Fifty Shades of Screenwriting

The Fifty Shades phenomena.  Soft-core mommy porn.  It's made a fortune, and will soon be coming to a theater near you!

I have less than no desire to read it.  None.  Nada.  Zip.  And what's interesting, is that the screenwriters I know, have no interest either.  What's with that?!

We like sex.  We're good at it.  (Who is kidding who - we're great at it!)   So why the lack of love?

At first I thought the reasons must be something practical like the piss-poor prose or the pathetic plot, or maybe something altruistic like not wanting to support the not-so-subtle message that no means 'dominate and conquer me with that big penis of yours' that fuels the rape culture in today's society.  

As much as I'd like to believe that the lack of screenwriter love for Fifty Shades is based on something practical or noble, I've finally figured out that the truth behind it is much more sick and twisted.

Simply put, it does nothing for us because we live a hard core 'illegal in seven states you sick mofo' existence 24/7.  And we like it.  Fifty Shades is like a stale unsalted cracker.

You think you know sick and twisted?  You ain't seen nothing yet.

Without further ado, I present:

Fifty Shades Of Screenwriting

It starts.

I find you.

You could be anywhere.  On a bus.  In the grocery story.  Taking a crap.  Twisting yourself into a pretzel as you attempt to pop that annoying lower back zit.

Suddenly I'm there.  Nothing more than an idea.  But you've tasted me now.  You want more.

You know I'm big.  You know I'm huge.  You know I'll demand every ounce of energy you have and push you beyond the breaking point 'til you're nothing but a dried up useless shell.  You don't want to go there.  You're afraid.  So you ignore me.  Pretend I'm not there.

But you can't get away from me.  I know your every move.  There is no escape.  

I follow you everywhere and see you when you think you're alone and it's safe to pick your nose.  I know you better than you know yourself.

But still you'll flee.  There is nowhere to run.

When you least expect it, I'll pin you up against a wall and demand your full attention.  I'll push you down into your computer chair and chain you to your desk, where I'll force you to explore me fully.

You'll start, tentative, but knowing you must.  There is no way out.  You are resigned to your
fate as my keyboard bitch slave.

Your mental fingers explore my surface and wander upon... Could it be? Yes.  It's an inciting incident.  And it's hot.  

You feel flush as my mere presence commands you to explore further, and characters begin to grow and my plot line gets hard.

But something's not right.  The tension needs to build.  Things need to move faster!  Faster.  Please, God, faster!

You beg.  You plead.  You bargain away your mother's soul, but I don't give in.  I make you work for it.  Work for it like the dog you are.

(Must pause here to ask, "Do people actually read serious shit like this for fun without first sustaining brain damage?!"  My rant is done.  Where were we...) 

You fall to the floor, dragging your portable keyboard behind you, because you can't let it go.  You know if you dare I will not be pleased.

Casually, befitting the insignificant piece of dog crap that is you, I give into your demands and reward you with what you right now most desire: an Act One turning point.  YES!  Spasms of ecstasy and agony course through your body, but it is not over.  No.  We are only beginning.

It is now that I reward you by showing you my massive ginormously epic Act Two.  

"It's too big," you protest.  "It's too much."  But I make you work it.  I make you worship every inch of it.  You want it.  You want me to give it to you bad.  You want to know it, and own it, and posses it.  But it will never be yours.  You are not worthy!

But maybe... Maybe, if you're very good, I'll let you have it.  Maybe.

So you work it.  You try to be good.  You try and try, until exhausted, you succumb to sleep, a thin line of drool pooling on the floor beneath your mouth.

I slap you awake.  How dare you sleep when I have needs!  You must be punished.

You have no concept of time now.  It has ceased to have meaning for you.  You want that midpoint so bad, but I deny it to you.  I force you to go over and over the tip of my Act Two, circling and circling until nothing in the world exists for you beyond your need.

And when you think you can go on not one moment more, I  plunge all of my massive Act Two into your quivering half dead body.  And you scream out and beg for more.

You want my climax.  You want it bad!  But I don't give it you.  No.  You're not ready for it.  You can't take it.  Things need to build, build, and build to a fevered pace.  Then I'll violate you in a new and unexpected way, and build some more.

And at the precise moment the neighbors bang on the walls to tell you to shut the hell up, I give you the full force of my climax, and the world as you know it l explodes.

You crawl away like half-dead roadkill, reach up and hit print.  Then you collapse into unconsciousness, but before your head hits the grown, I'm gone.

It's over.

(At least until Fifty Shades of Rewrites)

Hope you enjoyed that folks.  Go have a cigarette.  Then do some sick twisted stuff with your script, the likes of which I couldn't even print here.

And please remember kiddies - sick, abusive relationships with your scripts are something I fully support and encourage.  But if you ever meet a real life human being who treats you this way?  Run, don't walk, away from it.  Call the cops.  Carry a bat.  Do whatever the hell it takes to end it before it begins.