Showing posts with label bloodletting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bloodletting. Show all posts

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Adaptation Interview: William D. Prystauk

William D. Prystauk ("Bill") is a prolific writer who was nonetheless kind enough to take the time to allow me to interview him about how he adapted his screenplay Bloodletting into a novel, which is under serious consideration for publication (sorry, no further details at this time!) After the interview, be sure to scroll down to the previous post for excerpts from the screenplay and novel. They serve as great examples for anyone interested in adapting a screenplay into prose.

Bloodletting follows protagonist Denny Bowie, a “legwork guy” for a private investigator, who must overcome his own desire for sexual submission to find the killer of masochistic men in Manhattan.

Here's what William has to say about adapting, his writing process, his inspirations and what he did when his screenplay was met with controversy...

Q: What was the most rewarding part of adapting the Bloodletting screenplay into a novel?

William D. Prystauk: I got a chance to really dive into the story and delve deeper into the mind of my protagonist, Denny Bowie. Most importantly, I could cover much more ground than I could in the screenplay. I could expand on descriptions, truly establish tone and play more with dialogue. It was as if I went from having very strict parents, who laid down many rules, to having insurmountable freedom. Writing a novel, though more tedious to pen due to its size, was quite liberating, and I typed like a madman.

Q: What was the most challenging aspect of adapting?

WDP: Point-of-view problems plagued me to no end. Though I initially wrote the work in third-person omniscient, my narrator sounded too much like my protagonist. The indirect internal dialogue only muddied the waters more. At the time I was a student in the Wilkes University Creative Writing Program, and my mentor Kaylie Jones (Lies My Mother Never Told Me and A Soldier’s Daughter Never Cries) suggested I write the work in first-person. Although the story flowed better, I still had scenes that occurred beyond the scope of my first-person narrator. I remedied this through several creative ways that may have made the book more literary, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a publisher wanted me to rewrite those scenes as third-person chapters, which I would gladly do.

And since the story involves sadomasochism, I was concerned about how far I could take the sexual elements. Even worse, I was mixing consensual BDSM among loving adults with a killer that preyed on masochists. I didn’t want the BDSM and fetish community to think I was exploiting them or misrepresenting them in order to sell a book. Therefore, Erin Marr, a crossdresser and newbie to S&M, became Denny’s boyfriend and served as the reader’s advocate. Readers outside the fetish world need to understand the clear distinction between love and play versus crime and abuse. Too often, writers unfamiliar with dominance and submission don’t conduct enough research to bring readers the truth behind such sexual expression, and I didn’t want to come off as ill informed or non-caring. I never choose sensationalism over reality.

Q:  When and why did you decide to adapt the screenplay? Discuss your adapting process.

WDP: Selling a screenplay is equivalent to hitting the lottery, finding your soulmate and discovering the cure for cancer, all on the same damn day. Though I believed in the story, I knew it may never be produced simply because so few films are purchased and achieve production (every time we see a movie on the screen, we are definitely witnessing a miracle). Since there are far more publishing opportunities, I decided to convert the screenplay to a novel.

Initially, adapting the work was easy since the screenplay served as a glorified outline. I copied the script from Final Draft and plopped it into Microsoft Word. Then I moved forward, sentence by sentence, until my first draft was complete at 70,000 words. Afterwards, I went through many revisions to “color in the numbers,” so to speak, and to tell a better tale. At one point, the manuscript ballooned to 120,000 words, but is now at a more palpable 94,000.

Q:  How did you come up with the story and characters?

WDP: The story is an old one. I originally wrote the tale as my first attempt at a screenplay back in the late 1980s. It was called Necrophilia and Denny was a morgue technician. He was in love with a lesbian but found romance with a dead punk girl instead. The story was weighed down by too many taboo subjects: sadomasochism, necrophilia, homosexuality, etc. It wasn’t until the mid-1990s when I came up with a strong, hard-boiled mystery with more in-depth characters that people could relate to regardless of the subject matter.

The reason the story was eventually rewritten is because the characters wouldn’t leave me alone. I had to do something with them. Denny was trapped inside my head for so long, I can’t recall how he originally came to mind. Erin is based on a young man I met at a dance club in New Jersey, and Penny is a conglomeration – add Siouxsie Sioux and some old friends from my days at Rutgers and you have the spicy Goth-girl love interest.

Q: What changes did you have to make going from screenplay to novel?

WDP: I had to pay attention to POV like never before. I learned that was my “kryptonite” and worked diligently to grasp how to approach the story without a camera.

