10PTT: Splendora by Hudson Phillips

[Pitchpatch]

My enormous thanks to Hudson Phillips for allowing me to study his pages under the 10PTT microscope. "Balls of steel," as Duke Nukem says.  "Baaalls of Steeeeel."
 
Usual disclaimer: To write is to struggle with a stubborn beast and drag it by the horns into the world; to rewrite is to drag a defiant chihuahua by the leash on your way to buy milk and a pack of smokes.  Writing is hard.  Rewriting: not so much.  So my respect always to the authors like Hudson who win the tug-of-war.  Know that I try to handle your sentences with care always.  Inevitably sometimes I fumble.  Please excuse those hopefully few occasions.
 
This is the first 10PTT I can remember where I review dialogue.  I don't normally do that.  With SPLENDORA I felt unusually compelled .  I don't expect this to become a habit.
 
Let's talk about why SPLENDORA makes me smile.
 
Two kinds of screenplay catapult me over the wall into Stupid-Happy Land.  (Northwest of the Twilight Zone, FYI.)
 
SCREENPLAY TYPE 1
 
The first type engages mostly on an intellectual level.  The story unfolds with relentless, orderly precision, and the writing marches proudly down the page with the efficient elegance of an army parade.  You know you’re witnessing the results of training, drills, repetition, and absolute dedication. Everything in its place. Everything polished and planned.   When it’s over, you marvel at the skill of it all and hope, as a writer yourself, one day you’ll be as accomplished.
 
Mark Elliott Kratter’s ENDANGERED, which I read recently, is such a script. (Bear with me. We’ll return to SPLENDORA momentarily.)  I basked in the masterful writing throughout.  When the writing’s this good you’re primed to overlook an average story, which I think ENDANGERED is.  But the language on the page: outstanding.  Pulling some samples at random:
 
"Her eyes bug, full of queasy panic, as the huge ferns in the distance appear like tiny green stars."
 
and...
 
"Its already huge mouth doubles in size. With teeth wide apart and sharp enough to take off their faces whole."
 
Every page is a taut sheet of whiplashed flesh, striped and stinging with figurative sentences.  "Like tiny green stars."  "Sharp enough to take off their faces whole."  Writing is about finding the right words, but more importantly writing is about finding the right images.

SIDEBAR: Mark wrote "... sharp enough to take off their faces whole" not "... to take their faces off whole."  He’s honoring the writing rule "keep related words together."
 
Here’s another: "Kaley spooks, then listens."
 
One thing Kratter does consistently is find powerfully apt verbs.  "Kaley spooks."  Not "Kaley gasps and flinches in terror, then summons the courage to listen."  She spooks then listens.  Four words.  One killer verb is all he needs, and that’s all it takes to picture how Kaley reacts.  Same with "Her eyes bug."  Not "Her eyes grow large" or "Her eyes widen."  Plain old "Her eyes bug."  Three syllables and the job’s done.  Bravo.
 
So, there’s the first kind of screenplay that yanks my chain.  Think of these screenplays as immaculately groomed, stylishly dressed, socially attuned, smart, charming, highly motivated achievers.  They are the alpha dogs we pre-pros instinctively follow.
 
The flaws may be there, but you don’t notice at first glance.  You’re too busy being dazzled.  Even when you finally notice the flaws you don’t care, because you’re busy telling yourself: "Wish that was me."
 
Thrilling, eye-opening, and inspiring as it is to be in such company, it can be intimidating.  That Wayne’s Worldish "We’re not worthy" feeling can keep the reading experience from penetrating your lizard brainstem and burrowing into your baser emotion centers.  While reading these Type 1 scripts I’m a thoughtful patron touring the halls of an art museum: I stay respectfully quiet, politely attentive, and appropriately appreciative.  But there’s always a glass partition between me and the writing.  The stage is over there and I’m in the audience over here.
 
A Type 1 read is a great experience, but it’s a singular experience, not a united one.
 
SCREENPLAY TYPE 2
 
With these screenplays the partition, the separation, isn’t there. Type 2 is your peer, not your professor.  Type 2 is the friend you have who’s flawed but infectiously enthusiastic and always fun to be around.  This is not a friend to take to the Natural History Museum -- unless you’re fine with getting escorted out when security staff discover the replica dinosaurs are now arranged to be sniffing each other’s butt.
 
You won’t idolise a Type 2 the way you do a Type 1.  But you appreciate them just as much.  We accept Type 2s for what they are, warts and all.  Type 2s don’t wish to rule the world.  They don’t strive for perfection.  They’re not super motivated like Type 1s.  But they’re no slackers either, despite appearances.  They’re simply content.  Comfortable in their skin.  What you see is what you get.  Hanging out with a Type 2 is uncomplicated, because having awesome fun times is the first and only item on their agenda.  The lessons to be learned from a Type 2 screenplay -- if there at all -- are subtle and personal.
 
For me, Hudson Phillip’s SPLENDORA is the perfect example of a Type 2 screenplay.
 
It’s a movie I want to see.  Why?  Because I’ll leave the cinema satisfied and smiling.  No other reason.  I won’t need to burn neurons figuring out plot machinations or character motivations or "How many levels deep are we in the dream now?"  All I have to do is sit back, relax, and let Hudson firehose me with goofy action, and occasionally dump a bucket of heartfelt sentiment on my head.  That sounds good to me.
 
Sad, Bad, Mad, Glad.  Those are the core emotions.  Your screenplay -- your movie -- must incite one or more in your audience.  With SPLENDORA I know I’ll walk out happy after having my GLAD button hammered for 90 minutes.
 
We need both screenplay types.  Going to the gym (Type 1, productive work) requires that we skip alternate days to stay home, recover (build muscle), and play Xbox (Type 2, productive fun).  One compliments the other.
 
