Idea for a novel, maybe even a MOVIE... - GoFuckYourself.com

2HousePlague · 03-04-2006, 02:16 PM

Whaddaya think?

>For brevity's sake, I'll just reference some of the characterization from "Finding Forrester" -- y'all know it, right...

>Sean Connery plays like this old washed-up novelist who like wrote this one book when he was like 20 that won the Pulitzer. For demons-of-his-own he never wrote again. Enter inspiration/personal-rennaissance-catalyst in the form of this little black kid who lives in the Harlem-equivalent of whatever city the movie was supposed to be set in. Connery helps the kid become a better writer, so well the kid is accused of plagiarism. Connery enters during the trial (Deus ex Machina style) reveals the kid a genius, and himself not dead.<

The story I'm thinking of is just like that, except without the little kid or the vicarious comeback -- just a once-great, washed-up writer living with his demons all alone in Harlem. No little kids make noise playing ball outside, even.

The writer guy wakes up one morning miraculously inspired to work again. Mind you, he has had no contact with anyone from the outside in decades, except for the troll-like personage who brings him food twice per day through a little slot in the door, but with whom writer guy never exchanges anything but the most insubstantial dialogue (in the form of low harrumphs and taps of the foot). So writer guy has completely forgotten how to have a conversation with a normal human being... He has lost the capacity for live give-and-take. The idea that's in his head for his next book is, therefore and accordingly, more than a little bit fukhakhde.

The gist of the plot of the book is this:

>A man who's been living for decades with no human contact decides to write a book. He has decided that he will write but one word per day. After working on the novel for several years, he dies suddenly and the body is not discovered until the next Ice Age by some alien archeologists exploring the Dead Earth (yeah, just like AI). >
The head alien archeologist takes the incomplete novel back to the Home Planet. The book contains 612 words, comprising 4 paragraphs. To read the 612 words straight through, as if they were just plain English... Well, fuck it... I'll just show ya the 612 words:

> Imagine a train, making its way around a circular track, and on the train, a sleeping passenger, sitting with his newspaper folded on his lap (ready to slide to the floor), who startles awake suddenly on account of some fleeting dream trauma. The passenger, who is perfectly alone on the train, awakens just in time to see the train pull into a certain station, that he instantly recognizes as the station where he should get off, although the name of the station according to the numerous signs is entirely unfamiliar to him, as is the woman who is standing on the platform waving her arms in frantic joy trying to get his attention. Just as the beauty of the woman begins to insist itself on his senses, and he even begins to fabricate in his mind recollections of having loved her deeply some long lost lifetime before, he arrives into her arms and meets her kiss, still with a measure of confusion.

Jane is her name, or so that's what he thinks he hears whispered into his left ear right before she gives the lobe the tenderest of nibbles, as if to drive the sound of the spoken word more deeply into his consciousness. And she succeeds. Although when she takes him finally by the hand and begins to lead him away, the weight of the briefcase in his other hand seems to burden inordinately. So, he lets it fall soundlessly to the platform, and turns his head as they leave it behind. Then, down a gleaming white-painted iron spiral staircase they descend, into the empty station itself, which is lit only by the sun that pours down, over the silence and the faded echoes and the dust-covered surfaces, from the many sky-lights above.

And he can't help but notice the moving perfection of Jane's white dress in the sun, the way it flows around her exuberant strides, exploding from moment to moment into gloriously pale flashes of ecclesiastical brilliance. And he thinks to himself: "she may very well be an angel", while the clasp of her fingers on his hand is a scarcely perceptible pressure, like the touch of a silk scarf. She is, in movement, the summation of all her static parts. There is the one hand, which trails away from his own, then up fluidly springs the arm to the peak and curve of the shoulder, unknowably slender beneath the billow of the dress. And the throat is an art, with its delicately exposed lattice of muscular tension and grace, which down the front, to where the dress conceals, becomes the swell of her bosom. Then too, unseen, the ribs confine a strength, that every heave and subside of her breath let show even through the volume of her dress. And then as they pass out of the station and out into a large field of grass where two yellow butterflies dance in spirals, she is no more merely Jane, the external phenomenon of movement and light, out there somewhere near the ends of his outstretched finger tips, now she becomes Jane the Will.

And in that way, Jane, with sufficient will and sufficient speed and sufficient grace, so as to leap not only herself over the dark, unseen stone beneath the untrod grass, but also to leap for him (he who dangles from her wrist like a trinket and is fleetingly grateful for the close avoidance of that fatal stumble); and in that way she moves them both forward across the thickening field and toward some secret hidden place, not at all too far ahead now. And once again, it is like the train caught in its circuit of familiarity...<

So, the alien archeologist devotes the rest of his life to trying to decipher what he is certain must be some sort of code. The alien archeologist dies, having never cracked the code.<

The camera pulls out and we (the audience/reader) realize the scene we've been "watching" is from an old episode of the Twilight Zone. Rod Serling begins to speak in voice-over as we (in the perspective of the camera rising up above the scene on a long boom) look down upon the splayed body of the dead alien archeologist in his gleaming white lab coat.<

The camera continues to pull back, passing over your own hand on the remote control (still pointed at the TV), the dog-eared paper back open on your lap and the top of your balding head.

