Merlin

You can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards.

My Dad sent me an email the other day that contained a link to a speech given by Steve Jobs to the 2005 graduating class of Stanford University. In it, Jobs relates three stories from his life, each of which seemed like a major setback at the time, but which eventually led him to bigger and better things. One of the stories was about getting fired from Apple, the company he started in his parent's garage when he was a 20-year-old college drop-out. It was devastating for him, but it also led him to one of the most creative periods in his life.

It reminded me of the time I got fired. Of course, the company I got fired from was not one that I had started, nevertheless the experience was a major blow. I was working in publishing as a managing editor at a small boutique firm in the Chelsea district of Manhattan. It was as close as I'd ever gotten to a 'dream job' -- basically being paid to be a writer, or more accurately, to rewrite other writers. I was working in a creative field with other creative people. No more temping in law firms for me! I was beginning an actual career. Like a real adult.

Or so I thought.

When the three book series I'd been working on was finished -- on time and under budget thanks to my tireless efforts -- my usefulness at the small company came to an end. Several lame explanations were offered for my dismissal, but the plain truth was they didn't want to keep paying me what I was worth when they could easily find some young kid to do the job at half the pay. Which they did.

So I was out on my ass. And the economy was bad. I reluctantly reapplied to the temp agencies, but they had diddley. I tried to shop one of my book ideas, a parody of the Twelve-Step Program called The Twelve Shleps, but was told that Twelve-Steppers wouldn't find it funny.

I was unemployed and out of ideas. I had too much time on my hands and nothing to do. I spent long days exploring New York City from top to bottom -- from The Cloisters to Coney Island -- discovering whole new worlds in hidden places. I walked all over Brooklyn and spent hours in Prospect Park, the Botanic Garden, and the Brooklyn Public Library. It was actually a pretty amazing time. I came to love New York more than ever and really feel at home there.

Meanwhile, I had a roommate who was working in the movie business and would bring home screenplays from whatever movie he was working on. I picked one up one day and read it in one sitting. And from that moment I was hooked. I'd been interested in movies all my life, but it wasn't till then that I realized that all I needed to make a movie was pen and paper. Well, not a pen, actually, a computer. And I didn't really need the paper right away. What I needed was an idea.

I thought about all of my favorite stories growing up: James Bond, Robin Hood, Sherlock Holmes, King Arthur... I loved the story of Arthur and Merlin most of all. My high-school girlfriend had given me a copy of The Once and Future King and it had always held special meaning for me. And the Disney cartoon The Sword in the Stone had long been a favorite. Employing one of the screenwriter's most valuable tools, I began thinking "what if..." What if Merlin were to show up in modern day New York? My New York. What would he think? How would he react? How would New York react to him? One thing I knew -- it would definitely be a comedy.

I began by doing tons and tons of research. I read everything ever written about Merlin and King Arthur, from Geoffrey of Monmouth to Tennyson to the excellent series by Norma Lorre Goodrich. I prowled the Brooklyn Library and the New York Public Library for information on dragons, magic, Celtic symbolism, ley lines, chivalry, Avalon, and dozens of other topics. I couldn't get enough. The more I learned the more I wanted to learn. I had taken to heart the words spoken by Merlin to Arthur in The Once and Future King: "Learn why the world wags and what wags it."

All the while, I continued to explore New York, the city of never-ending discoveries. I went to a renaissance fair at Fort Tryon Park to see a mock joust and witnessed a Merlin figure dressed in a purple robe practicing tai chi with a beautiful polished wooden sword. I came upon a Wiccan circle in the middle of Prospect Park, celebrating the pagan holiday of Ostara. I wandered through Central Park and beheld a vision of the Grail Castle, a winged dragon hovering over its entrance.

I became fascinated with Stonehenge and the concept of ley lines, imagining that these magical energy pathways that ran through the earth's surface were somehow connected both to Merlin and the dragons -- and that Stonehenge was the vortex of their power. Then one day, while investigating Celtic symbols, I found a drawing depicting a dragon beneath the surface of Stonehenge, just as I had imagined. I was blown away -- this idea I thought I had conjured up on my own was right there in front of me in black and white. I called the person who created the graphic and explained how my vision quest had led me to the discovery of his artwork. He chuckled and said, "you're just on the brink of a much larger world."