SPLENDORA SCRIPT INTRO
 
Sometimes I get carried away.
 
A screenwriter pal asked me to look over Hudson’s SPLENDORA logline.  No problem, I said.  The logline landed.  Pleasantly, the unsolicited script arrived in hot pursuit.  That was good.  Hard to polish a logline without reading the screenplay.
 
I checked the logline.  I read the script.  I sent back my logline ideas, marked up the first act, and returned that with notes.  I wrote my friend: "My mind keeps turning to how much fun this could be."
 
Then I felt it: that urgent gnawing feeling.
 
I groaned.  I slumped in my chair.  I knew what it meant.  It meant I would mark up the rest of the script.  Must.  I wouldn’t sleep if I didn’t.  Hilariously, if I did I wouldn’t sleep either, because once I start there’s no stopping til it’s done.  So be it.
 
I started from page 1 and marked up the entire script.  My second pass left me as excited as the first.  Story connections appeared where I missed them first time through.  Characters solidified.  The whole of the story became clear to me.  This is something, I told myself.  This is really something.
 
All the while I emailed back and forth with Hudson.  Here’s how I know a pre-pro screenwriter has a genuine chance at slicing the "pre" from that title.  Does the writer accept notes (especially the awful ones) with gracious good humor?  Does the writer hold his or her ground when the notes push a scene too far in the wrong direction?  Does the pre-pro writer understand the hand-in-glove relationship between the art of storytelling and the craft of writing, and the need to continually refine both?  More than anything, is the writer still giddy with excitement for the story, even after 5, 10, 20 drafts?
 
Hudson was all those things.  That means you’ll be reading his name in the trades one day.  All Hudson has to do now is keep the engine running and put miles on the dial.
 
Another thing working to Hudson’s benefit is his breezy, conversational, Type 2 writing style.  But one writing issue surfaced early and stayed in my peripheral vision: a famine of figurative language.
 
Figurative language is anything you write that’s not literally true.  Metaphor, simile, symbolism.  Let’s return to the samples from ENDANGERED.
 
"Her eyes bug, full of queasy panic, as the huge ferns in the distance appear like tiny green stars."
 
Her eyes aren’t the eyes of a bug.  The ferns aren’t literally stars.
 
"Its already huge mouth doubles in size. With teeth wide apart and sharp enough to take off their faces whole."
 
Okay, this one might be literally true.  It feels like a plausible assessment.  I should mention that figurative language also includes rich, vivid images like this one, which conjure scenes that haven’t happened yet.
 
Let’s find another...
 
"A long lizard-like tongue lashes out, savoring the flavor of Kaley’s pain."
 
It’s not a lizard’s tongue.  But it resembles one.
 
Figurative language lets you quickly build scenes in the reader’s head by piggybacking on images and emotions the reader knows about.  By association, your words hitch a free ride on those existing memories.  We know a lizard tongue is long, skinny, flickering, fleshy, dimpled.  Maybe blue, maybe grey.  By letting figurative language do the heavy lifting, we don’t need to include every detail required to depict a lizard’s tongue.
 
A pro writer I cite often and fondly is inimitable screenwriting poster boy and How To Write Screenplays Badly alumni Jeremy Slater.  AKA "Jerslater" or "JFS" among my screenwriting buddies -- uttered with an exasperated roll of the eyes and a grudging smile, given the ease with which Jeremy Fucking Slater both writes and sells specs.  (It’s not easy.  Jeremy sweats over his keyboard like every schmuck, and he earns every sale.  He just makes it look so damn effortless.)

SIDEBAR: It's bizarre to see Jeremy with a single movie credit on his IMDB page.  The kid's had an assembly line bolted to his head for a long time now.  For more than five years he's churned out script after script, sale after sale, year after year.  Dammit, those of us who collect his scripts like hobos collect smokable cigarette butts want to see these things produced.

Jeremy's my touchstone because nobody writes Type 2 screenplays like JFS.  His writing crawls with figurative sentences.  That’s a big part of why he sells.  Let’s look at examples from Jerslater’s TAPE 4:
 
"The walls and floor are gray cement blocks, almost resembling cobblestones."
 
"Donald hesitates, weighing Kim’s words."
 
"His voice echoes back, distorted and oddly toneless, like it’s coming from the bottom of a well."
 
"The effect is like being underwater."
 
"Even though the camera’s flash is powerful, it still barely penetrates that crushing darkness."
 
Words can’t be weighed in a literal sense.  Jeremy’s not saying the echo came from the bottom of a well.  They are not underwater.  Darkness cannot crush.  And yet these things -- these things that are not, these negative imprints -- contribute enormously to how you visualize the unfolding story.  The more figurative language a writer employs, the more engaging, the more immediate, the more concrete, the more "real" the story feels.
 
Figurative language is one of the sharpest tools in your bag of writing tricks.  You won’t see a Type 1 screenplay leave that tool idle, but you’ll see some Type 2 screenplays get by without it.  Like SPLENDORA.  Adding figurative language -- in moderation -- to a Type 2 screenplay can turn a good read into a fantastic read.  I think that will happen to SPLENDORA if Hudson looks for opportunities to employ his figurative-language tool.
 
Regarding the overall story, I’d argue SPLENDORA falls squarely into the coveted "familiar but different" category.  The story elements aren’t new, but Hudson arranges them in a satisfactory through-line.
 
I see avenues of improvement to explore.  This draft doesn’t cross the finish line.  But not terribly far to go.  The hard miles are behind us.  You can hear the crowd over the horizon, cheering their encouragement.
 
I’ve got a later draft of SPLENDORA, but I won’t read it yet.  I want to focus on this earlier draft, because this is the one we can learn from the most.  This is the raw meat being slapped on the grill, still tender and juicy, before the heat of revisions seals in the tasty goodness.
 
