Adaptation Interview: Chris Keaton

In the past several weeks on SelfScribes, I've interviewed writers who have adapted their own writing into a different format, so it's only fitting to get the perspective of a writer who has worked with material written by someone else. Chris Keaton discovered Annemarie Bogart's short story What's Your Poison? and turned it into a short script, which has subsequently been made into a short film. Read on for my interview with Chris, as well as excerpts from the short script and short story. A link to the short film's website appears at the end of the post.

Q: How did you discover the short story What's Your Poison??

Chris Keaton: Honestly, I posted to a writing board on (Zoetrope.com) and asked if anyone wanted their short stories adapted. I received a few interested parties, frankly I got a lot. This was the one that I felt had the most potential for adaption. Almost everything works in a short story, but not everything works on the screen. For example budget is a big factor in films. A dragon spitting flames is perfectly fine in your short story, but would cost way to much for a short film. This story, once adapted, wouldn't cost the producer an arm and a leg.

Q: Do you have any personal connection to Annemarie Bogart? Are you a fan of her work?

CK: I never knew Annemarie until she sent me her story. She is very a talented writer.

Q: What did you like best about adapting the story?

CK: I like the challenge of converting an authors vision to a visual medium and adjusting the story to fit what is expected from a film.

Q: What was the most challenging aspect of adapting?

CK: For me it is respecting the material. A lot of adaptations take far too many liberties with the source material. Often changes are required, but I want to make sure the tone and core of the story remains intact. If I can't do that I might as well write an original story.

Q: Which do you prefer: creating original stories or adapting?

CK: I enjoy both. They have their own challenges. With adaptations you must keep the core of the original work, add where needed to keep appropriate arcs and beats, while never losing that feel the original material gives you. 

Writer Bio: Chris Keaton is an Air Force veteran living with his wife and two daughters in sunny Arizona.  His main writing passion is screenwriting, but does love diving into prose. Several of his screenplays have been filmed. Currently he has two feature films in production. To learn more about Chris and his projects, check out his website: http://www.chris-keaton.com
Prolific Chris also has a novel soon to be released. Visit the promo site at http://www.themosaicnovel.com

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Chris's scene is an excellent example of the process of adapting. The script excerpt shows how Chris had to convey Brett's desperation to save Melanie, without saying so outright like in prose. Writers also have to make decisions when turning prose into dialogue. The "hefty sum" mentioned in the short story prose becomes the specific "two thousand dollars" in the script dialogue.

The excerpt from the short story (below the script scene) is the very beginning of the story. The writer has the ability to inform the reader about Melanie's health in the prose. However, a script must show, not tell, these details. Therefore, Chris added a scene before Brett visits the Chinese medicine shop that shows the doctor telling Brett that there's nothing more that modern medicine can do to help Melanie. Brett then takes a walk, which leads to this...

Excerpt from What's Your Poison? short script

by Chris Keaton

Please note: Any screenplay format that looks slightly "off", such as how the dialogue is centered, is due to limitations of the blog format,  not Chris's original script.

EXT. STREET - DAY

Brett shuffles off the busy main street down a side alley. The noise of the bustling city fades away.

He looks up at the sky his eyes red. Brett looks back down and notices a small chipped sign that hangs from rusted chains.

The sign reads ‘Chinese Herbals – Natural Healing.’ A small breeze swings the sign with a SQUEAK.

Below the sign is a picture window filled with jars and boxes of herbs and powders.

He peers into the shop, but he can’t see past the display.

Brett moves to the door, but hesitates. He reaches out.

INT. CHINESE HERBALS - DAY

The door swings open. Chimes TINKLE.

Candles placed around the cluttered space flicker from the breeze whipping through the open door.

Brett steps in and the door closes its chimes RING.

He shuffles along a shelf covered in jars. Each jar filled with various shapes. Painted in red on the jars is the items name in both Chinese characters and English. ‘Myrrh’,‘Eyebright’, ‘Mullein’, ‘Yarrow’, etc.

Brett’s lips tighten. He’s has no idea what he is doing.

A gravely voice startles him.

OLD LADY (O.S.)

What’s your poison?

Brett turns from the shelf.

The OLD LADY (80s white) stands behind a wooden counter. Long white hair hangs over a flower patterned dress.

