virgin.) The savant side of Barry is his extreme focus and artistry. By day he’s an IRS bureaucrat. On his own time he creates extraordinary tableaus, populated with the dead mice he prepares at the taxidermy. A single dead mouse, painted and dressed up like a little man is creepy. But Barry's recreations of historic events, like the Wright Brothers' first flight in their Kitty Hawk, are exquisite in their detail. He could have made and used artificial mice for his scenes, but the once-living miniature characters make an organic, visceral connection to the scenes they inhabit.
Barry, the idiot, is incompetent in social situations. He gets nose-to-nose in casual street conversations, demonstrating his baseline lack of awareness about what is appropriate space. And, though he’s not stupid, he has peculiar gaps of information. He knows how to adjust a human spine (like a chiropractor) from his delicate work posing dead mice. But he doesn’t know where to find the human clitoris.
Even so, Barry the idiot is willing to play tag with a dominatrix. Picture a collision of irrational passion and innocent playfulness, a scene filled with broken safety glass, glittering like diamonds.
At the dinner, Barry the genius stacks a pyramid of dioramas (including the one of the Wright Brothers) to tell his story. He builds a monument to dreamers. And the price of admission is worth it for this scene alone.
What was missing for me: a fully developed female character. Yes, the love interest is lovely, but her hesitation to commit to a corporate climber is generic, “I don’t know who the real you is . . .” Her natural attraction to pure animal magnetism is soft-pedaled. All the men talk about her temptation to go the artist’s ranch and ultimately his bed. But she never actually has the moment where she is pulled into the artist’s erotic spell. I wanted to see her struggle to discern between vaulted passion and irresponsible lack of control.
Also, I wanted Tim’s assistant to function at a higher level (in the same way the artist functions as much more than the extra in a love triangle). The assistant (comedienne Kristen Schaal) is a strong character who motivates Tim to pitch his ideas to the firm’s power brokers, and she coaches him with directions about how to get to the seventh floor. Then she disappears from the story. Granted, it’s a small part, but I was almost sure that she’d reappear, possibly giving Barry directions for how to navigate the female anatomy.
Overall, this is still a well-conceived story, and the theme holds all the slapstick and sex jokes together. The whole is raised far above what might otherwise be cheap laughs because of the clarity, dramatized throughout and articulated with a John Lennon lyric—“You may think that I’m a dreamer. But I’m not the only one.” For that clear thought, I rate the movie 9 out of 10.
Aside to the director: Congratulations, Jay. I think this is your best work, to date.
And I leave you, dear reader, with one last image:
A sculpture of a man’s pointing index finger, complete with power ring and the inscribed words, “This was my wife’s favorite finger.”
Who are the schmucks, and why are they having dinner together—with or without the vulture? First of all, what is a schmuck? According to my dictionary, a schmuck is Yiddish for penis, but the connotation is contemptible, so a better translation might be dickhead. If this frank language shocks you, you won’t like the picture, for much of the humor comes from philosophical cracks about human sexuality.
Stop reading now.
If you’re still with me, here’s the story: To get a promotion to the seventh floor, Tim (Paul Rudd) is charged with finding an “idiot” to invite to his boss’s annual dinner. The idea is to bring together a collection of fools and imbeciles, to give the power elites something to laugh at. But does Tim really want to humiliate some poor schmuck to put himself in a superior position? Julie (Stephanie Szostak), his lovely lover, thinks the dinner sounds horrible and she’s unlikely to marry a man who would participate. And to satisfy her ethical stance, Tim might have gone on to earn his promotion the hard way. But that would have been a different story.
Instead, what happens is Barry (Steve Carell) steps in front of Tim’s car in moving traffic. The collision is executed with perfect slapstick form and, despite a flip in the air and a roll across the windshield, Barry emerges unhurt. This simple action—Barry stepping in front of Tim’s moving Porche to rescue a dead mouse—is the first in a string of choices and socially inappropriate behavior that make him appear to be an utterly senseless person. He even mistakes Tim’s interest – for Tim immediately sees Barry could be the ringer at the dinner party—for friendship and proceeds to stalk him, not maliciously, but because he thinks Tim is wise and kind.
Meanwhile, Julie, a gallery curator, is involved professionally with an artist whose animal magnetism threatens her relatively tame relationship with financial analyst, Tim.