With SPLENDORA’s backstory behind us, let’s begin.

By the way, I crunched the numbers and discovered this 10PTT totals about 9,000 words. WTF indeed.  File it under F for FUCKING BONKERS and forget I said anything.

Below is the title page (inc. markup legend) and teaser.

[Pitchpatch]

Yeesh.  We begin on a painfully pedantic and utterly trivial examination of sentence construction.  You know me; I'm not one to miss a chance to argue minutia.  So let's get this over with.
 
1. "DORA wears no make-up, glasses..."
 
I didn't mark it up on the first pass, but there's a tiny opportunity for ambiguity here, due to beginning a list with a negative.  Does this mean Dora is without both make-up and glasses, i.e. shorthand for "DORA wears no make-up, no glasses..."?  The rest of the sentence gives us the answer: No.  Only the first item relates to what she does not wear.  But we might pause for a millisecond to make sense of it.  If one reader slows down to make that distinction, the sentence didn't do its job.
 
A sentence must manage reader expectations.  If you begin a sentence listing something a character isn't wearing, we can fairly assume the items to follow will match that pattern.  If you're going to mix what a character wears and does not wear, my preference is to break the pattern at the end, not the beginning:
 
"DORA wears a modest dress, long hair, glasses, and no make-up."
 
Note the shuffled item order: dress, hair, glasses, no make-up.  That keeps related items together (body, head).  I think it's worth doing for the slightly improved focus.
 
2. "If you noticed her on the street..."
 
I botched the revision here.  Too eager to begin was I, during that first edit.  This paragraph needs "on the street" to work as written.  So let's restore it, and the next para about Zoe too.  This is why you should let days or weeks pass between tackling revisions; it gives you much needed perspective.  Go climb the mountain before you return to the forest.
 
3. "Just as their lips are about to meet..."
 
Huzzah, an edit I can justify. The cuts sacrifices no meaning. The revision delivers the same information and color with fewer words.
 
"They both start laughing" touches on my pet peeve about "-ing" words.
 
"They begin walking along the pier..."
-- "They walk along the pier..."
 
"Tony starts punching numbers into the keypad..."
-- "Tony punches numbers into the keypad..."
 
"Helen begins reaching for the door but stops herself..."
-- "Helen reaches for the door but stops herself..."
 
Losing the "-ing" makes the sentence shorter, punchier.  For me, anyway.  Why spell out the beginning of the action when the context makes it obvious?  Save descriptions of starting/ending an action for when it removes ambiguity or conveys necessary meaning.
 
4. "Well what would you say then?"
 
Another minor blip on my personal radar.  In it's worst form I'd call this "dialogue daisy chaining."  The worst offender in this category -- one you see all the time on TV -- is:
 
"It was you, wasn't it?  You selfish bitch!"
"I'm a selfish bitch? How dare you!"
"All you care about is yourself!"
"Me?  You're the one who..."
 
That passing-the-baton, leap-frogging, self-propagating dialogue.  Ugh.
 
"Well what would you say..." is an itchy earlobe compared to the teeth-grinding annoyance I feel when I hear dialogue daisy chaining.  "Well" is a bit of harmless dialogue linking.  You could argue it makes the dialogue more colloquial.  I'd argue back that you can safely leave those flourishes to your actors.  They know how to sand off the rough edges of dialogue, or apply word-glue to improve the flow.  Put those little splice words on the page if it's important they be there.  If not, don't; it's one word more than you need.  Your job is to use only what's necessary.
 
SIDEBAR:  Writers write; good writers write frugally.  Consider this logline for YOU'LL BE THE DEATH OF ME, a recently sold spec  by Mark Hammer:
 
"Nothing can spoil falling in love in New York City, but a masked knife-wielding psychopath hell bent on keeping you single can certainly make falling in love more difficult."
 
That's good structure.  Whimsical and intriguing.  Now, I can't say if that's the official logline.  It makes no difference; that sentence is far from frugal.  The repetition of "falling in love," for example.
 
"Nothing spoils falling in love in New York City like a masked knife-wielding psychopath hell bent on keeping you single."
 
BOOM!  Nine lazy words mercilessly sucked out the airlock, and good bloody riddance to them.  With the moochers gone the logline springs to life.
 
We don't have to stop there.  Consider the more frugal:
 
"Nothing spoils falling in love in New York City like a knife-wielding psycho keeping you single."
 
Or the savagely frugal:
 
"Nothing spoils falling in love in New York City like a masked killer keeping you single."
 
Oh jeez, the lever's jammed ON.  Somebody help me shift this thing!  Somebody!
 
"Try falling in love in New York City when a masked killer wants you single."
 
Whoa, Nelly.  Wonderfully concise, that last one, but do we lose too much color, too much information?  Your call.
 
My point is: don't splash words across the page with utter abandon.  Pretend you earn a dollar for every polished sentence, plus a nickel for every word you cleave along the way.  The extra effort pays off, and your readers will thank you.
 
5. -- "Trust me, the way to a boy's heart..."
 
The introductory clause works better, IMO.  It pushes the emphasis to the end, which feels more natural.  The sentence delivers its payload with "through his pants."  Anything after that is dead weight.

[Pitchpatch]

6. "Like you've ever been in a boy's pants."
 
Including "ever" dilutes the payload, I think.  No difference without it; the tease is just as effective.
 
-- "Like you've been in a boy's pants."
 
That means we can afford to lose it.  Plus, there's the secondary bonus of saving a line on the page.  Yay for clawing back white space!
 
7. "She holds up her hand and wiggles her fingers."
 
Another case of letting context frame the action.  On further thought, the context flows so well from "boy's pants" to "parts of me" to "wiggles her fingers," we can confidently lose the "at Dora" which I added too cautiously.
 