Quite often, I realized I was screenwriting. I was jumping from scene to scene without letting the reader know what transpired in between, or I’d summarize too much to get right back to the action. Nothing was allowed to occur “off the page.” Avoiding implications and explaining more to the reader without getting caught up in heavy exposition gave me more room to develop my characters and helped create a better picture in the reader’s mind about the world they inhabited.

Q:  What type of response has the screenplay received? (Feedback, awards, etc.)

WDP: In 2005, I entered Bloodletting at Slamdance where it failed miserably. I contacted them for feedback and spoke to one of the judges who had read the script. He and another judge loved it – but the third thought it was “pornography,” which ultimately killed the screenplay’s run in the contest. Shortly after, however, it came in as a Quarter Finalist at Scriptapalooza. I then had a table read at the New Jersey Screenwriter’s Group, where I am a member, and received exceptional feedback and recommendations. Following that meeting, I rewrote the script to bring it from what might be seen as an NC-17 rating to an R rating and entered the open-genre Screenwriters Showcase Screenplay Contest where Bloodletting came in as the Second Place Winner in 2006 (first among mysteries). A short time later, I was picked up by an agent who was trying to sell the script in Los Angeles, until she unexpectedly left the industry.

After many attempts to sell the script on my own, I realized it may be best to transform the screenplay into a novel if I ever wanted to earn a paycheck.

Q:  How did you obtain the interest of a publisher? Do you work with a literary agent?

WDP: In my MFA program, we had to pitch our story ideas to a panel of agents, editors and publishers. After the pitch session, I was approached by a publisher and he had his fiction editor read the manuscript and provide details about what worked, what didn’t and how I should approach the revision. After two more rewrites, the publisher is in the final stages of reviewing the work, and I hope to have an answer soon. I spoke with the fiction editor two weeks ago and he stated, “You have a great fucking story in there.”

I do not have a literary agent at the moment.

Q:  Much of your writing seems to be in the horror and crime genres. What draws you to those genres?

WDP: Ha! Actually, I write drama and science fiction as well, but it all depends upon the story and how best to tell it. I usually don’t even consider genre until the writing is finished. I have a “story first, genre later” attitude.

I love crime because of the mystery factor that compels me to remain glued to the story. I do not want to check my brain at the door when seeing a movie or reading a book. I want to be jolted to think about the movie or book for days, weeks and years later. Oftentimes, well-crafted crime stories do that for me because I like to gather my own clues.

I’ve been fascinated with horror since my youth. At one point, horror scared the hell out of me, but over time I wanted to indulge in the genre as much as possible, as if to combat a phobia. Sadly, I must admit that I watch about fifty horrors to find that one movie worth mentioning. It’s like sifting through a crappy yard sale to find that one decent artifact that’s a must have.

Concerning selling a script, horrors are traditionally a good way in, so I’m doing my best to write tales with limited locations, smaller casts and more manageable special effects to attract attention. That’s a great exercise in itself. For instance, my dramatic horror script, Ravencraft has only two locations and a handful of characters, which proved to be a wonderful writing experience.

Q: What are some of your favorite screenplays and novels?

WDP: Favorite screenplays: Alien (due to the character interaction), Chinatown (because it taught me so much about screenwriting in general), The Uninvited Guest (the suspense in this Spanish film is definitely breathtaking), The Man from Earth (compelling drama from a bunch of “talking heads” in one room), Arlington Road (because Ehren Kruger put a twist on one cliché after another) and The Celebration (for phenomenal dialogue and tension).

Favorite books: The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald), Tropic of Cancer (Henry Miller), Naked Lunch (William S. Burroughs), A Farewell to Arms (Ernest Hemingway), The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (Muriel Spark), One hundred Years of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez), Girls (Frederick Busch) and Kissing Carrion (Gemma Files).

Q: Screenwriting versus fiction writing: do you prefer one format, or do you enjoy both equally?

WDP: Screenwriting is instant gratification. Sometimes, I can knock out a rough draft in mere days. Fiction writing is a long, drawn out process. For example, if I have to make a change in a 90-page script, it’s relatively easy to move, delete or add a scene. With a novel, changing one element can lead to dozens upon dozens of changes hidden in a manuscript of great length. Maybe that’s why Bloodletting took a year to complete as a novel, but only a few weeks as a screenplay.

However, when I write a script, there is a lot of starting and stopping, while I can often write a novel for hours on end. At one point, I was spending ten to twelve hours a day writing Bloodletting as a work of fiction. I was charged, impassioned and couldn’t stop. Moreover, with a novel, I can truly reach the reader’s five senses while scripts only allow me to focus on sight and sound. I can cover much more ground when writing fiction because there is no clock ticking and no page limit.