It goes out the window flies over the street, down, and positions itself behind the left shoulder of a little black kid with a basketball under his arm who shouts:

"Hey, mister... you a'ight?"

<

2hp

drunken ninja · 03-04-2006, 03:52 PM

I'm going to bookmark this thread and read it when I buy a computer printer

Deej · 03-04-2006, 07:42 PM

write and publish it....couldn't hurt

drunken ninja · 03-04-2006, 08:03 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by 2HousePlague

After working on the novel for several years, he dies suddenly and the body is not discovered until the next Ice Age by some alien archeologists exploring the Dead Earth

whoa...this is getting good ;-)

part of it reminds me a bit of beckett:

BusterBunny · 03-04-2006, 08:07 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by drunken ninja

whoa...this is getting good ;-)

part of it reminds me a bit of beckett:

drunken ninja · 03-04-2006, 08:17 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by 2HousePlague

The camera continues to pull back, passing over your own hand on the remote control (still pointed at the TV), the dog-eared paper back open on your lap and the top of your balding head.

It goes out the window flies over the street, down, and positions itself behind the left shoulder of a little black kid with a basketball under his arm who shouts:

"Hey, mister... you a'ight?"

Hey 2hp, did you find that blog you lost yesterday

reynold · 03-05-2006, 09:33 PM

be careful with posting your ideas on the net coz someone might use it and claim rights

Meta Ridley · 03-05-2006, 09:35 PM

Thanks for the idea, I have a new idea for a book.

drunken ninja · 03-05-2006, 10:38 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by reynold

be careful with posting your ideas on the net coz someone might use it and claim rights

hey reynold, of course...this is true, but no one can take the creative process away from you

reynold · 03-06-2006, 04:24 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by drunken ninja

hey reynold, of course...this is true, but no one can take the creative process away from you

I'm just warning you. Document all drafts you have in your HD just in case. good luck with the novel

nick1980 · 03-06-2006, 04:55 AM

You have great ideas above. I wish you good luck and i hope that you'll be successful in the field of writing.

2HousePlague · 05-03-2006, 08:31 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by drunken ninja

Hey 2hp, did you find that blog you lost yesterday

2hp

madawgz · 05-03-2006, 08:32 PM

im sorry that was just too long to read lol

2HousePlague · 05-03-2006, 08:40 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by madawgz

im sorry that was just too long to read lol

2hp

Choppa · 05-04-2006, 10:04 AM

based on the Synopsis id set the movie in Canada

headless ghost · 05-04-2006, 10:14 AM

I'll wait for the Readers Digest condensed version.