This last plot twist may sound like a love triangle. It is. But the artist isn’t just another guy threatening the sanctity of true love. He’s a larger-than-life character whose narcissistic canvases are gigantic self-portraits, some of which involve cross-dressing as mythical beasts. (Another funny visual to picture in your mind’s eye: Celebrated artist dancing in hooves.) His character defines the playing field of the entire story, for the heart and soul of Dinner is a meditation on the thin line between genius and idiocy.
Barry is also equal parts genius and idiot, and Carell is a master at playing the idiot savant who soars above the worldly sophisticates who mock him. (I’m fondly reminded of the innocent he played in 40-Year-Old Virgin.) The savant side of Barry is his extreme focus and artistry. By day he’s an IRS bureaucrat. On his own time he creates extraordinary tableaus, populated with the dead mice he prepares at the taxidermy. A single dead mouse, painted and dressed up like a little man is creepy. But Barry's recreations of historic events, like the Wright Brothers' first flight in their Kitty Hawk, are exquisite in their detail. He could have made and used artificial mice for his scenes, but the once-living miniature characters make an organic, visceral connection to the scenes they inhabit.
Barry, the idiot, is incompetent in social situations. He gets nose-to-nose in casual street conversations, demonstrating his baseline lack of awareness about what is appropriate space. And, though he’s not stupid, he has peculiar gaps of information. He knows how to adjust a human spine (like a chiropractor) from his delicate work posing dead mice. But he doesn’t know where to find the human clitoris.
Even so, Barry the idiot is willing to play tag with a dominatrix. Picture a collision of irrational passion and innocent playfulness, a scene filled with broken safety glass, glittering like diamonds.
At the dinner, Barry the genius stacks a pyramid of dioramas (including the one of the Wright Brothers) to tell his story. He builds a monument to dreamers. And the price of admission is worth it for this scene alone.
What was missing for me: a fully developed female character. Yes, the love interest is lovely, but her hesitation to commit to a corporate climber is generic, “I don’t know who the real you is . . .” Her natural attraction to pure animal magnetism is soft-pedaled. All the men talk about her temptation to go the artist’s ranch and ultimately his bed. But she never actually has the moment where she is pulled into the artist’s erotic spell. I wanted to see her struggle to discern between vaulted passion and irresponsible lack of control.
Also, I wanted Tim’s assistant to function at a higher level (in the same way the artist functions as much more than the extra in a love triangle). The assistant (comedienne Kristen Schaal) is a strong character who motivates Tim to pitch his ideas to the firm’s power brokers, and she coaches him with directions about how to get to the seventh floor. Then she disappears from the story. Granted, it’s a small part, but I was almost sure that she’d reappear, possibly giving Barry directions for how to navigate the female anatomy.
Overall, this is still a well-conceived story, and the theme holds all the slapstick and sex jokes together. The whole is raised far above what might otherwise be cheap laughs because of the clarity, dramatized throughout and articulated with a John Lennon lyric—“You may think that I’m a dreamer. But I’m not the only one.” For that clear thought, I rate the movie 9 out of 10.
Aside to the director: Congratulations, Jay. I think this is your best work, to date.
And I leave you, dear reader, with one last image:
A sculpture of a man’s pointing index finger, complete with power ring and the inscribed words, “This was my wife’s favorite finger.”
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Story Notes for Despicable Me
First of all, let’s get the ranking out of the way. We’re talking 10 out of 10 on this motion picture.
“Light bulb!” is the funniest line in a script full of terrific dialog. But the picture is so much more than jokes and sight gags. The humor in Despicable Me grows organically from the characters, with their funny gestures and funny attitudes.
A quick plot summary—a criminal master-mind tricks three little orphan girls into pulling a swindle—makes the story sound like a string of stereotypical characters in a recycled parody of an old Saturday morning cartoon. But this picture delivers a fresh surprise at every corner, and creates a very contemporary, yet timeless story.
So what makes Despicable Me feel so unique? It’s filled with plenty of self-referential nods to ubiquitous media imagery. Post-modern sensibility so often leads to been there, done that. What raises this picture above that trap?
I did enough research to learn that Despicable Me was animated by an international crew centered in Paris. The Production Designer, Yarrow Chaney—bless him, soaked in the architectural grandeur and romance of the city and it spilled back out of him and his story artists and onto the screen. The color palette is deep, sensuous and the spaces are filled with lofty ceilings . . . and space. Very appropriate for a story in which the main character reaches for the moon.
Even though the story is not set in France, Paris is at the heart of the film, and the multi-cultural crew marinates Despicable Me in a worldly sensibility. Yes, the visuals are sophisticated, and yes the soundtrack moves from classical to edgy and back, without feeling choppy, rather like a brilliantly, textured mosaic.