As it turns out, he was right, although I don't think in the way he meant it. What I was on the brink of was the world of screenwriting. I took all of my research and distilled it into a story of a young man who goes to England and stumbles into a crystal cave where he awakens Merlin from a magic spell -- then returns to New York and finds that it wasn't all a dream, and that Merlin has followed him home and chosen him to be his next pupil.

I wrote several drafts, and each time I did, it seemed that the events I created in my story were being recreated in my real life. Soon after writing a scene where my main character gets mugged, I got mugged. I wrote a sequence where two knights on horseback are jousting on the Brooklyn Bridge and the next day I saw Woody Harrelson and Kiefer Sutherland dressed as cowboys riding horses across the Manhattan Bridge. Likewise, the things I experienced in my life were finding their way into the script -- the tai chi sword master, my trip to the Cloisters, the Grail Castle in Central Park. I got so wrapped up in my story that I never wanted it to end. It was a whole new world.

Eventually I decided to enter a contest, thus giving myself a deadline. I finished the script and sent it off, fully expecting to hear from Steven Spielberg any minute. I didn't win the contest, though, and I never heard from Spielberg. But that didn't deter me. I was already researching my second script -- based on my love of the Sherlock Holmes stories -- and was reading everything ever written on the subject. And loving every minute of it.

I finished the second script a lot faster than the first. And I even attracted the attention of a William Morris agent. I was on my way now. I had proven that I wasn't just a 'one hit wonder' and that I had material with commercial appeal. And I already had a third idea, about a guy who fantasizes about being James Bond. There was only one thing left to do, and that was to move to Hollywood.

I still don't know where this path is leading, but looking back I am able to connect some of the dots. Getting fired from that publishing 'dream job' gave me the freedom to pursue a passion that has kept me inspired ever since I read that first script. And lately, I have only become more inspired. I know there are more 'dots' on the horizon. I just haven't connected them yet.

Feedback

Several years ago, when I lived in New York, some friends and I were involved in something which, like it or not, was often referred to as a men's group. Not that there's anything wrong with being in a men's group. It's just that the term carries with it certain connotations and associations, such as the image of a group of bare-chested men sitting around a campfire whining about how their Daddies didn't love them enough. Rest assured that in our group, all whining took place with the participants fully clothed. Besides, our group was really more of a friend's group than a men's group.

And to be fair, whining was not something our group condoned. I found this out the hard way one night, whining about my chronic issue: why do women always treat me like crap? I was about midway through my presentation when the guys stopped me short. We've heard this all before, they said. And we don't need to hear it again. Until you come up with some kind of solution or at least a new attitude, consider this subject off-limits.

I was stunned. What a bunch of assholes! I thought these guys were supposed to be my friends! Here I had trusted them with my deepest darkest fears and they turn around and kick me in the teeth. Besides, if I can't complain about my lousy love life, what the hell else am I gonna talk about?

But I didn't argue. I was hurt and I felt humiliated, but on some level, I also knew they were right. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized just how right they were. By the time the next meeting rolled around, I was truly grateful to have such good friends, who were willing to risk hurting my feelings in order to give me the kick in the ass that I desperately needed. And over the years, I have come to see that moment as one of the most important defining moments in my life.

When I left New York for Hollywood, I left my group behind. They are still together, though. Still meeting on a regular basis to listen to each other's problems and give each other corrective ass-kicks when necessary. I miss having that kind of support and guidance. For a while I toyed with the idea of forming a West Coast chapter. At one point, three members of the original group were living here in LA. But it never came together. Too much space out here. Not enough community.

Meanwhile, I was working on my writing as much as possible, and running into the same issue over and over again: You need to have other people read your stuff so you can see if you are doing it right. You need to have feedback. Now, occasionally, I have been lucky enough to find someone who was interested in one of my scripts and would actually give me 'notes' on it. But these opportunities came rarely, and often after receiving the notes I would be left on my own to try and figure out what they meant, without being able, for whatever reason, to follow-up with the person who gave them.

This is why, I learned, writer's join writer's groups. And if you think men's groups have a bad rap, my idea of a writer's group was a thousand times worse. Who in their right mind would volunteer to sit in a room full of writers and listen to them blather on and on about their stupid little characters or their dopey plot points or their ridiculous "themes"? Not me. I'd rather have my roots planed.