ZOE: Parts of me have.
She wiggles her fingers.
DORA: Gross.
 
Yep.  The context book-ending the finger wiggling supports trimming the "wiggle" description. All we need is that one core action.
 
Also, good to see "holds up her hand" and not "holds her hand up."  Keeping related words together.
 
8. "Is your mom even going to let you off the leash tonight?"
 
Too wordy for me.  Keep an eye open for this type of forward-looking wordiness.  Kill it where it serves no greater purpose:
 
"I'm going to ask him where he was last night."
-- "I'll ask him where he was last night."
 
"I had better not ask where she got those hickeys"
-- "I won't ask where she got those hickeys."
 
"I'm going to light up your body like a thousand fireworks all at once."
-- Whoa, that stands as is!  Collapsing it to "I'll light up your body..." throws off the wicked sense of anticipation.  That's what I mean by "serving a greater purpose."
 
9. "I dunno.  I mean, yes..."
 
Skip the padding and get right to the meat of it: "I'm an adult now.  What can she do?"  If it's important we show her dithering then it can stay.
 
10. "DORA'S MOM is now standing..."
 
Another "-ing"?  Oh man, it's on like Donkey Kong.  I said earlier why these things (these th-ings!) earn my mistrust.  I'll lay out the original and the revision side by side for comparison, including the prior sentence because it supplies important context.
 
"Dora freezes, eyes wide.  DORA'S MOM is now standing right outside by the car."

-- "Dora freezes, eyes wide.  DORA'S MOM stands by the car." Or "... stands outside the car."
 
Action, reaction.  We need that reveal to be short and tight, mirroring Dora's stomach-knotting bugout.
 
The rest of this paragraph's edits demonstrate easy readability wins.  "She's plain like Dora, but still youthful."  On second eyeballing, my revision doesn't sit right.  The two parts are at odds.  Still youthful compared to Dora?  That's a mangled possible reading, thanks to "but."  How about:
 
-- "She's plain like Dora, and oddly youthful.  They could be sisters."
 
No chance to trip up now.  You might say I just "kicked but"!  But don't.  I got one in the clip and one in the pipe; it'll end badly for us both.
 
11.  "How much has she heard?"
 
Very minor change.  Hard for me to explain why I went for "How much did she hear?"  I think the alliteration on the letter H mentally staggered me, even with this short sentence.  Actually, being a short sentence exacerbates the problem -- whatever it is.  Anyway, the same thing would drive me to rework a sentence like this:
 
"What has she done now?"
-- "What did she do now?"
 
The latter feels a tiny bit more... I dunno.  Punchy and present.
 
12.  "Oh, hi Mom!"
 
I explained why I habitually chop these little sentence starters.  It's no big deal here.  I'm only being consistent.  It's important to stay predictable so people know what to expect, even if it means -- COCK PUNCH!
 
Ha, you didn't see that coming.  Who's predictable now, huh?  S'okay, take a moment.  Get your breath back.  The nausea will pass.  I remember there was this bully at my high school -- this mean, lonely sack-of-shit kid -- and two or three times a week he'd chase me until I couldn't breath and I'd finally give up, and he'd turn me around and bend me over and line me up and he'd kick a gigantic fucking field goal with my nuts, you know?  So I feel for ya, man.  If you need to vomit that's fine too.  Lean forward.  I got you.  Wow, you're white as a sheet.  Lean forward a little more... That's good. That's perfect, absolutely perfect for -- THROAT STRIKE!  And what's this?  I do believe it's a -- FLYING FOREARM SMASH!
 
13.  "Hi, Mrs Delaney, we were just talking about pants."
 
I see two ways to handle this dialogue bit.  Zoe's playful intention is clear: she means to unsettle Dora.  It's all for fun, but this little tease does foreshadow the soon-to-grow tension between them.
 
"Hi, Mrs Delaney.  We were just talking.  About pants."
 
In this version: emphasis on the pants after the innocent "We were just talking."  Still not enough for anyone else to make the connection to "boys pants."  But surely enough for Dora's mom to wonder about Zoe's odd spoken emphasis.  Definitely a blip on the parental radar.
 
"Hi, Mrs Delaney.  We were talking about pants."
 
Thoroughly more baffling presented this way.  No hint of subtext for Dora's mom to sniff.  Probably she'd assume the kids were discussing their own pants.  Nothing worrying about girly fashion talk.  Which means Zoe wouldn't say it that way.  She'd say it in the way most likely to alarm Dora's mom and in turn make Dora squirm.
 
14. Return of the Wiggle.
 
Pavlov style, we already associate the finger wiggle with Zoe's hinted-at act, so we can shorthand it here too.

[Pitchpatch]

15.  "Dora enters her house blindfolded, led by her mom."
 
This parses wrong.  The sentence structure causes us to visualize Dora first, then her mother -- even though her mother is the first through the door.  It's the same as saying:
 
"The cart left the barn, led by the horse."
 
My revision was: "Dora, blindfolded, enters, guided by her mom."  Oh man, that herky-jerky revision isn't helpful.  Having Dora enter first, her mother guiding her from behind, is what I intended.  It's not working.  It's still ambiguous whether her mom's leading or following.  How about:
 
"Dora enters, blindfolded, with her mom steering from behind."
 
Better.  We get an immediate image of Dora blindfolded, and the order of entry is now clear.  But my revision depends on having Dora enter first, which is probably not what Hudson intended.  Does it matter who enters first?  Very, very little.  But I do like the visual of the door opening and a blindfolded Dora is the first thing we see.  Then the reveal of her mother guiding her from behind.  It's a simple, brief moment of waiting for the other shoe to drop: "Why the hell is she blindfolded?"  If the mother leads, the reason is obvious immediately.
 
