Seuss

I have this friend. She’s a very good friend. A dear friend, even. And somehow I managed to sucker this friend, whom I’ll call Flarf—because I don’t think I know a Flarf in real life—into reading the screenplay I’ve been writing since October.

She’s a good sport. Really. I can’t tell you how many minor tweaks I’ve sent to her, asking her to trudge through 12 or 15 or 40 pages to find the one little bitty comma that changed because I need to know what it does to the story because, egad, I know it changes the story. It HAS to change the story! Does it change the story?! FIND IT!

Of course, there have been some substantial changes, too. Some were “Oh, hey, you’re going to think this is the same version, but I swear every other word has changed because, dude, I found this awesome online thesaurus!” The most recent was 42 pages of a total rewrite of Act I/early Act II, where I focused on readability and upping the ante in a few places. That’s a particularly mystical version because it’s completely different yet, on the surface, remarkably the same. (Not really.)

But through it all, Flarf has been fantastic. Even when we’ve had lunch and she’s tried diligently to avoid talking about my screenplay, I can bring it up and she is there to tell me what she thought and listen to my hair brained ideas.

Word of advice: Writing a screenplay is fun. It’s awesome. But it’s nice to have more than a broad idea when you start writing it, otherwise you’ve rewritten the whole thing six times before you’ve even finished the roughest of first drafts.

I’m digressing. Back to my awesome friend Flarf.

Who is going to lose her ever loving mind when she reads the rest of this post (Ha! I made a funny! Like she reads this…).

For a few weeks, I’ve been toying with ideas in my head. Marketability, flexibility, how can I better explore this character or this situation or flesh this out? I’ve been reading articles and pondering and doodling. A lot.

Yesterday, I had a phone call with the fantastic David Henry Sterry of The Book Doctors (but they also consult on screenplay pitches as well). I saw him at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop’s Pitchapalooza and knew I had to talk to them. So I did. Yesterday. And it was awesome.

But it reaffirmed an idea that’s been getting louder and louder in my head. I need to port this puppy. A screenplay is great, but a screenplay already written to go along with a novel? That’s better. Not to mention that even if the screenplay never sells or gets made, the Story, the Most Important Part, still gets told.

So in a life full of left turns lately, I’m taking another one. It’s great. I’m excited. I have the story, I know my characters, I know the points to hit and where I’d like to spend more time. I’ve figured all of that stuff out in the screenplay. I’m so gung-ho on this that it’s almost crazy, but frightening. Aside from here, it’s been ages since I wrote anything remotely resembling narrative. ‘Sall good, though. I got this.

I’m worried about Flarf, though. When she finds out I’m not only throwing out the bathwater, but I’m changing the baby from a boy to a girl, will she continue to be a good sport and go along with it? Or will she do what she should have done months ago—throw her hands up in the hair and cry “Uncle!”?

Because I wouldn’t blame her one bit.

I’ve always sucked at keeping surprises secret. I get too excited about the whole “Yay, I’ve done something awesome for someone and I WANT TO TELL THEM” thing and usually end up spilling before the recipient (willing or not) is even aware there’s supposed to be a surprise. So when I posted something on Facebook in early December about getting my mother The Bestest Christmas Present Ever, her public response was, “I’ll know by the weekend.”

Gee, Mom. Thanks for that vote of confidence.

But I kept my splendiferous secret. I didn’t tell a soul that many people half the free world her (or Earl, because Earl is even worse at keeping secrets than I am).

Christmas morning came and she unwrapped this enormous box. On top was a sign that read, “If you’re waiting for a sign, this is it.” Below that was another box. Each box had a note taped to it that tied the present above to the present nested within or below. There was the sign, a how-to book on writing, an Erma Bombeck book, a notebook, a carry-all bag, the kitchen sink (felt like it), and an envelope. In the envelope was the real gift: an email confirming her registration to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, OH, in April.

Merry Christmas, Ma! We’re going to DAYTON!

