This is my first post in the Novel Excerpts section as a member of the WriterMag forums. I guess this could be construed as the first chapter of a novel, though it spawned from two writing exercises out of the Gotham Writer's Workshop Writing Fiction book. Please tell me what you think. I don't really know if there's enough here to pursue, but I just wanted to get some feedback and a couple of opinions to see where I can improve my prose! Thanks!
Chapter 1: Untitled
Jack Bradley sat patiently in the lobby of up and coming executive producer, Don Driscoll’s office. He sipped the bland coffee of a Styrofoam cup and exchanged witless banter with Mrs. Dennehy, Driscoll’s assistant. His weathered hands shook but not necessarily from nervousness. Jack had a slight case of Parkinson’s disease. His doctor warned him that it would get worse over time.
He was a bit anxious to get this over with. Driscoll was a tall intimidating man, slicked back hair, broad shoulders, confident but not cocky. His latest film entitled “A Kiss to Build a Dream On” left critics drawing comparisons to the likes of Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola. Jack’s agent, a shrewd, fast talking but incredibly savvy man by the name of Herb Short was busy pitching Jack’s script entitled, “To the Grave” to Don.
Herb was a results oriented guy, direct but polite, invested in his clients but never over emotional, and he never, ever raised his voice at anybody. That is, until today. By the sounds emanating from Mr. Driscoll’s office, the pitch wasn’t going so smoothly.
There was a time in the not so distant past that Jack could sell just about any script, agent or no agent. Countless writers both published and inexperienced sought his advice, his wisdom. Now Jack lived in a world where just about any hack could write and publish his brain droppings, and be received by a mass audience that wouldn’t know good writing if Strunk and White gave them simultaneous kicks in the ass.
About ten minutes later, all discussion had stopped. The door to Don’s office swung open and both Herb and Don emerged from the office looking rather frazzled, but neither one victorious. At least they were still in one piece. That was something. Herb looked at Jack apologetically and shook his head while Don leaned on the frame of his door.
“No go, huh? Alright. Thank you for your time Mr. Driscoll,” Jack said trying not to sound dejected.
“Jack, I’m sorry, it’s just not what we’re looking for right now,” Don said ambling forward. “Maybe if you kept working at it, give it another, re-write it,”
Jack interrupted, “With all due respect Mr. Driscoll, I’ve spent the last five years working on this title. I think it’s about as polished as it’s going to get. I don’t know how much more creativity I’ve got left in me anyway. If it’s all the same, I’d rather just torch the damn thing and get on with my life.” He feigned a smile and turned to the coat rack to gather his hat and coat.
“So that’s it, huh?” Don said, throwing his hands up in the air, exasperated. “After all these years, the great Jack Bradley is going to give up, just like that? Jack, there are writers who have worked on the same script for twenty years. Twenty years! All I’m saying is keep at it. You had some interesting ideas there, I-”
“Keep trying? I’m sixty five years old, how much longer you think I got left?” Jack asked incredulously. “Let me tell you something,” Jack raised his hand and crooked a finger at Don.
“Jack, please,” said Herb in an effort to interject before things got out of hand.
“I’ve pitched this script to every smug, self centered, jerkoff producer in this town, at least the reputable ones anyway and they all told me the same thing; it’s out of date, it’s unrealistic, the character’s not dynamic enough. I had one guy tell me that my main character was too likeable. Tell me, what does that mean, too likeable?”
Don stood silent, stunned that Jack had blown up at him like this.
“You must have all gone to the same school because you’re all full of crap. Good day.”
Herb held his head down low, knowing that whatever shot at selling his script had just disintegrated. For his part, Lem realized too, that he had flown off the handle, but he had insulted Mr. Driscoll so deeply that a thousand heartfelt and sincere apologies couldn’t assuage the damage.
Jack reached for his hat and jacket on the coat rack and as he fastened his hat to his head he had one last parting shot for Mr. Driscoll.
“I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t enjoy my success, but I never did this for the money or the fame and I sure as hell don’t care about the academy. I just want to tell a good story. That’s what I thought I had here. Instead of getting the respect that I earned, I get patronized and put off like a bum begging for change on the street. After today, Mr. Driscoll, I like his odds better than mine.”
With the dramatic flair that only a writer could muster, Jack Bradley stormed out of Don Driscoll’s office and slammed the door behind him. Jack tipped his hat to Mrs. Dennehy on the way out. Herb followed shortly thereafter.
Though Jack walked briskly, Herb was about twenty five years younger and still had spring in his step. The elevator ride down twenty stories was long and uncomfortable. The door opened and Jack nearly leapt out, through the main lobby and out the revolving doors into the street. Herb nearly got crushed by the doors trying to keep up.
“Jack! Jack wait a minute, damn it! Wait just a minute!”
“What?!” Jack said as he spun around angrily.
“What?? What the hell was that all about up there? Have you lost you’re mind?”
“I was speaking my mind,” Jack said wryly.
“Well thanks to your little tirade there, we can kiss any shot of ever seeing Driscoll again.”
“Good, he’s an arrogant little snot.”
“There could have been other projects! A door was opened. He said so himself that he liked your work!”
“Interesting. He called it interesting.”
“You’re never gonna get this thing off the ground if you keep blowing up like this!”
In the midst of Herb’s stern admonishment, Jack had to stifle a laugh. He couldn’t help but think that a flustered Herb looked a lot like an angry elf, flaring at the nostrils and throwing a pint sized tantrum. Jack expected a line of Tolkien inspired obscenities next.
“Herb, I don’t have time for this anymore, this elaborate game of cat and mouse. All of the etiquette in the world hasn’t done me a bit of good, so I thought I might tell him something that he could use.”
“So what now, oh enlightened one? Pray that Driscoll has an epiphany because some blowhard writer from the sixties pissed in his cheerios over a rejected script? You know, you’re just as full of yourself as he is!”
Herb never saw the punch coming, but he should have. Jack hit him with a straight hard right, drawing blood.
“Thit!” Herb said through the tears and blood.
“I-I’m sorry.”
“No…no, I had it coming.”
Jack said nothing, and Herb conceded to his awkward apology.
“So what are you going to do now, and don’t give me that garbage about moving up to your cottage in Maine and whittling canoes. You’ll go stir crazy in a month.
“Good,” Jack smiled. “Then I won’t have to worry about writing this cursed script anymore.”
“Who are you kidding? You’ve probably got a typewriter in every room up there. Face it Jack, you’re a writer. It’s in your blood. Look, maybe you do need a vacation. I’ll stay behind try to do some damage control in your wake and when you get back you’ll be refreshed, energized and ready to start on a new project.”
Jack had a hard time sharing Herb’s enthusiasm, but thought it over anyway. A vacation didn’t seem like such a bad idea. He could do some fishing. Christ he was turning into Henry Fonda in On Golden Pond.
“Fine. I’ll see you in two weeks, Herb.”
“Two weeks it is Jack. Enjoy yourself up there.”
Jack looked around him at the sights and sounds of New York City and realized that he had a splitting headache.