A black candle flickers odd shadows over her face.

She cocks her head to the side expecting a response and smiles.

OLD LADY
Can I help?

Brett approaches with fear and desperation in his eyes.

BRETT
Uh, I...

His mouth moves, but nothing comes out.

She smiles a semi-toothless grin.

OLD LADY
Come closer, child. So, I can get a better
look at you.

Glaucoma clouds her eyes.

OLD LADY
What’s your poison, son.
(beat)
I know it’s hard.

Tears fill his eyes. He braces himself against the counter.

BRETT
My wife... I want her to live. Please,
help me. I don’t want her to die.

She pats his hand. Her smile fades to a concerned frown.

OLD LADY
Wait here.

She turns and disappears behind a red velvet curtain.

Brett sniffles, wipes his eyes, and straightens his shirt.

The old lady returns carrying an unlabeled mason jar.

OLD LADY
Take this.

She hands him the container.

He examines the gelatinous sanguine-colored material. It swishes against the sides as he moves it.

BRETT
That’s it? What is this stuff?

OLD LADY
It’s a custom mix. I could tell you all
the ingredients, but I’m sure their names
would mean little to you.

Brett looks up with a question on his lips.

OLD LADY
Yes, this is what will do what you wish.
Now, please, she must inhale the smoke
that emits from the jar.

The old lady reaches out.

Brett hands her the jar and she pantomimes the instructions.

OLD LADY
Put a lighted match right into the liquid,
it will ignite, then place it under her
nose.

She sets the jar down.

OLD LADY
What you asked, will then become a
reality.

Brett stares at the jar a moment. He nods.

BRETT
OK, yes.

The old lady gestures to the cash register.

OLD LADY
Two thousand dollars.

Brett looks back at the jar and then the old lady. She nods.

He pulls out his wallet. 

© Chris Keaton

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Excerpt from What's Your Poison? short story

by Annemarie Bogart

 Brett looked up, the chipped sign dangled on rusted chains. It hit against the stucco wall off the building’s front. Herbs. He glanced into the wide-paned window but saw nothing past the jars piled inside. His red eyes brimmed with tears. He gripped the doorknob and pushed. Chimes sang in his ear. He entered the candlelit shop.
 

Mason jars filled with various shapes line the walls. Brett read the names printed in red calligraphy on the glass containers. Mhyrr. Eyebright. Mullein. Yarrow. He had no idea what these things were.

“What’s your poison?”
 

The graveled voice startled him. Brett turned from the display and faced the voice. An old woman hunched behind the wooden counter. Her white hair hung down her flowered dress. A black candle flickered close to her face. The deep lines around her eyes deepened. Her head cocked to one side, ready for a response.
 

He wasn’t sure he had one.
 

Coming to this place had been his last resort. The doctors gave up long ago. They had told him Melanie had only a week or so left. By the looks of her feeble body, he believed them. Thing is, he couldn’t let go. A twenty-five year old shouldn’t be given their check-out papers, not this way. Brett refused to let her go until every avenue was explored. After mediums, massage therapists, steam counselors, holistic doctors, and every other kook known to the desperate, the map ended here. This small shop suggested by a friend of a friend.
 

“Uh, I…”
 

Brett tried to practice his speech before coming, but it never sounded right in his head. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack and himself not to break down in sobs.
 

“Come closer, child. So, I can get a better look at you.”
 

Brett walked towards the elderly woman, she sounded so kind.
 

Glaucoma clouded her eyes. Her thin lips curved into a smile accentuating her lack of front teeth.
 

“What’s your poison, son. I know it’s hard.”
 

Brett felt the first tear fall before he could hold it in check.
 

After that initial drop, the rest followed unguarded.
 

“My wife…I want her to live. Please, help me. I don’t want her to die.”
 

Brett managed to get the words out between sobs.
 

The old lady patted his hand. Her smile turned down into a concerned frown.
 

“Wait here.”

She turned from Brett and walked into the back room concealed by a red velvet-like curtain.
 

Brett tried to compose himself before she returned. He hated the way his emotions controlled him these days. He prided himself on keeping himself in check; never let them see you sweat. Ever since the doctors diagnosed Melanie with cancer last year, his self-importance dissolved. His only thoughts remained with his wife.
 

