Mosquito movie

I can write a tear-jerker obituary, an article about luxury toilets and diffuse a crisis while organizing my sock drawer. I’m only being a little cocky. I must confess my sock drawer is a mess and may take some time.

But a movie script, not so much.

Writing a script is like man versus a mosquito:

M: At first you feel a discomfort, an itch. When you scratch your arm you feel a bump and realize you’ve been bit.

S: A stupid conversation at a dinner party stays with you. You keep replaying it and replaying it, like a scene from a movie.

M: You have to stop the mosquito at once. You resolve to find it. Constantly looking around, but still trying to remain calm, playing it off by not letting it interrupt your activity or conversation.

S: You have to put this down on paper. But this is more than a blog entry or an essay, this could be a whole movie. So, without saying anything you venture online to find information, to do some research to see what it takes.

M: There it is, there it is! The black speck that has just given you the Nile Virus and Swine Flu. You lunge toward it, scaring the shit out of whoever is in the room with you. You quickly explain that you’re running after the mosquito that bit you without taking your eyes off of it.

S: Type, type, type. Tutorials in formatting. Chat rooms, forums, list serves. Type, type, type. Eventually the question comes, “Jesus, what are you writing?” And then the answer, “A screenplay.” Ten follow-up questions succeed, but you can’t take your eyes off of that monitor, it will break your concentration. “Shhh!”

M: It rests on the wall. Quietly. Almost waiting for its death. You come at it with a size 10 shoe, with the force of 200 pounds wound up in your forearm. BAM! It flies away.

S: The next morning you sit before your monitor, ready to continue where you left off. You are full of ideas for the next scene, a cool new twist the introduction of a brand new character that will be sure to bring the lucky actor portraying him a golden globe. So you start to re-read what you wrote the night before for continuity and then it happens — you realize that it was all crap. One steaming pile and it smells awful.

M: The cycle starts again.

S: The cycle starts again.


Published by Mari

I was born with a widow's peak and a thick accent. I majored in English as a second language. I work ( and travel ( and sometimes do both.

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