Mostly True Memoirs


A huge problem that I see in the scripts that I cover

is that the protagonist lacks focus.

The main character is going in too many directions.

He wants love.

He wants to win.

He wants revenge.

He wants to go home.

He wants to reconcile.

He wants redemption.

I advise writers to focus their protagonist.

Give him one single desire that drives him through the entire plot.

Are there exceptions to this rule?

Of course there are.

But an aspiring writer should master the basics first.

Yes, I know, I used “he” instead of “he/she.”

But I’m thinking of a specific script

in which the protagonist was male.

I gave the writer suggestions about refining the main character.

I can’t wait to read the revisions.

It will be a much better story when the protagonist is focused.

Mostly True Memoirs

Now We Wait

We are expecting a monster hailstorm.

Bob tried to put both cars in the garage.

We have a tiny garage.

With the motorcycle, a huge tool bench and the lawn mowing equipment, we don’t have room to park the cars inside.

Bob played Tetris and managed to get both cars in.

However, it was jammed so tight that he couldn’t open the door to get out of the car.

I had to open the hatch on the Expedition so he could escape.

But there was no room for the motorcycle.

I suggested that he wheel it inside the house.

We have a large entryway.

There’s room.

Besides, he once put his gas tank in the dryer.

He also cooked some engine parts in the oven and scorched my butcher block afterward.

So why not crack some tiles in the entryway?

It would match the motorcycle-distressed décor of the rest of the house.

However, our very kind neighbor offered up a bit of space in his garage.

Our entryway has been spared.

This time.

And now we wait…

Mostly True Memoirs

How the Tables Have Turned

Holy smokes – what a rainstorm!

It’s been gray and rainy all morning, but suddenly it turned pitch dark.

The wind began to howl.

And the rain started pelting in sideways.

My little dog is freaking out.

My last dogs were German Shepherds.

They would have stood guard to protect me, barking at the storm.

But not my little Wrigley.

She is trembling in fear, burying her snout in the crook of my elbow.

Oh, how the tables have turned.