Thanks, Bill!


Author Bio:

In 2011, William's dramatic horror screenplay Ravencraft became the Third Place Winner in the 2011 AWS Screenplay Contest. William's dramatic ghost story Risen was the First Place Winner in the 2010 Horror Screenplay Contest and is currently being shopped around Hollywood. Furthermore, William's character driven, crime/action/horror script Red Agenda was the First Place Winner in the 2008 International Horror and Sci-Fi Film Festival and was a Top-Five Finalist at Screamfest. Currently, William's crime story Mara was just accepted for publication by Needle: A Magazine of Noir. William has also won numerous awards for other screenplay as well as poetry, and has written movie, music and book reviews. William completed the Creative Writing Program at Wilkes University in June 2011 to earn his MFA with concentration in screenwriting and fiction. Furthermore, he teaches English at Kutztown University of Pennsylvania.

Bloodletting - Screenplay & Novel Excerpts

Ideally, before viewing this post, you've already read my interview with William D. Prystauk (if not, be sure to read it right away for his insightful remarks about adapting, inspirations, his writing process and more.) The interview gives background about Bloodletting, his original feature screenplay that he turned into a novel. Below is an excerpt from the screenplay, followed by the same scene in the novel. It's interesting to see how the novel's prose is expanded and developed compared to the concise, to-the-point screenplay narrative/description.


Bloodletting - Screenplay Excerpt
Page 26
by William D. Prystauk

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

EXT. CHURCH OF THE TRANSFIGURATION - DAWN
 
Denny and Erin, a little unkempt, climb the front steps of the church. Denny tries one of the large doors.

DENNY BOWIE
I know they're locked and...

The door opens. Denny stops Erin while YAWNING. Slowly, they step inside.
 

INT. CHURCH OF THE TRANSFIGURATION - CONTINUING
 
Denny, keeping a watchful eye, walks ahead of Erin towards the pew with a shadowy life-sized Christ on his cross.
 
ERIN MARR
Churches look so unholy in the
dark.

Denny brings a finger to his lips. Erin peers at the cross.
 
ERIN MARR (CONT’D)
I can't see anything except...

Erin SCREAMS. Denny rolls his eyes. SIGHING, he moves closer to the pew and lights a candle.
 
DENNY BOWIE
So much for the element of
surprise.

He follows Erin's eyes to the crucifix.
 
STACY'S NAILED TO THE CROSS.
 
She wears her own barbed-wire crown of thorns and her right side sports a wound. Blood from her injuries cover the floor and the cross. Denny tries to get a closer look, but Erin clings to him for dear life.
 
DENNY BOWIE
It's the girl I met in the bar the
other night.

Denny turns and faces Erin.
DENNY BOWIE (CONT’D)
She told me to stay away from
Penny. Said she was evil.

Lights pop on. Denny and Erin turn and face the front doors.


Bloodletting - Novel Excerpt
Chapter 16 (Pages 107-111)
by William D. Prystauk

     In my heart, organized religion was the root of all evil and I had little tolerance for any temple and the many hypocrisies that accompanied it, but the Church of St. Francis Xavier was different. They truly gave a damn, and because they represented an entity as staunch and old world misogynistic as Roman Catholicism, I was surprised the Vatican hadn’t shut the place down long ago. Besides outreach programs for the poor and unemployed, this Jesuit apostolate devoted themselves to gay and lesbian Catholics caught in the crossfire of political rhetoric and selective biblical interpretation.
      At five on the dot, Erin and I, unkempt and drained, stood before the pale granite of the fairytale-like 1880’s church. With the gold statue of Saint Francis looking down upon us from the stone balcony of the second story, as if he’d stepped away from his alcove to bless Erin and me, we passed the black iron fencing, and climbed the stone steps up through the center of a trio of arches to the waiting door.
I silenced a yawn then gripped the handle. “I know it’s locked and ...”
    The wooden door opened with little effort.
    My raised hand stopped Erin from rushing in. Slowly, we stepped inside.
    Keeping a watchful eye, I moved far ahead of him. With the lights of the pre-dawn dancing through the mosaic glass in a kaleidoscope of color, I sensed the enormity of the parish. There were far too many recesses, columns and pews to hide behind, let alone the darkened mezzanine. Worse still, the Latin cross-shaped house of worship was under renovation, and filled my nose with lingering odors left from plaster and sealant, though I was more concerned about the additional places from equipment that allowed for more hidden surprises. Fearing an ambush, I moved forward anyway, trying to bury the sound of my heart so I could listen for any misstep from the caller who was most likely already here. Against my instincts, and with a shaky hand, I moved straight down the center towards the shadowy, life-sized figure of Christ on his cross, making sure the heels of my boots didn’t clunk or scrape along the uneven stone floor of the transept. The church and its ornate frescoes rose above me and whatever intimacy I felt outside its gates was now completely lost. I was alone in the shadows in a vast warehouse of stone and glass that would amplify the smallest of sounds.
    With my own tell-tale heart continuing to hamper my ears as I plodded along, guided only by those haphazard rays of light, I took pride in our silent approach, when, “Churches look so unholy in the dark” made its escape from Erin’s lips. I slammed a finger against my mouth, signaling him to shut the fuck up. But Erin just peered at the crucifix. “I can’t see anythang except ...”
    Erin’s scream rang throughout every corner of St. Francis Xavier’s. I rolled my eyes and sagged in defeat. Taking a small flashlight from my back pocket, I calmed my nerves and wondered if my ears were bleeding from the dancer’s shriek.
    “So much for the element of surprise,” I half-said aloud. 

