So here’s the story…

Once upon a time in the late 90s I wanted to write a screenplay. I didn’t know how. I tried piecing something together but it was garbage. Around a decade later I enrolled in a screenwriting course. I went through the whole thing. I passed.

The good news is I knew how to put one together, sort of. The bad news is I still couldn’t do it well enough. So I had to wait another few years so I can practice.

Finally we get to January of this year. I finished a draft of some Vampire anti-gentrification thing. It was stupid. But I noticed two things when I was done:

  1. The thing ended up with a reasonable page count
  2. The concept may have been stupid, but the structurally it was pretty sound.

So that being said, I knew that I was ready to make a serious go at something that I could bring to market.

I had a few ideas on what that first effort would be. But I decided to start with something that was way different from my normal stuff. It’s a screenplay about this gang in the 1860s that kills an industrialist and now they’re on the run.

Granted it started a little different. But the core concept was the same. Gang gets the fuck out of dodge.

I started outlining Dragoons in January, wrote a draft and finished that in April. I went back to the time travel epic I’ve been struggling with for four years now. I then picked Dragoons back up in July and I’ve been grinding on it since.

I’m happy to say that I’m finally starting the final polishes. Some of the language is wonky, and I could definitely shave it down a few pages. But it’s all there. I’m happy and I feel like I accomplished something, but at the same time I feel sad about it.

For the past year it was my escape. Work sucks, I’d come home and write. Terrible date, write. My bank account is near empty, not going out anyway I’m writing. Grandpa died, write. I don’t have any friends, write. Don’t have a girl, writing.

And I’m going to work on other screenplays and stuff. I am. For reals. But I’m going to miss Olde New York.


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