Oh.  And I omitted mention of "house" from the sentence because it's right there on the slug.  No need to double up on setting the context.
 
16. "Is this really necessary?"
 
I think I trimmed here ("Is this necessary?") partly to emphasize the repetition of "necessary" in the question-response and partly to carve up the syllabic tongue tangle of "really necessary" (7 syllables).  Here's a version with single-syllable words.  (It wasn't planned; I checked the syllable count after.)  There's a palpable difference:
 
DORA: "Do we need to do this?"
MOM: "I don't know. Do we need to have fun?"
 
I'm on board with the exchange as written if it plays like: "Is this reeeally necessary?"
 
SIDEBAR: Arguing minutia -- you won't beat me.  That's what I do.  THAT'S ALL I DO.  You can't stop me.  I'll reach down your throat and pull your fucking --
 
** AFK FOR COFFEE BREAK AND AMYL NITRATE REFILL.
 
17. "Dora rips the blindfold off."
 
Dammit.  A perfect "keep related words together" record spoiled.
 
18. "The room is FILLED with..."
 
Two reasons I wanted to reshape this moment.
 
First: passive sentence.  It's not a foregone conclusion that I'll wedge a shovel under every passive sentence I meet and flip it over to expose its active side.  But it is likely.  In moderation, passive sentences do belong in your writing, for deliberate effect and for variety.  But here, it irks me how "is FILLED" has a starring role.  There it stands all la-de-da uppercase and self-important.  No, sir.  You are a bland verb, Mr FILLED, and you snuck in here under false pretenses.
 
Converting the sentence to active sets an authentic, strong verb in its place.
 
Second: "Dora is genuinely touched" is classic tell-don't-show.  You're dumping a fact on the reader, and the nature of facts is that we need not question them.  Someone else verified their truth, so you don't have to.  Facts are one-way, with minimal comprehension effort required on the receiving end.  The answer is four?  Great. I'll tuck away that factoid: two plus two equals four.   Facts are boring.
 
But if we give the reader just the elements in the question (two plus two) and let the reader deduce the answer (four)... that's called audience engagement.  We made them do a little work for their comprehension.  Audiences like that.  We made them feel a little smarter for answering the question themselves.  Audiences love that.
 
That's my reasoning for these edits: flip it to active, get Dora in there reacting so the audience can see it first hand, and let the audience conclude that Dora "is genuinely touched."
 
19. "Well, you only turn 18 once..."
 
You'll notice I terminated another sentence starter.
 
I'm unsure about losing the "Unfortunately."  There's no hint at the tone, but we can guess: Dora's mom either misses her youth and would gladly replay it and not change a thing (best-time-of-our-lives thing), or she regrets something from that time and would gladly replay her youth and change MANY things (folly-of-youth kinda thing).  There's a reveal later in the story that could make sense of this moment.
 
At this early stage, that single word, wistfully uttered, could mean anything or nothing.  There's absolutely no context framing it.  We could give context hints through wrylies:
 
-- DORA'S MOM: (grimly) You only turn 18 once.
 
Or through description:
 
-----
DORA'S MOM: You only turn 18 once.
 
For a moment Mrs Delaney loses herself in sad memories.  Then Dora engulfs her in a hug.
-----
 
Without stronger context this single word remains irritating and perplexing.  I think that's why I struck it out.  In my opinion it needs to be suitably contextualized or simply omitted.  I'm happy either way.
 
SIDEBAR: Hit the pause button and answer me this: Why "DORA'S MOM" for the dialogue slug?  Why not "MRS DELANEY" or "DINA" (whatever Dora's mom's first name is. I don't recall it appearing in the script)?
 
There's no absolute rule about character names.  My rule of thumb is this: switch the character name for "Lap Dancer 2."  In our case, "DORA'S MOM" is now "LAP DANCER 2." Everywhere.  Now does it look weird?  It should.  We expect a character named "Lap Dancer 2" to show up in a single scene, maybe two, with a couple lines of dialogue at most.  Then: never heard from again.
 
In other words, an unnamed character equals bit player.  Dora's mother is not an extra in this movie.  She's a supporting actor.  Let her have her name.
 
20.  "I've got an awesome night planned for us."
 
The "for us" is redundant, I figure.  The very next word is "we're" which tells us the same thing.  I say again: if you cut words and the meaning stays the same then be assured you're playing for Team Edward.  Or... Gryffindor.  Or whatever.
 
-- "I've got an awesome night planned.  We're gonna do a huge breakfast buffet..."
 
21. "Mom notices the uncomfortable look on her face."
 
We saw Dora's face sink.  We know something's up.  We're ahead of the curve now, waiting for mom to catch up.  We can drop "the uncomfortable look on her face" because that's for Dora's mom's benefit, not ours.  It's telling us something we already know.
 
We could let mom's dialogue do all the work, let the context thread it all together:
 
-----
DORA'S MOM: I've got an awesome night planned. We're gonna do a huge breakfast buffet, complete with whip cream smiley faces on our waffles...
 
As she talks, Dora's face sinks.
 
DORA'S MOM: ... cake and ice cream, board games, Twilight movie marathon, not to mention, presents! (noticing) What's wrong, peach?
-----
 
I'm not fussed about it.  But I'd fight for it if it meant reeling back a line of white space or some other collateral benefit.

[Pitchpatch]

22. "It’s just, I thought, maybe since..."
 
The point of this spoken meandering is to show Dora not wanting to hurt mom’s feelings.  She deliberately bundles this bombshell in as much verbal bubble wrap as possible, hoping it lands softly and with no casualties.  But I think the actor can do all that in one facial expression, and we’re free to clean it up on the page.
 