She returned. In her hands, she carried a mason jar like the others on the shop shelves. No label adorned this jar.
 

“Take this. Burn its contents, let the fumes waft under your wife’s nose.”
 

“That’s it? What is that stuff?”
 

The gelatinous sanguine-colored material swished against the sides of the glass when she lay it down on the  counter,
 

“It’s a custom mix. I could tell you all the ingredients, but I’m sure their names would mean little to you. Yes, this is what will do what you wish. Now, please, she must inhale the smoke that emits from the jars. Put a lighted match right into the liquid, it will ignite, then place it under here nose. What you asked, will then become a reality.”
 

Brett stared at the jar. Although it seemed too good to be true, he reasoned there simply was no other choice. After paying a hefty sum, he thanked the old woman and left the shop. Expectations of the concoction’s effectiveness drifted through his head.

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Visit the film's website here

The Haunted House - Flash Fiction

The following is a flash fiction piece from James Everington's The Other Room,

a collection of "weird horror fiction" short stories. 

The Other Room is available on Kindle: US Edition and UK Edition

 Some Stories for Escapists #3 - The Haunted House

by James Everington 
Blog: Scattershot Writing

            "The old men loved to scare the young boys by telling them the story of the black house that was the highest point on the skyline; but the young were never so scared as the old men expected.
 

          "The Son murdered The Father slowly, so the old men said, a thimble-full of poison a day. It was poured into The Father’s fifth glass of wine, by which time he would be too drunk to taste it.  A thimble-full a day, but it soon added up, like pocket change put by. The Father went grey around the edges, his eyes yellowed over and lost their spark, his spine bent and his limbs trembled. He had to entrust the running of his business affairs to The Son who, educated more recently, understood the day’s markets better. Profits rose. This pained The Father terribly, for he knew when he recovered from his illness he would have lost much respect in the business world. To think that his own child could just take over like that and increase productivity! Admittedly to do so he’d laid off many workers, but at least the shareholders were happy. From his sick bed The Father could see the plumes of quiet smoke which drifted away from his factories. He tried to put it all from his mind, telling himself his health was of more importance. But he felt like he’d built those factories with his bare hands (even though he’d just inherited them) and now they seemed beyond his influence.

          "Eventually he died, and the share prices hit a new peak. Investors knew all about The Son and his reforms. The Son took charge of the business full time, and he moved into the house on the hill, the family’s ancestral home. Its vast spaces seemed too empty for him, and he quickly married and moved his new Wife in. She quarreled with his Mother about trivial things, but eventually got her way. The Son installed bright lights and security cameras into every inch of the dark house. He kept expecting his Father’s spectre to appear, glowing and moaning inaudibly, but pointing his accusing finger at The Son. Certainly he saw such things in his dreams. He put more and more lights into the house, and lived in fewer and fewer of its rooms. Profits were stable but the shareholders were worried - they all knew The Son spent less time at work now, and delegated often. He seemed to have lost the flair he’d had around the time of his Father’s death. The shareholders were like ghosts to him, invisible people he’d never seen but who somehow exerted an influence on him. He had less energy now, and his back was troubling him.

          "For years people had been wondering why his wife had never fallen pregnant - was something wrong? But now she did. The Son regarded this new development with unease. He could no longer remember if he’d actually killed his Father, or just fantasised about it. Certainly he had dreamt of killing him, without really knowing why. That was probably where his vivid memories came from; but in reality a growing-old disease must surely have carried the old man off. So there was no reason to feel guilty or afraid. But he did. The family business was failing to move with the times now, and despite the cutting and cutting of workers, profits were down.

          "When his Son was born the new Father took one look at his smooth face and fled. Some of the old men said he saw his Father’s features there; others kept their mouths shut. This new Father raced to the top of the house in terror, into the unlit rooms he had sealed off. Here The Father threw himself out the window, dashing his frail body against the stones so many stories below. After another brief dip, shares prices increased. The note he left was confused and disorientated, as if he thought he was someone else. Now he is said to wander, a ghost no one ever sees, around the dark house, with an aged look of confusion and terror on his face, because when he reaches out to touch things, his hand slides through.”

©James Everington