But then I met a fellow screenwriter who was in such a writer's group and was always telling me how helpful it was. How the other writer's could keep you from falling into the same old traps and show you where you needed to go with your story. It sounded wonderful, like my old friend's group but with writers. How cool. I wondered if I could join his writer's group. But, it seemed that his group was very restricted. He told me they weren't accepting anyone new -- too many people and they would lose focus. I didn't believe him. I figured he just wanted to keep his precious group to himself. A lot of writers are like that out here. Afraid if they give anything away, there won't be enough for themselves.

So, I tried to start my own group. I attended a series of screenwriting seminars and collected email addresses from the other writers. By the end, I had a pretty good list -- around thirty names. I figured that would winnow itself down to about ten, which would be just the right amount. I even checked into renting a meeting room at the Farmer's Market where we could all get together. I sent out several rounds of emails, trying to arrange a schedule everyone could agree to. But, what I found was that out of thirty people, only one or two were actually interested enough to follow through. And one of them lived in San Francisco.

So, I gave up on the idea forming my own writer's group. But I was still getting comments on my scripts like, "it's 80 percent there," and, "the writing's not quite where it needs to be." Real helpful. Obviously I needed better feedback. Then, one day out of the blue, a friend sent me an email about a writer's group that was looking for members. I checked it out. This group meets every week and holds staged readings of 30-page excerpts from members screenplays. Then the rest of the group offers comments. It sounded intense, but also incredibly helpful.

So, I submitted some sample scripts and went to a few meetings, doing my best to contribute intelligent-sounding notes during the commentary section. I was pretty impressed by the quality of the writing as well as the notes. Several of the writers have had their works produced, and all are very good at articulating their criticisms and suggestions. Plus there is a pool of very talented actors who volunteer to come in and read the scripts onstage every week. It's a great way to find out if your dialogue is working or not.

After a couple of weeks, I was asked to join. Within a month I had my first 30 pages presented to the group. It was very cool to hear my work being read onstage. The actors did a great job. Afterwards I took my place on the stage to absorb the comments of my peers. And, boy did they let me have it. I wanted feedback? Oh, I got feedback alright. I had no idea there were so many things I could be doing wrong. It was kind of brutal. I just kept smiling and writing, hoping it would all be over soon.

Then something amazing happened. One of the writers made a suggestion. And then somebody else picked up on it and expanded on it. Then others did, too. And before I knew it, I had a whole new approach to my script. A script I've been working on for years. And not just a new approach, the right approach. It really clicked. And I could tell by the reaction, that everyone else agreed. They had solved my problem. A problem I never knew I had.

Suddenly I realized what a writer's group was really for. Much like my friend's group back in NYC, these people were here to help me. They care about the same things I care about. They want me to make my script better. And I want to do the same for them.

I went back to my old script with a burst of energy, working to incorporate the excellent advice I'd gotten. It felt like a brand new movie. I couldn't wait to get it back up onstage to show the group what I had done. I even began writing some of the parts to fit the characterizations created by the actors. They were helping me, too. And I wanted to write better lines and create more interesting characters for them to perform. It was a blast. Who knew writing could be so much fun?

I don't know why it took me so long to find a group like this to work with. But I know what my Mom would say: She would say that I found this group because I was ready to find it. That I needed to reach a point where I could accept the feedback and criticism and be open to new ideas. Among other things, I have learned not to contradict my Mom on matters such as these. She is usually right. I'm just glad I finally got here, wherever 'here' is, because I am ready to make the most of it.

Because to me, it's not just a writer's group, it's a friend's group.

Sugar Mountain

Oh, to live on Sugar Mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain
Though you're thinking that
You're leaving there too soon...

[The following is excerpted from The Fire and the Rose, a novel I wrote my senior year of college. At this point in the story, the narrator, Jack Singer, has hitchhiked from Wilson College in Connecticut to Duke University to visit his high-school sweetheart -- only to discover that she has a new boyfriend. While at Duke, Jack meets up with his best friend Jesse Wolf, and together they embark on an odyssey across the state of North Carolina as they hitch their way to Nashville, Tennessee.]

A dirty-white Buick Cutlass swooped across two lanes and skidded to a stop in in front of us. Jesse and I looked in amazement as the two old winos inside gestured frantically for us to get in. We squeezed into the back and the driver vaulted us into traffic. The passenger turned around and squinted at us. He looked exactly like Otis the Drunk from Mayberry.

"Where ya headed?"

"Davidson."

"Yep."