Reading Dora’s line, I visualize her doing a squirming facial dance -- discomfort, pleading, faint hope. We might bake the apprehension into the dialogue like this:
 
"It’s just... I thought since it’s my birthday I could... go hang out with Zoe tonight?"
 
Less wordy but still strongly suggestive.  Use ellipses sparingly, of course.  Here it fits the context perfectly, as it did with Mom’s preceding line.
 
23. "But we always spend your birthday just the two of us."
 
I really wouldn’t mind if the final line was: "But we always spend your birthday together.  Just the two of us."  For me that repetition would hammer home just how invested mom is in this birthday ritual.  On the other hand, the brevity of "But we always spend your birthday together" suits mom’s dismay.  Your call.
 
24. "I know, that’s the problem though."
 
I felt this needed to be sharper, more surgical: Dora seizing her moment to verbally rush forward and finally break through the unspoken wall between them.  REALLY make her mother understand this time.  Then... whoops!  Dora realizes she pushed too far ahead: "I want to meet a b--"  It’s a nice moment.
 
25.  "She stops herself."
 
We’re being told something we already know.  Dutifully, this line dies for the greater good: extra white space on the page.
 
26.  "Yes!  A boy."
 
Earlier I railed against this kind of alleged dialogue daisy chaining.  The repetition here works if Dora’s on the attack again, spitting back the challenge: "Yes!  A boy!  What’s so wrong with that?"
 
Or, by stripping the first part we show her retreating to her meek self: "What’s so wrong with that?"  Once more quietly tiptoeing around her mother.  Again playing peacekeeper.
 
Looking over this sequence, my edits seriously reshape the dynamic between Dora and her mom.  The original text has her more feisty and combative.  In the revision she’s more placating, contemplative... piloting her mother carefully, sensitively, firmly through these rough seas.  "Like Dad hurt you..."
 
I see how my revision puts more focus on Mom; the original is more about Dora and her needs.  Interesting to see how I diverged like that.  The influence of personal thematic biases, I suppose.  Fascinating, Captain.
 
The rest of this dialogue sequence I’m trimming to increase the staccato pace: that clipped brevity humans fall into during an argument’s climax.  Angry yelling sucks air from your lungs, so we tend to use shorter, more emphatic sentences.

[Pitchpatch]

27.  "Dora’s mum slices a piece of cake."
 
That’s a scene I’m certain won’t make the final cut.  Everything’s implied in the visual of Mom carrying the cake, lit with a candle, to Dora’s room.  It directly pivots off Mom’s pained look buttoning the previous scene.  Those two shots cut together to tell us Mom wants to smooth things over.  She’s going to do it the only way she knows: with love.
 
And the edits claws back a shitload of white space.  Cleaner readability, faster comprehension, more white space.  I’m not saying there should be a Nobel Peace Prize for this kind of thing.  I’m not saying there shouldn’t be.  All I’m saying is, I’m really happy for you and Imma let you finish but...
 

[Pitchpatch]

28. "The room is empty."
 
Seemed like an opportunity to have the first sentence mirror the clipped form of the second: "Room empty.  Window open.  The cake splats against the floor."  Or maybe: "Empty room.  Window open.  Cake spills to the floor."
 
29. "Dora and Zoe enter the house."
 
I feel we can shave the entrance.  We should be able to tell they’ve just arrived from their behaviour and body language: Dora fighting to keep her miniskirt from peekabooing; Zoe single-mindedly scanning for Tyler.
 
30. "... GUYS who look them up and down."
 
Felt natural to have the description of Dora’s appearance follow this moment rather than precede it.  Personal taste, but really it amounts not to a hill of beans.
 
31. "... like an angel..."
 
Did I mention already about the yellow marker?  Yellow highlighter shows Hudson using figurative language.  I want to see more yellow in a later draft.
 
32.  "He’s a running back."
 
A cute Shane Blackism.  The nod-and-wink stuff is right at home in this screenplay.  Fun in the writing, fun in the reading, fun in the watching -- the Holy Trinity.
 
33. "Zoe wastes no time, dragging..."
 
The original is a run-on sentence.  Two independent clauses there: "Zoe wastes no time" and "They approach Tyler and his friends."  Choose one or the other and rework the sentence accordingly:
 
-- "Zoe wastes no time.  Dragging Dora behind her, she approaches Tyler and his FRIENDS."
 
-- "Dragging Dora behind her, Zoe wastes no time.  They approach Tyler and his FRIENDS."
 
-- "Dragging Dora behind her, Zoe wastes no time approaching Tyler and his FRIENDS."
 
Or:
 
-- "Dragging Dora behind her, Zoe swoops on Tyler and his FRIENDS."
 

[Pitchpatch]

34. "Tyler notices Dora..."
 
Nothing lost in the edit.  White space recovered.  Net win.
 
35.  "She’s crazy nervous..."
 
I wish I’d yellow-highlighted "crazy nervous."  Adjectives can bump a word into the realm of figurative language.  How would you demonstrate "crazy nervous" in its literal form to somebody who’s never seen it?  You could play them a video showing an asylum inmate struggling against their straightjacket, frightened eyes twitching and bugging.  Is that the same as Dora’s behavior?  No.  It’s not a literal interpretation.  It’s figurative.  Take out the "crazy" and now we can interpret the sentence literally: "She’s nervous as they make eye contact."
 
36. "(with intensity)"
 
Opportunity to compress this down to a single wryly.  What word means "with intensity"?
 
Intensely! :-)  No other plausible candidates: keenly, forcefully, fiercely, acutely, ardently... Nope, "intensely" wins.
 
37. "Aren’t you going to offer us something to drink?"
 
Not sounding like a teenage girl to these ears, not unless this is Duchess Zoe of Pillowbottom Prussia.
 