03-04-2006, 02:16 PM	#1
2HousePlague CURATOR Join Date: Jul 2004 Location: the attic Posts: 14,572	Idea for a novel, maybe even a MOVIE... Whaddaya think? >For brevity's sake, I'll just reference some of the characterization from "Finding Forrester" -- y'all know it, right... >Sean Connery plays like this old washed-up novelist who like wrote this one book when he was like 20 that won the Pulitzer. For demons-of-his-own he never wrote again. Enter inspiration/personal-rennaissance-catalyst in the form of this little black kid who lives in the Harlem-equivalent of whatever city the movie was supposed to be set in. Connery helps the kid become a better writer, so well the kid is accused of plagiarism. Connery enters during the trial (Deus ex Machina style) reveals the kid a genius, and himself not dead.< The story I'm thinking of is just like that, except without the little kid or the vicarious comeback -- just a once-great, washed-up writer living with his demons all alone in Harlem. No little kids make noise playing ball outside, even. The writer guy wakes up one morning miraculously inspired to work again. Mind you, he has had no contact with anyone from the outside in decades, except for the troll-like personage who brings him food twice per day through a little slot in the door, but with whom writer guy never exchanges anything but the most insubstantial dialogue (in the form of low harrumphs and taps of the foot). So writer guy has completely forgotten how to have a conversation with a normal human being... He has lost the capacity for live give-and-take. The idea that's in his head for his next book is, therefore and accordingly, more than a little bit fukhakhde. The gist of the plot of the book is this: >A man who's been living for decades with no human contact decides to write a book. He has decided that he will write but one word per day. After working on the novel for several years, he dies suddenly and the body is not discovered until the next Ice Age by some alien archeologists exploring the Dead Earth (yeah, just like AI). > The head alien archeologist takes the incomplete novel back to the Home Planet. The book contains 612 words, comprising 4 paragraphs. To read the 612 words straight through, as if they were just plain English... Well, fuck it... I'll just show ya the 612 words: > Imagine a train, making its way around a circular track, and on the train, a sleeping passenger, sitting with his newspaper folded on his lap (ready to slide to the floor), who startles awake suddenly on account of some fleeting dream trauma. The passenger, who is perfectly alone on the train, awakens just in time to see the train pull into a certain station, that he instantly recognizes as the station where he should get off, although the name of the station according to the numerous signs is entirely unfamiliar to him, as is the woman who is standing on the platform waving her arms in frantic joy trying to get his attention. Just as the beauty of the woman begins to insist itself on his senses, and he even begins to fabricate in his mind recollections of having loved her deeply some long lost lifetime before, he arrives into her arms and meets her kiss, still with a measure of confusion. Jane is her name, or so that's what he thinks he hears whispered into his left ear right before she gives the lobe the tenderest of nibbles, as if to drive the sound of the spoken word more deeply into his consciousness. And she succeeds. Although when she takes him finally by the hand and begins to lead him away, the weight of the briefcase in his other hand seems to burden inordinately. So, he lets it fall soundlessly to the platform, and turns his head as they leave it behind. Then, down a gleaming white-painted iron spiral staircase they descend, into the empty station itself, which is lit only by the sun that pours down, over the silence and the faded echoes and the dust-covered surfaces, from the many sky-lights above. And he can't help but notice the moving perfection of Jane's white dress in the sun, the way it flows around her exuberant strides, exploding from moment to moment into gloriously pale flashes of ecclesiastical brilliance. And he thinks to himself: "she may very well be an angel", while the clasp of her fingers on his hand is a scarcely perceptible pressure, like the touch of a silk scarf. She is, in movement, the summation of all her static parts. There is the one hand, which trails away from his own, then up fluidly springs the arm to the peak and curve of the shoulder, unknowably slender beneath the billow of the dress. And the throat is an art, with its delicately exposed lattice of muscular tension and grace, which down the front, to where the dress conceals, becomes the swell of her bosom. Then too, unseen, the ribs confine a strength, that every heave and subside of her breath let show even through the volume of her dress. And then as they pass out of the station and out into a large field of grass where two yellow butterflies dance in spirals, she is no more merely Jane, the external phenomenon of movement and light, out there somewhere near the ends of his outstretched finger tips, now she becomes Jane the Will. And in that way, Jane, with sufficient will and sufficient speed and sufficient grace, so as to leap not only herself over the dark, unseen stone beneath the untrod grass, but also to leap for him (he who dangles from her wrist like a trinket and is fleetingly grateful for the close avoidance of that fatal stumble); and in that way she moves them both forward across the thickening field and toward some secret hidden place, not at all too far ahead now. And once again, it is like the train caught in its circuit of familiarity...< So, the alien archeologist devotes the rest of his life to trying to decipher what he is certain must be some sort of code. The alien archeologist dies, having never cracked the code.< The camera pulls out and we (the audience/reader) realize the scene we've been "watching" is from an old episode of the Twilight Zone. Rod Serling begins to speak in voice-over as we (in the perspective of the camera rising up above the scene on a long boom) look down upon the splayed body of the dead alien archeologist in his gleaming white lab coat.< The camera continues to pull back, passing over your own hand on the remote control (still pointed at the TV), the dog-eared paper back open on your lap and the top of your balding head. It goes out the window flies over the street, down, and positions itself behind the left shoulder of a little black kid with a basketball under his arm who shouts: "Hey, mister... you a'ight?" < 2hp __________________ tada!

03-04-2006, 07:42 PM	#3
Deej I make pixels work Industry Role: Join Date: Jun 2005 Location: I live here... Posts: 24,386	write and publish it....couldn't hurt __________________ Deej's Designs n' What Not Hit me up for Design, CSS & Photo Retouching Icq#30096880

03-05-2006, 09:35 PM	#8
Meta Ridley Confirmed User Join Date: Sep 2003 Location: The land of ruleface and kickass Posts: 3,433	Thanks for the idea, I have a new idea for a book. __________________ [email protected]

03-06-2006, 04:55 AM	#11
nick1980 Confirmed User Join Date: Jul 2005 Posts: 1,435	You have great ideas above. I wish you good luck and i hope that you'll be successful in the field of writing. __________________ Increase your sales. Up to $4 per click.

05-03-2006, 08:32 PM	#13
madawgz 8.8.8.8 Industry Role: Join Date: Mar 2006 Location: Noordermarkt Posts: 30,509	im sorry that was just too long to read lol __________________ TAEMDLRMSKRJIXMRLSMRJ.

03-04-2006, 03:52 PM	#2
drunken ninja Registered User Join Date: Mar 2006 Location: 320970274 Posts: 717	I'm going to bookmark this thread and read it when I buy a computer printer

03-05-2006, 09:33 PM	#7
reynold Too lazy to set a custom title Join Date: Oct 2002 Location: Global Traveler Posts: 51,271	be careful with posting your ideas on the net coz someone might use it and claim rights

05-04-2006, 10:04 AM	#15
Choppa Confirmed User Join Date: Mar 2006 Location: Webmasters send sexyads.com your dating traffic and live the webmaster dream!! sexyads.com = $$$$$$$$$$ Sexyads adult personals at their greatest since 1997 Earn $$$$$$ today and become one of the thousands of Sexyads Affiliates Posts: 4,079	based on the Synopsis id set the movie in Canada __________________ SexyAds: 10 years in business and still going strong. Become an affiliate today! Choppas ICQ: 283 090 747 Want to know more? [email protected]

05-04-2006, 10:14 AM	#16
headless ghost Confirmed User Join Date: May 2005 Posts: 893	I'll wait for the Readers Digest condensed version.