The Bitter Script Reader The advice and rantings of a Hollywood script reader tired of seeing screenwriters make the same mistakes, saving the world from bad writing one screenplay at a time.
We were both young men then, and lived, I am afraid, rather a wild life, in the delightful city of our sojourn. One night, we were idling about the neighborhood of the Palais Royal, doubtful to what amusement we should next betake ourselves.
When we got upstairs, and had left our hats and sticks with the doorkeeper, we were admitted into the chief gambling-room. We did not find many people assembled there. But, few as the men were who looked up at us on our entrance, they were all types—lamentably true types—of their respective classes.
We had come to see blackguards, but these men were something worse. There is a comic side, more or less appreciable, in all blackguardism—here there was nothing but tragedy—mute, weird tragedy. The quiet in the room was horrible. The thin, haggard, long-haired young man, whose sunken eyes fiercely watched the turning up of the cards, never spoke; the flabby, fat-faced, pimply player, who pricked his piece of pasteboard perseveringly, to register how often black won, and how often red—never spoke; the dirty, wrinkled old man, with the vulture eyes and the darned great-coat, who had lost his last sou, and still looked on desperately, after he could play no longer—never spoke.
Even the voice of the croupier sounded as if it were strangely dulled and thickened in the atmosphere of the room. I had entered the place to laugh, but the spectacle before me was something to weep over.
I soon found it necessary to take refuge in excitement from the depression of spirits which was fast stealing on me. Unfortunately, I sought the nearest excitement by going to the table and beginning to play.
Still more unfortunately, as the event will show, I won—won prodigiously; won incredibly; won at such a rate that the regular players at the table crowded around me; and staring at my stakes with hungry, superstitious eyes, whispered to one another that the English stranger was going to break the bank.
The game was Rouge et Noir.
And a gambler, in the strict sense of the word, I had never been. I was heart-whole from the corroding passion for play. My gaming was a mere idle amusement.
I never resorted to it by necessity, because I never knew what it was to want money. I never practiced it so incessantly as to lose more than I could afford, or to gain more than I could coolly pocket without being thrown off my balance by my good luck.
In short, I had frequented gambling-tables—just as I frequented ballrooms and opera houses—because they amused me, and because I had nothing better to do with my leisure hours. But on this occasion, it was very different—now, for the first time in my life, I felt what the passion for play was.
My success first bewildered, and then, in the most literal meaning of the word, intoxicated me. Incredible as it may appear, it is nevertheless true, that I only lost when I attempted to estimate chances, and played according to previous calculation.
If I left everything to luck, and staked without any care or consideration, I was sure to win—to win in the face of every recognized probability in favor of the bank. At first, some of the men present ventured their money safely enough on my color, but I speedily increased my stakes to sums which they dared not risk.
One after another, they left off playing and breathlessly looked on at my game. Still, time after time, I staked higher and higher, and still won. The excitement in the room rose to fever pitch. The silence was interrupted by a deep-muttered chorus of oaths and exclamations in different languages, every time the gold was shoveled across to my side of the table—even the imperturbable croupier dashed his rake on the floor in a French fury of astonishment at my success.
But one man present preserved his self-possession, and that man was my friend. He came to my side, and whispering in English, begged me to leave the place, satisfied with what I had already gained.
I must do him the justice to say that he repeated his warnings and entreaties several times, and only left me and went away after I had rejected his advice I was to all intents and purposes gambling drunk in terms which rendered it impossible for him to address me again that night.
Shortly after he had gone, a hoarse voice behind me cried:This has worked just fine for me for ages, although it makes writing up a two-page pitch a nuisance, since I have to write about half the story before I can summarize it to that short length. Oh, just so everyone knows, my background is in theater directing.
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Categories. Guides; Writing a Screenplay 4. Writing a Book Writing an Autobiography 3. I staked higher and higher, and still won.
|Pitch Examples||And those fearful of writing for a dollar are the ones not making the bucks. But how do you get started from scratch?|
|The Difference Between Writing for Film and for TV||It is possible you have a short story already written that you wish to convert into action dialogue. You have to understand that wanting to write a movie script and actually writing one are two separate things.|
|St. Louis Writers Guild, St. Louis Writers Guild St. Louis, MO Home||Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Never compose without an arrangement or plan otherwise that would be a script-writing suicide.|
The excitement in the room rose to fever pitch. The silence was interrupted by a.
Top 10 Hot Topics to Pitch to Editors at Arts & Crafts Magazines. by Freelance Writing. Proposal writing samples or examples you find in a web search seem to offer a quick and easy way to prepare a proposal. How to Avoid the 'Fatal Coincidence' When Writing a Screenplay.
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Writing a Script Teacher Resources. Find Writing a Script lesson plans and worksheets. Writing a Screenplay 6th - 8th CCSS: Adaptable.