I guess I'm moving to LA... Not!

The Bitter Script Reader explains in this short webshow why it's essential to move to Los Angeles if you want to earn a living as a screenwriter.

It makes sense, but still... Aww man!

I absolutely admire those who take such drastic measures to fulfill their dreams! You go, guys!

But it's not for everyone. The question you have to ask and answer for yourself is: how bad do you really want it? (My personal answer: definitely maybe not bad enough)

Bad enough to uproot your whole life, move away from family and friends? (Yes)

Bad enough to dig into that nest egg, small or large, you've painstakingly built for yourself over many years? (It's not much, but yes)

Bad enough to work crazy-schedule shifts as a waitress/shop assistant/taxi driver/other low-paying-job? (Not with any motivation, but yes)

Bad enough to work your butt off without knowing whether it will ever amount to anything? (It's what I'm doing right now, so yes.)

Bad enough to stand in front of those important executives, even though you think you're not really the type of person to "work a room" and "be engaging"? (Umm... maybe?)

Bad enough to push and dig, and keep pushing and digging, in the face of rejection after rejection? (Without the support of my friends and family close at hand? I shudder just thinking about it)

My guess: If the answer to every one of those questions isn't a resounding yes, then moving to LA with the goal of earning your living as a screenwriter will probably make you miserable. 

Personal conclusion: for now I'm going to stick to novels and German screenplays; I might be able to sell those without having to move halfway across the world. 

How far would you go to make your dream come true?

Flash Fiction Challenge - Dreamscape

Haley Whitehall has another flash fiction challenge up on her blog, the theme of which is dreams. This time I went quite a bit over the suggested 500 words. I'll tell you why at the end...

Thanks Haley, this was fun. Great theme!

Dreamscape

by Pia Newman

(593 words) 

I am running, leaping, spinning through a dank and foggy forest. Snarls ride the air in front of me; my sole purpose is to reach them, eliminate them. They are chasing that which I must protect. I catch glimpses of four-legged shapes leaping through the forest. Their claws send up sparks in the soggy underbrush.
Hellhounds, a whisper of knowledge provides me with a label. I feel detached, confused. I have a purpose, but nothing else, nothing. Questions are raising their heads like a waking many-headed monster, the first of which is: What do I protect?
Me, the whisper says.
>Who are you?<
Isabelle. Please help me.
>Why?<
Because they want to eat me. You are the only one who can help me.
>Who am I?<
My protector.
>Yes, but who am I? What is my name? What is my history?<
Oh… I’m not sure yet.
>When will you know?<
When I see you. Hurry.  
Now I have a personal agenda behind my general purpose: Find Isabelle. Save her. Learn who I am.
I run faster, legs pumping. Dead branches slap my face and arms. I have no idea how I will fend off the hellhounds, but I know that I can.
>How do I know this?<
Because I know.
>How do you know?<
Because you are my protector.
>Aaaargh!<
The trees give way to a clearing, in the middle of which stands a large, craggy rock. Isabelle - I know it's her - stands on the rock in her night-gown, swinging a thick branch, beating off the hellhounds as they try to jump onto the rock with her. She sees me emerging from the trees, looks at me. She has the body of a young girl, but the face of a wise old lady.
Eden. You are Eden, she says without moving her lips.
Yes, of course. I am Eden. I'm an elf, of the Ash Tribe. Beautiful, independent and fierce, one of Pearson’s best growers and warriors. My favourite weapon is the shortsword.
I feel two of them crossing my back diagonally. I’m sure they weren’t there before but now I reach behind me and draw them. This is how I will fend off the hellhounds.
One of them suddenly sprouts wings and takes off. Isabelle watches it fly at her, the look on her face changing from panic to absolute horror.
This is a dream! The drugs aren’t helping. I'm dreaming!
The hellhounds become unfocused. They forget Isabelle and turn toward me. Their eyes burn red.
>How can you be dreaming when I am not?<
Because this is my dream and you are in it. I created you. And now I’m waking up.
Somehow, I know this is bad. 
>Will I cease to be?<
No. You will become reality.
>I prefer that idea to not existing.<
But you will be incomplete and they will hunt you. I’m sorry. The drugs were supposed to prevent this… Try to blend in. Trust no one if you want to survive.
Bright light blinks across the sky, like an eye opening to daylight.
I’m awake…
My body burns in the bright light. Sound roars in my ears, accompanied by my scream. Then focus returns to my senses. I’m still standing on the clearing, holding the shortswords, a sea of hellhounds before me, the large rock sprawling in the background. But the sky is blue, the rock is empty, and there are gigantic silver towers looming above the trees.
The dreamer has left her dreamscape, yet the dream manifests in her waking world.
I have become a dream that survives in reality…


Do you think I could have cut this down to 500 words? I didn't want to cut more or I felt like this would be purely confusing.

Sanctuary - A Short Story Of A Dream

This is a dream I had last night, though until the moment I woke up at the very end, I believed it was real. Knew it was real. I saw it, felt it, breathed it, though I wasn’t the person I am now. Did I maybe catch a glimpse of my soul’s future?


I stand outside on my porch, in the stifling heat and unearthly light. The howling wind has stilled, settling into the calm before the true storm. The world holds its dying breath.

Not long now.

It was all over the news. An asteroid collided with the sun; just a tiny drop of oil into the roaring bonfire that made our planet hospitable. Too small a thing to have such an effect, really. Way too small.

And yet, the sun is dying.

She's putting up one hell of a fight. She's blowing herself up, her hot flaming fingers reaching for the infinite emptiness, struggling against the implosion that will be her doom. In her death throes, she will take with her the whole planetary system that circles around her like lazy flies.

And there is nothing - not a single thing - humanity can do to help her. To help itself.

Armageddon, baby. Where's Mr. Willis when you need him?

The ocean stretching beneath me is steaming, sending billowing layers of clouds into the sky. That was on the news, too, until about six hours ago, when the communication systems gave out under a barrage of the sun’s intense electromagnetic waves.

Or maybe there's just nobody left who is willing to broadcast the news and keep the systems running. There's no point, is there?

Order has fled as fear takes over lives. I've withdrawn to my home, my safe haven, waiting out the chaos. Only good things can touch me here even when everything stops making sense. The night hadn’t been dark, but neither was the day bright. The constant red-orange glow flickering on the horizon as the world spun her face from her ravaging sister would now be eye-scorching if not for the roiling clouds blanketing the sky. Every cloud has a blood-red lining of light that sears patterns against the pressing black canvas.

It's beautiful in its own way, as destruction sometimes is. I focus on that, the alien feel of this moment, the experience of it - not its consequences. I long ago set out to enjoy life as a string of experiences to be felt and lived, not analysed. To breathe deeply, to listen closely, to see clearly and to feel fully. I'm not going to sully my wonderful life now by analysing my demise. Life isn’t over after death. Just different.

A wind picks up, stroking hot fingers over my face, through my hair. The clouds seem to shrink as their red lining grows. Dust and light kick into my eyes, so I clos them, blocking out the dust. The red brightness remains, grows hotter. The wind roars and bites my skin. Light swallows me whole, spears through me, flashing pain.

Then peace.

Sanctuary.

When I woke up I was glad it wasn’t real - I would like to experience life some more - yet during the whole dream I was never afraid. I have learned so much in the past two years; I know that death is not the end and that I am never alone. Apparently, this is a comfort that even permeates my dreams.