     Following Erin’s horror to the crucifix, I thumbed the switch and the light found the spirit of his cry: a frail, willowy girl nailed to a cross.
     Erin’s fingers dug their way into me as he slammed his eyes shut and buried his face into the back of my olive drab. I kept my bearings. Listened first. No movement meant the killer was long gone. I tried to move forward, but Erin was steadfast. I shined the light onto the corpse and the hair gave her away.
     “It’s the girl I met in the bar the other night.” I turned towards Erin and he released his numbing grip though his eyes were still closed. “She told me to stay away from Penny. Said she was evil.” \

     Erin cried and the echo rang out. “Honey, let’s go. Please.” His voice alien and strange. He tugged at me in desperation, but I wasn’t going anywhere.
     Putting my arm around Erin’s waist, I spun him about to face the doors, leaving me to face the body, and brought him in close. I lifted his chin and told him to look at me. He did.
     “Go outside, have a cigarette and wait for me. Don’t call the cops.” I stopped my new lover from speaking with a calming kiss. “Go.”
    Erin sniffled, nodded and rushed outside with fast clicks from his heels to the safety of the sunlight.
    I moved forward with tentative steps towards the cross, careful enough not to get too close. I focused on the body: the Jesus girl wore her own barbed-wire crown of thorns, above a face in repose, and her right side had been cut open, mocking what the spear of destiny had done to the original rebel some two-thousand years before. Her pale, tortured body was covered in zigzag patterns of gashes and whip marks. Railroad spikes punctured her palms and ankles. Blood covered the floor as well as the handmade cross of rotting, damaged wood, set before the altar. Past the desecration shined the true, painted crucifix in the rotunda of the sanctuary, a riveting fresco in an arched frame below the church’s grand dome. It must’ve taken time to pose the girl, and the portrait behind her body was in all likelihood used as a guide.
     I shifted to the side, crouching low to let the light play along the base of its altar at the edges of the black pool. With the best angle for light and reflection, I found it: bootprints. Two sets. One very large and one much smaller. There was nothing more though my heart told me someone else had to be there, watching, orchestrating, gloating – the Mistress directing her minions.
     The Jesus girl had to have been alive for the final moments because her blood had cascaded from deep cuts in her armpits and covered most of the prints on the floor. No blood had been tracked beyond the confines of the altar, though its metallic odor cut through the smell of the drying plaster.
Shining the light on her face, I caught the trails from tears and the pale, downturned mouth as if she were at rest. And for some reason, in that hall of absolute peace, as I expected her eyes to open, I heard a drop splash onto the floor as if the church was crying for her.
     I wondered if she peered out the colored glass and begged for mercy. Then I remembered the giant crucifix that had hung around her neck and could hear her saying, “Why hast thou forsaken me?” in her final moment. Maybe Jesus was her one true love and this was her one chance to totally immerse herself into the spirit of his death to try and feel what he had felt. To completely appreciate her savior via a forced imitation of Christ with her in the starring role. I could see her bringing her captors, her torturers no satisfaction as she grew quiet and still while peering out of the stained glass. Yeah, she didn’t beg. She smiled because she was going home. Going home to her love. I just can’t imagine the hell she went through to get there.
     I looked at her one last time before getting back to work. I searched in vain for her silver crucifix but couldn’t find it and knew the necklace had become a trophy.  

     And as I got closer to the bootprints in an effort to better see the patterns, the lights popped on. I twisted around, snapping a wide-eyed gaze toward the front doors.

© William D. Prystauk