The animation is also top of the line. We’ve become so accustomed to expertly rendered technique, that it’s no surprise this one is well-crafted. But even here, the subtly and nuance is richer than we might first expect. Gru, the villain, makes his first appearance in a giant, space-ship like motor car spewing excessive amounts of foul smoke. He has an imposing, barrel-chested body and a sharp, hooked nose. Yet, watch him when he holds his hands behind his back, and notice how he curls his delicate fingers as he weighs his options.
One element took me out of the story, because it did not rise above charicature, as every other ingredient did. Gru’s mother, despite the to-die-for-glasses and the world-class voice (thank you Julie Andrews) , belittled Gru as a child (revealed in flashbacks) and this is the story equivalent of understanding how love-starved he must be, how this repressed need for affection has driven him to a life of evil ways.
Okay: That mom’s completely heartless – maybe I buy. That the flashbacks are an effective way to gain sympathy for our main character – maybe, but do we need it? He has a dog and then the little girls, plenty of opportunity to allow his tender side to unfold. Then, late in the story, mom somehow does a complete about face and becomes doting. Huh? Missed that beat. Mom needed more dimension. (Even the creepy mistress of the orphanage had her vulnerable moment. It was spot on. And it didn’t turn her nice.)
But that’s a quibble in an otherwise flawless picture. Kudos to the directors, Pierre Coffin and Chris Renaud. (Interesting to note that neither of the men have a major directing credit on imdb.) Despicable Me. See it. I know I’ll go back for multiple viewings of this one.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Story Notes for The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
What’s great –
Final note: Despite the over-worn elements (that bother me more on reflection than when I was in the theater), Cage and director Turtletaub and their entire creative team have made some of their own magic here.
- Nicolas Cage. Bolder and more passionate than we’ve seen him in decades. He’s channeling the heart energy that fueled him in Moonstruck and Raising Arizona. Cage plays a sorcerer who’s over 1000 years old and has literally seen it all. Yet, this wild-haired character has his sweet, vulnerable side.
- The apprentice, played by Jay Baruchel, a nerdy physics student who experiments with a Tesla coil. When he shares his secret lab with a pretty coed, he choreographs the electric charges to the music she loves to play on her radio show. Sounds corny, but it’s a loving, sexy scene, making this the best date movie of the year.
- The marriage of science and magic and the terrific results it produces. The Tesla coil scene dramatizes this brilliantly, focusing on the magic of love. In many variations, this potent science+magic theme runs throughout the story.
- The sorcerer’s car.
- The catcher’s chest protector and face guard that Dave uses while he learns to catch and throw plasma bolts.
- —SPOILER ALERT—Giving the love interest, Teresa Palmer, the guts to climb the tower and kick the satellite dish enough to disrupt the final curse. (Too bad we didn’t spend enough time with her to really care about her struggle, the romantic one—how she felt when nerdy Dave had some “issues” related to runaway mops and cancelled their date—as well as the intellectual one—how she so easily embraced Dave’s unusual apprenticeship. It took him over a decade; she was okay with it in about 22 seconds.) There are other things wrong with the satellite kicking scene, but I’m in the wrong category, and there’s really a lot of great stuff in this picture, like:
- The great line delivered by Cage: “Love is a distraction.”
- Alfred Molino, who plays Cage’s foe, a sorcerer who was formerly Cages friend and ally, but who feels betrayed and has gone to the dark side. In a way he’s resurrecting his role from Spiderman II, but that’s a writing and casting gaff, and Molino is so good in the part nobody will care.
- The apprentice reprising Toby McGuire’s reluctant superhero. Granted, the reluctant hero=good drama. (But another nod to Spiderman? At least no one in the apprentice’s family had to die to motivate the hero to act.)
- The Frankenstein of fantasy/villainous elements: Russian nesting dolls, magical rings, urban car chases, Chinatown (though the dragon scene was worth it). It’s not that any one of these elements is wrong or bad, but the string of stitched together gimmicks are less than elegant.
- NYC as the only, edgy contemporary setting. Yes, the abandoned subway station makes a neat lab, but I there’s a neat underground city in Seattle, too. Probably lots of places.
- The villain Morgan le Fay as evil sorceress. It’s the male-written, recent media that’s made her so. Ancient and even contemporary authors describe Morgan as a healer, an adviser, and even the architect of King Arthur’s successful round table. Trapping Morgan in a Russian doll was a clever invention; Couldn’t the writers have spent their energies on a more interesting villain?
