Images inspire me. I hear stories in the really good ones. Combined with something brilliant written on top of them, some images can catapult me into another dimension. That Warhol poster to your left, one that any college freshman can purchase at online poster pushers like this one, may scream with pretension and pat art philosophy but damn it’s working for me. The instant I saw it, my screenwriting brain shifted gears. And on the very same page that I found this print I found another, that lead me to a wiki page, that lead me to another wiki page, and finally another. And on that last page I read something that helped me come up with the plot to an idea that has been simmering in my brain pan for a few weeks now. It’s fucking ace, I think. I have to, you see, or I won’t dedicate three months of my life to it. Of course, that old problem of having to decide on my next project (now among 3 candidates instead of 2) while I wait for signs of life after sending out my last (40+ agencies, 2 contests) is back with a vengeance, but I’m inspired, man. Truly. What a feeling.
I want to share the idea so badly, too. Not just because I like it so much, but also for those relentlessly dull inspiration killers called “practical reasons”. The truth is, I need to do some more research, particularly on Paris at the turn of the 20th century, and even more specifically, the caste structure that existed between the wealthy art world and the poor and affected that were often their inspirations. Therein already lies so much inherent conflict, yet conflict swaddled in a subtle and genteel passion ready to explode at any minute. Dramatic tension abounds, sure, but what does this have to do with horror or fantasy or science fiction? Stay with me, I’m getting there.
Enter a struggling sportswriter (I see Paul Giamatti) with a bad horseshoe ’round his neck sent over from the States by a two-bit art rag to cover an “important” event. Of course, he doesn’t want to be there but it’s an opportunity for some scratch and street cred that his wallet and career desperately needs. Add some intrigue involving a supposedly “innocuous” detail about a painting that’s been known for ages, create a myth behind it, and add a series of grisly murders, committed by someone – or perhaps something – that our reporter gets caught up in accidentally. Before you know it, he’s sucked into some otherworldly intrigue that threatens to destroy his relationship with the very crowd that has begun to embrace him, and could easily make or break him. Only, he has no choice but to go along with the murderer’s plans of notoriety, you see, or he could end up someone else’s grisly story.
He wanted a big game, and he got one.
If you’ve been reading my blog, or have read back just now, you’ll recognize this story as something of a more fleshed out version of an idea that I toyed with at the close of one of my entries called The Unveiling. And you may or may not respond to the vague smattering of kernels I’ve offered here. Sure, I could divulge some more (I’m thinking spooky overall with splashes of artful gore), but with the little career stuff I have hanging in the balance right now, I’d rather not come off as the guy who gives away too much just yet. Do I think someone out there will happen upon scottStories and be so enthralled by it that they start mining my tidbits? No, not really. But if I’m going to have to go back to school here and research my ass off for a blind squirrel’s chance at selling something, I also have to think that that that has very little chance of happening, just might come to be.
Hey, I just got away with three “thats” in a row and the sentence is still grammatically correct. It may not count as art, but it’s got me feeling kind of lucky anyway.