The driver now turned around. He looked like a parole violater.

"Either ya'll gotta license?"

Jesse said nothing.

"I have one," I volunteered.

"Lessee it."

I handed him my license. He scrutinized it for a second and then gave it back.

"OK, you get to drive."

He swung the car into a rest area, and the two of them got out to piss.

"I think it's safer for me to drive than him," I said, climbing over the seat.

"I guess so," Jesse shrugged.

They got in, and we took off. The car had a hair-trigger gas pedal. Not really a pedal, just a worn-down nub where the pedal used to be. The slightest touch and it would do eighty. I tried to keep it down to around fifty, but the two drunken fools kept urging me to go faster. The three of us were jammed in the front. Jesse was half-dozing in the back. The parole-violater was shouting instructions.

"Pull up next to that truck, boy. I want to shoot him."

"I think I'll stay back here." I tried my best to hide my fear, as I would with a skittish horse or a wild dog.

"Well, all right then... jes' lemme git my gun here."

He reached under the seat and whipped out a bottle of Night Train. I was relieved -- for the moment.

"Did we tell you that we stole this car, boy? Yer driving a stolen car!"

He turned to Otis. "Where did we steal this car?"

"Virginia, what'd he say, Belzey, Bezley? Beazley, BEAZLEY, Virginia!"

"We stole this car in Bezley, Virginia."

"BEAZLEY!"

"Beazley... Bezley, who was that nurse, last night, we was talkin' to at the Duke hospital, who was she? We was at Duke last night..."

"Was it Bezley or Beazley, I think he said Beazley."

"That's where we stole this car, Beazley, Virginia!"

"Where was we last night, I'uz two-thirds drunk."

"Duke, we was at Duke, remember that nurse?"

"I remember, I'uz two-thirds drunk."

"Boy, did you know that yer drivin' a stolen car?"

"I think this is the exit for Davidson." I announced. "I'm just gonna pull off the road here..."

"No, boy, you wanna get off the Concord exit, that's seven miles." He turned to Otis again.

"Now where did we get this car? Belzey?"

"Beazley," Otis burped. He was beginning to mellow. He looked like a baby with gas. "Beazley, Virginia."

"Lemme write that down," said the parole-violater, pulling a pen off the sun visor. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out an envelope that had the official seal of the Governor of North Carolina engraved in the corner. Even Jesse was watching now. The parole-violater scrawled "Beazley, Virginia" on the envelope and stuffed it in his pocket. I pulled off the road and stopped the car.

"Thanks for the ride."

Jesse and I jumped out before they could protest.

Otis slid over and took the wheel. He uttered a loud belch and they sped off into the sunset. I looked at Jesse.

"Did you see that envelope?"

"Uh-huh."

"Do you think those guys know the Governor of North Carolina?"

"Jack, I think one of those guys is the Governor of North Carolina."

The old parole-violater was almost right. We had to walk four miles to get to Highway 73. My feet hurt. We made a sign on Jesse's sketch pad that said "PLEASE" and waited by the highway. We got a ride before dark that took us all the way to the Davidson campus.

We stayed overnight with Spence, a friend who graduated from Watterson a year ahead of us. We had a nice dinner in Spence's frat and went out for a few beers. Then we returned to the frat to crash. We were leaving early for Nashville the next morning.

We woke Spence at seven a.m. and asked him how to get to Interstate 77. He got out of bed, led us across campus and pointed down a road leading west

"A mile and a half."

As we walked, the sky grew gray and cold rain started to fall. We stood on the side of Interstate 77 for two hours and got soaked. To pass the time we sang Grateful Dead songs.

Keep on movin' just a mile to go...

Our first ride was with a guy who said he'd hitched through these parts back when he was in the Army. We got his car soaking wet, but he didn't mind. He dropped us off under a bridge so we could at least stand out of the rain. We thanked him and waved goodbye. Jesse looked down the highway and predicted our next ride.

"This one."

A white Econoline van pulled over and we got in. It was loaded with all kinds of woodworking tools. The driver had a long, white beard and talked constantly about the rainy weather. He took us up to the junction with 1-40 West, leaving us under another bridge. He was going east. We waited under the bridge and watched a US Army caravan pass by. They all waved, and we waved back. A cop passed us too, and he waved. Hitching is legal in North Carolina.