-- "You gonna offer us a drink?"
 
38. "You guys wanna go for a swim later?"
 
What if Tyler’s the too-cool-for-school type?  He might not ask them outright to join the pool party.  He’s too sly for that.  Too alpha dog.  He might say:
 
-----
TYLER: We’re hitting the pool later.
ZOE: We didn’t bring out suits.
TYLER: (grins) Neither did we.
-----
 
Here, Zoe assumes she’s invited.  Kinda sad and desperate..
 
My revision fixes the issue, but how does "nod toward the backyard" work as written, given there’s no mention of a pool anywhere in this scene?  "You guys wanna go for a swim" plus a nod toward the backyard could refer to the house being next to the beach, or it could mean a backyard pool.  Anybody’s guess.  The director needs to do some fancy footwork there.  Obviously the viewer needs to know there’s a pool back there for that nod to make any sense.  The director could have the girls walk down a windowed corridor during that opening bit, with the pool party in full swing in the b.g.  Or we could relay that information through lighting (shimmering light reflected off water) and sound (pool-party hubbub in b.g.)  Or we could go back and pipe the factoid into the script with a casual mention earlier in the scene.
 
It's a small detail.  Overlook enough small details and you've got yourself a big plot hole.
 
39.  "Time slows."
 
This slow-mo device repeats here and there through the script.   It's been awhile since I read the script, so I can't recall precisely where and how.  But I know it's important enough to cap it here.  Give it the gravitas it deserves.
 

[Pitchpatch]

40. "Dora's hand goes up to her mouth."
 
That's too clinical.  I'd love to see that juiced.  Maybe: "Dora's hand flies to her mouth." Or "Dora's hand claps to her mouth."
 
41. "For the first time ever..."
 
Giving us a four here, not a two-plus-two.  Rather than state it flatly, we can show this!
 
-- "Zoe laughs it off, but her shark-like stare stays locked on Dora's back."
 
Something like that, letting the reader conclude she's jealous.
 
42. "Dora is drying herself off..."
 
I'm Zombieland's Tallahassee when I kill an "is... -ing" phrase: I feel gooood.  I hate those suckers.
 
43. "The door opens."
 
How?
 
-- "The door squeaks open."  Ah, slowly.
-- "The door BANGS open." Fast and forcefully.
 
44. "He's that rare kind of guy..."
 
Killed the repetition of his description.  In return we're gifted with a line of white space.  Yoink!
 
The rest of this dialogue exchange I'm doing some personal-preference nipping and tucking.
 

[Pitchpatch]

Oh wow.  We've almost hit our 10-page limit.  Dammit.  Lots of good stuff beyond that.  Hudson graciously allowed that I can push on a little further than I normally do with these 10PTTs.  On one hand I want to give you a thorough taste of what SPLENDORA cooks up; on the other hand I do try to stick to the 10-page limit.  Let's see where we end up after page 10.  I'd like to end this 10PTT on a high note.
 
45. "Dora reaches out to grab Tyler's shoulder..."
 
I'll take a second stab at this part.  I think the revisions help, but maybe there's more we can do to help this key moment kick butt.  How about we dive deep into Dora's POV to feel the reveal's full concussive impact.
 
-----
She's ready.  The moment of her dreams.
 
Dora reaches for Tyler's shoulder when --
 
From in front, somebody pulls him intimately close.
 
Dora freezes, watching a girl's hand snake seductively through Tyler's gleaming hair.
 
On the other end of this intense make-out session --
IS ZOE.
-----
 
Heightened POV, yeah?  It's no longer just a hand running through Tyler's hair.  Filtered through Dora's emotions the hand is a treacherous thing corrupting the object of her desire.  We're in her moment; we're not simply describing it.
 
We could tone it down --  "... watching a girl's hand slip seductively through..." -- but I like the overt symbolism of the other.  Gotta love figurative language, man.  Tis the shiznik.
 

[Pitchpatch]

Barely any cleanup on this page.  A tiny spill over there in aisle 3.  That's about it.  I swabbed away the "covers his mouth" because that gesture was becoming alarmingly contagious among the characters.  Better to take precautions early and avoid the pandemic.
 
Phew!  Page 10 ends on a cliffhanger.  I consulted the rule book and the rule book says in that event I must keep going.  Mandated overtime.  God bless you, you sexy, sexy book.  Anyway, Hudson already okayed the extension.  His exact words: "If you want, you can do through the end of the girl scout scene."  That's four extra pages I'll be cramming into your eye holes.  Brief pause while I strap on my cramming boots.

[Pitchpatch]

46. "Pulls out PEPPER SPRAY."
 
Redundant.  We're way ahead the moment Dora puts her hand in her purse.  This moment begs for a two-plus-two.
 
47. "... shaped like a star."
 
Did I mistakenly highlight this as figurative language?  "Glowing like a star" would be figurative, unquestionably.  Here it's literal: the pendant is star shaped -- "star" referencing the geometric shape, not the hydrogen-powered cosmic variety.
 
But wait.  Hudson didn't write "star-shaped pendant."  That would be literal and factual and true.  He wrote: "shaped like a star."  That means it's not exactly star shaped.  Just close.  So in that light, yes, it's a figurative description, a slam-dunk simile.
 
Normal people's nightmares crawl with demons and bogeymen.  In mine I'm trapped in an infinite grammar loop, forever spiraling down toward the event horizon of the biggest black hole you can imagine.  I'll gladly swap you for Freddy Krueger.
 
48.  "She places it around her neck."
 
That sentence does the job.  But I"m always looking to tweak a vanilla verb.  Other candidates: threads, loops, fixes, hooks...
 
49. "Mom, I'm so sorry..."
 
Meh.  I can live with this as originally written.  She's gonna spot the ransacking on her way down the stairs, so I figured the reveal would happen pretty quick.
 

