I'm working on my latest script. It's a love story, set in World War II. I've only been writing it for three years. Forgive me but, history buff though I am, World War isn't my specialty. I've had quite some catching up to do.
Which brings me to today's post. I visited a bookstore yesterday, the brick-and-mortar kind... an independently owned one at that. These days, Hayley's Comet might be easier to find. Don't get me wrong. I love the instant gratification of Amazon.com as much as the next writer working hard to procrastinate... but one thing you can't get via iPad is the smell of paper and glue. At least, not yet.
Funny, you never miss things 'til they're gone.
Go ahead, call me sentimental; "vintage" if you must be pc. I'm old. I get it. So what? So what if I enjoy spending a rainy afternoon perusing a forest of dead trees? Some people go to museums. I hang out in bookstores. I'm a writer. It's called research.
In this particular store, on this particular day, I came face to face with another novelty which can't be found in an online store: Another writer, live and in person. At last, someone who understands. Try getting that in an online store. You can order up a signed copy of an artist's work, or maybe even chat in real time... but I'm betting that the warmth of a handshake can't be found on a site map.
When I'd researched enough of my day away, I headed for the checkout. Finally, the muse was calling. Actually, it was my husband, wanting lunch. There in a neat pile, on a table by the door, I found exactly what I had no idea I needed: A book called FUBAR: Soldier Slang of WWII. A guidebook to the mysteries of male dialogue, during the war years. And what do you know... it was bargain priced! I shuffled my pile of purchases and all but ran with it to my car.
You see, the minute I read the cover I saw where my script was stalled. I've gathered all the necessary bones - the characters, the plot, even the theme. What's missing is the flesh. I have will and knowledge and passion in spades. Great, necessary even, if you're a producer. But a writer is a mechanic, with words. Sooner or later, you gotta write. And if you're writing for the screen, you gotta write dialogue. You know. The part where people talk to each other.
Despite my exhaustive research, I had no idea how men at war talk to each other now, let alone seventy years ago! Dialogue is like fuel in the tank; without it, the vehicle can't go. This little book showed me exactly what I needed to hear.
I began writing this script three years ago off a book I picked up in another bookstore, on another clearance table. Today the shop is gone, but the the book and my passion to share it with the world remains. I'm grateful, for it led me to three years, and more importantly, the last three weeks at my grandad's bedside while he died.
I don't remember my grandad as a war hero. I remember him as a scarecrow of a man, long and lean, with a mischievous grin. Years into retirement, he toddered around the house in gray coveralls, speckled with white paint, or "grandaddy bling".
When he wasn't painting, he was scraping something with the intent to do so. He was always outside, until suppertime. Then he was out again until dusk. Now I suspect I know why. My grandma lives with dementia. For how long, no one knows, but she can be quite scary at times.
Grandad rarely told us about his war years, how he was wounded in battle, how many of his buddies died. He didn't have to. In all the years I knew him, he showed me two things: His love of Jesus and of life. War stories and soldier slang were a thing of the past. He never told me about his purple heart either. I had to look that one up online.
The Bottom Line: Browsing a bookstore is like editing film before NLE machines. Linear editors had to manually scroll through all the takes, then pick the very best ones to hold onto. Sometimes, you really don't know what you're looking for until you find it.
People are kind of like that, too. We haven't managed to replace them either. At least not yet...
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