See, I’ve noticed something in my 30-something years. Without my mother ever specifically voicing her old hopes/dreams/fascinations to me, I’ve tended to follow in those same interests, save for reading (which I grew into in adulthood) and keeping a spotless house (HA!). In high school, I decided I wanted to be a physical therapist; Mom once dreamed of being a PT. I had a constant interest in production, TV, and stage; she’d always been fascinated. And since before I knew how to spell, I have always written; my mother is wicked keen with a pen.

She’s spent years doing what mother’s do – watching her dreams unfold vicariously through her child. Well, in December, I decided it’s time for that to change.

Months ago, I was cleaning off floppy disks and found several things she had written or started to write or just kind of scribbled out at the keyboard. Now, it was no big shock to me that she has a natural ability. We have a dear family friend for whom my mother has written everything from cover letters to speeches to obituaries to protest letters through the years. Mom is the go-to gal for most of her friends when something clever or witty or sharp or convincing must be written. I’ve always known that. But I had never really seen any of her creative side until that brief stroll through those floppies. Fold into that how she can flat out tell an oral story, and I was convinced.

This is my mother’s time.

That’s not to say there’s any pressure. Even if all she does is write down the zillions of family stories that live only in her brain (most of the kinfolk will admit that she was the only one who ever really, really listened to the family stories as a child, and of course the tellers are all long-dead), I’ll take that as a tremendous win. They may never even be published, but it would certainly be one of the most cherished things in my life and probably in Earl’s as well.

So in a few weeks, we’ll be driving up to Dayton, sightseeing along the way, to the land of Erma Bombeck. If you’re there, too, stop and say hello. I’ll be easy to spot. I’ll be the grown woman dragging her mother around from workshop to workshop like a kid desperate to get to the mother-lode of secret surprises on Christmas morning.

In case you missed my last completely fangirl over the moon post, “Murphy Brown” is back on the air.

I tried to show restraint. Really, I did. But when Earl came home that first day, and I’d discovered that “Q&A on FYI”, which was the first episode I ever recorded on VHS and, therefore, the first one I memorized word-for-word, was on OnDemand, I couldn’t resist. I remember it, 20+ years later, word-for-word. I figured, eh, what’s the harm? So, as Earl and I played chess, we watched. Actually, I figured I’d watch, try not to quote along with the episode, and she’d…I dunno…play chess.

If there were ever a doubt Earl is my child, it was erased when, as soon as the episode ended, she looked at me and said, “Can we watch another one?”

Melt.

So we did. And everyday since, she’s asked to watch an episode. This morning, she asked for the first one again – “Q&A on FYI.” I must admit, it makes me a bit giddy.

I feel I must disclaim: I’m not letting my 8-year-old daughter watch every episode of “Murphy Brown.” I know this series well enough to know which episodes are appropriate, which ones aren’t, and which ones I don’t remember enough to make that call before re-watching myself first. But of course, the line she latches onto is perhaps the blue-ist of the lines in any of the episodes she’s watched so far, although in context, it’s not blue at all. In “Q&A on FYI,” Corky is tasked with covering the art history category of trivia. During her research at Murphy’s house, she pulls Eldin aside and asks for his help explaining an abstract painting titled “Nude Descending a Staircase.” The line? “WHERE is the nude? WHERE is the staircase? Why can’t they just call it ‘Fish Eating a Cheeseburger’?”

ALL DAY, I heard that line. ALL. DAY. Mom, I’m sorry. I know your pain now. Egad.

We pulled up the painting, looked at it, and agreed that Corky had a valid point, but that, regardless of validity, it still wasn’t an appropriate line for school. That it might make ME laugh and HER laugh, but we’ve seen the episode, we understand it. Other kids her age haven’t. Their parents may not even have seen it.

Which means I just had to send an email to her third grade teacher explaining that, if my child starts talking about nudes descending staircases and fish eating cheeseburgers, she should remind my kid that quoting “Murphy Brown” at school is not appropriate. Not because it’s bad or anything, but because other 8-year-olds will likely look at her like she has 3 heads. “I got that look at school a lot,” I told Earl earlier today, “and I was older than you are. It’s not a fun look to get.”

I’m pretty sure that email did 2 things – won whatever pool the teachers at Earl’s elementary school may have going for “Weirdest Parent Email of the Year” and sealed my place as “Best Parent EVER.”