- Not one, but two frenetic prologues, neither of which was necessary. In fact, they make the story seem contrived and predictable. Allow the backstory to be revealed.
- And in the same vein, not one powerful villain who can shapeshift, but rafts of them. (All called “Morganians,” as if the le Fay connection carries more weight. – SPOILER ALERT—It doesn’t, because we don’t actually meet your most evil-of-evils Morgan until the very end. I’m not counting the prologue.)
- The music for the namesake scene. The one based on "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" sequence from Fantasia. Sure it's a wonderful homage, but either update the orchestration to match the contemporary soundtrack, or design the rest of the music in the 2010 soundtrack to match the original score of the 1940 Disney animated picture. Other aspects of the soundtrack worked well, some beautifully. (See the comments about the Tesla coil music scene above.) What happened here? Though the “live action” mops were delightful to watch, I wondered if the oboes and flutes of the Dukas song got lost in the subway tile and stone.
Final note: Despite the over-worn elements (that bother me more on reflection than when I was in the theater), Cage and director Turtletaub and their entire creative team have made some of their own magic here.
- The final scene—I can’t give it away—but trust me: It’s visually stunning, brimming with action, yet tender. Best of all, it brings out the absolute best in our apprentice. We love to love our hero.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Dear, Lucky Agent
Today I'm entering a contest run by Chuck Sambuchino, the editor of Guide to Literary Agents Editor's Blog.
"Dear, Lucky Agent" is a recurring contest. So, even though I'm submitting the first page of my kids' novel, next month Chuck will shift to another genre. So, if you're writing any kind of material--fiction, non-fiction, YA romance or adult mystery--bookmark his blog, or subscribe to the feed like I do.
Here's what I'm sending:
Entry:
Green Tara, a 42,000 word middle-grade novel
Author:
Kalynn Huffman Brower (That's me, the storygoddess.)
Logline:
Should Virginia Maderas, teen of the 24th century, jump ship in her red-hot space coupe in hopes of finding the legendary planet, Green Tara? Is a blue star hot?*
page 1:
I never thought I’d get caught.
I made it out and back and even managed to park on K-deck without attracting attention. To remain inconspicuous, I popped open the back hatch of my Galaxy Blast and slipped out. Then things went pathological. Something about my landing protocol must have set off an alert, because two sentries met me on the ramp.
I whispered to Dot, who was wrapped around my arm in our normal travel mode, “Why didn’t you warn me?”
She just gave me that I-told-you-so look, and her screen went blank.
Great. Nothing like being abandoned and left in the custody of a couple of hyper-vigilant sentries who, as it turned out, were there to escort me to lock-down. Me! I never, ever expected to be taken there. Lockdown is the place they put frightening, high-security-risk rebels. Not a teenage girl.
Now I was going to have to explain to my dad how I’d gotten off the ship without a license.
. . .
* Yes, a blue star is hot. It's the hottest kind. But you already know that astronomical fact.
"Dear, Lucky Agent" is a recurring contest. So, even though I'm submitting the first page of my kids' novel, next month Chuck will shift to another genre. So, if you're writing any kind of material--fiction, non-fiction, YA romance or adult mystery--bookmark his blog, or subscribe to the feed like I do.
Here's what I'm sending:
Entry:
Green Tara, a 42,000 word middle-grade novel
Author:
Kalynn Huffman Brower (That's me, the storygoddess.)
Logline:
Should Virginia Maderas, teen of the 24th century, jump ship in her red-hot space coupe in hopes of finding the legendary planet, Green Tara? Is a blue star hot?*
page 1:
I never thought I’d get caught.
I made it out and back and even managed to park on K-deck without attracting attention. To remain inconspicuous, I popped open the back hatch of my Galaxy Blast and slipped out. Then things went pathological. Something about my landing protocol must have set off an alert, because two sentries met me on the ramp.
I whispered to Dot, who was wrapped around my arm in our normal travel mode, “Why didn’t you warn me?”
She just gave me that I-told-you-so look, and her screen went blank.
Great. Nothing like being abandoned and left in the custody of a couple of hyper-vigilant sentries who, as it turned out, were there to escort me to lock-down. Me! I never, ever expected to be taken there. Lockdown is the place they put frightening, high-security-risk rebels. Not a teenage girl.
Now I was going to have to explain to my dad how I’d gotten off the ship without a license.
. . .
* Yes, a blue star is hot. It's the hottest kind. But you already know that astronomical fact.
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