Our first ride west was with a guy in a jeep. He had a CB radio and was able to cruise down the highway at high speeds dodging all the speed traps. He went so fast we repassed the Army caravan. The CB guy dropped us off in the middle of a beautiful mountain pass. The rain was just clearing. Directly in front of us, framed on both sides by steep valley walls, stood a beautiful peak as green and lush as Mount Abora. Jesse gazed up at it.

"Look Jack, Sugar Mountain."

We sang one of our favorite Neil young songs.

You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain...

The sun was out now, and we hung our wet coats on reflector poles to dry. The Army caravan passed us again. We all waved.

"You know, Jack, I haven't felt this good for a long time."

"Yeah, I even felt happy when we were at Duke, even though I was miserable."

"It's just good to be on the road, no worries, no responsibilities."

"Here comes a pickup. He's slowing down."

A sky blue pickup truck stopped, and we got in. There was a welder's torch in the bed of the pickup. The welder was blonde and sunburned. He said he used to be a med student at UNC, but he grew bored of the books and dropped out. He was on his way to a job. We talked about school and life and the road. He seemed like the happiest man alive, just driving around from job to job. He dropped us off at his exit and went on his way. We waited there for hours but had no luck. Suddenly, the welder reappeared. He laughed. He was now on his way to see his mother. He drove us a few miles up the road.

"Now, I don't want to see y'all again."

We promised he wouldn't. I looked around. We were in the middle of nowhere. I thought we'd never get a ride. We waited for hours. Few cars passed by. None slowed down. Finally, a white pickup appeared from out of nowhere and screeched to a halt at our feet. The window was down. I looked in.

"Uh, where ya'll headed?"

"Just fuckin' around. Get in."

The two of us squeezed into the cab with the two of them. They were about twice our age, but a lot less drunk than the pair we'd met the day before. The stereo was blasting the live version of American Woman by the Guess Who.

"I love this tape," yelled the driver and turned it up even louder.

"Don't you?"

I nodded.

"Y'all heard about the coal strike?"

I nodded again.

"Yeah, they's haulin' in coal from outta state on trains. We're goin' to blow up the tracks."

I smiled. They were going to blow up the railroad tracks. I leaned my head back and bumped it on one of their rifles. I hoped we hadn't pushed our luck too far. The driver whipped out a silver cigarette case and opened it. It was full of joints. He gave one to me.

"That's for later."

Then he took out another and lit it. When it got passed down the line to Jesse, he lit another and continued the process until each of us had a joint.

"Check down by your feet, there ought to be some beer left."

Jesse reached down and pulled out an eight-pack with four left.

"We'll have to stop and get more."

"They's eight more in back," offered the driver's trusty sidekick.

"Then we'll have to stop and get them."

He pulled off at the next exit and swung onto an access road paralleling the highway. Off to the side of the access road was a small store. We slid to a stop in the gravel parking and the two of them got out to piss on the side of another pickup truck. Then the sidekick grabbed the other eight-pack and we were rolling again. The driver grinned, heading towards the next junction doing seventy.

"I 'uz born in this county, know these roads good."

We could see the highway through the trees, and I noticed that we were passing the Army caravan again.

"Wonder where they're all goin'?" mumbled the sidekick, as we all opened our beers.

The driver handed me another joint to light. We were now on the back streets of Black Mountain, where Interstate 40 turned into Main Street for a mile or so. Standing at every traffic light along Main Street were soldiers carrying M16 rifles. We waited at the light till the Army caravan passed by, then we swerved back onto I-40. The sidekick leaned over me to get a better view, spilling his beer on Jesse's lap.

"Look at that motherfuckin' gun!"

They drove us to a place where the highway makes a sharp right and cars have to slow down -- assuring us we'd get a ride to Nashville from there. As we retrieved our packs from the back, the truck rolled forward onto Jesse's toe. Jesse shouted, and they took off laughing.

Sure enough, we got picked up within minutes. A souped-up Camaro rumbled up and a long-haired dude signalled us to get in the back. He and his 'old lady' were on their way to Texas. She was cute.

"Got any weed, man?"

I produced the joint I still had, and we drove on towards Nashville. Jesse fell asleep. I stared out the window listening to Eric Clapton. When we stopped for gas, the long-haired dude asked us if we had any money. When we said no, his 'old lady' bought us some crackers and soda from a vending machine. She then took the wheel and drove the rest of the way to Nashville. We arrived at sunset.