[Pitchpatch]

Strap in, ladies and gents.  Time to get a feel for the real SPLENDORA.
 
50. "The Girl Scout notices the necklace around Dora's neck."
 
In hindsight I'd like to strip "the" from "the Girl Scout."  Keeping it addles my brain, because I look at it and think: "Common noun, not proper noun so why capitalize?"  Losing it transforms the reference into a proper noun and all is well:
 
-----
DORA: I'm sorry, I don't have time right now.
 
Girl Scout spies Dora's necklace.
And mutely leans back into a fighting stance.
Like something out of an anime film.
...
Finally Girl Scout lands a punch --
-----
 
If Girl Scout had dialogue in this scene then her slug would be GIRL SCOUT.  If for some reason her dialogue slug was THE GIRL SCOUT, that would justify calling her "the Girl Scout" in the action lines.
 
51. "Tosses it in Dora's direction."
 
I noted: "One syllable trumps two in a fast-paced sentence."  If you disagree I will fight you riding naked on the back of an Australian crocodile.  You'll be bareback on an Amazon python.  Here's what I know: take your Gangnam-Style Youtube numbers and triple 'em.
 
Bunch of candidates to sub for "tosses," other than "hurls."  Flings, zips, zaps, whips, pelts, zooms.
 
52. "Dora instinctively raises her arms."
 
Two comments here.
 
First, watch out for separating related words in action scenes.  "Dora raises her arms" is the sentence core.  Only a couple ways we can slide "instinctively" in there:
 
-- "Dora raises instinctively her arms."  Sounds terrible and plain wrong so we burn this one immediately.
 
-- "Dora instinctively raises her arms." <-- Hudson's choice
-- "Dora raises her arms instinctively."
-- "Instinctively Dora raises her arms." <-- my choice
 
The last two keep the core sentence unbroken.  An unbroken core sentence is my first preference.  The last version puts the filter up front -- before Dora reacts we know HOW she's going to react.  The middle version places the filter last -- Dora raises her arms and only after being told this do we learn in what manner she raised them.  I like to get my filter up front.  When that happens I build an accurate picture in my head as I read.  I won't build a picture that's contrary to the filter waiting at sentence end, forcing me to mentally rebuild the moment taking into account the newly arrived filter.
 
Second comment: "raises her arms" feels too casual.  How about:
 
-- "Instinctively Dora throws up her arms for cover."  Too wordy?
 
53. "Dora instinctively blocks them..."
 
If you've read my other 10PTTs you know I'm sensitive to repetition on the page.  For me it's a lost opportunity to add to the description instead of repeating.  Here, we used "instinctively" a few lines earlier.  The repetition does at least hammer home the idea that Dora's on autopilot -- to her total disbelief.  But it also invites the reader to wonder if you're trying all that hard.
 
Nothing much else happening in this page's revisions.  Tightening here and there to keep the pace skipping along.  Look at "Without thinking Dora blocks them, one by one."  That one tiny comma let's you pause for a mental breath.  No.  You don't get to breath during this fight sequence.  "Dora blocks them BAM BAM BAM!"  Blink and you'll miss something.  Reflect this in the sentence pacing.  There's a general writing guideline that says commas aren't so important in short sentences.  Short sentences by their nature present much less chance for confusion.  Look for opportunities to omit commas where appropriate.


EDIT: D'oh! I notice my revisions created repetition near note 53 with "lands."

"... lands inches in front of Dora..."

soon followed by:

"Finally the Girl Scout lands a punch."

That makes me want to restore Hudson's original line -- "Finally the Girl Scout gets in a punch" -- or inject it with something fresh: "Finally the Girl Scout scores a hit."

[Pitchpatch]

54. "She grabs the Girl Scouts face..."
 
"... Girl Scout's face..."  I missed that typo first time through.
 
55. "The Girl Scout supernaturally leaps back to her feet --"
 
Right on topic re what I was saying back on page 12.  What works better:
 
-- "The Girl Scout leaps supernaturally to her feet --"
-- "The Girl Scout supernaturally leaps to her feet --" <-- Hudson's choice
-- "The Girl Scout leaps to her feet supernaturally --"
-- "Supernaturally the Girl Scout leaps to her feet --"
 
We can jettison the last two right away. The second-to-last version puts the filter at the end, and you know why I hate that.  Version four's sentence structure suited our earlier example on page 12, but this time it's wrong.  It reads horribly.
 
That leaves us the first two versions.  I like Hudson's choice.  It does the best job keeping related words together, and it puts the filter in front of the action, so we build the correct mental image as we read.
 
We're splitting hairs, of course.  What we're doing also is finding the right words and the right word arrangement.  That's an apt description for writing, yeah?  Find the right words and arrange them effectively.
 
56. "She begins to create..."
 
I remember also considering these strong verbs: summons, crafts, manifests.  But only "conjures" supplied that extra magical connotation.
 
57. "The Orb just misses her --"
 
Two ways to read that sentence: that the orb narrowly misses her; or, meh, no biggie because the orb never comes close to striking her.  To convey the latter I could say it with an anticlimactic lilt: "The orb just... misses her" (plus dismissive shoulder shrug).  
 
Okay, okay.  That's a preposterous excuse for making an edit, I know.  Nobody will get the wrong idea.  The real reason I want to tinker with this sentence is because it feels flat and declaratory.  Lazy even.
 
-----
She takes off up the stairs.
The orb scorches a tunnel in the air.
PUNCHES through the riser under her feet.
Toasting Dora's heels and --
CRATERING the staircase beneath her.
-----
 
Compare to the original:
 
-----
She takes off up the stairs.
The orb just misses her.
Destroying the stairs under her feet.
-----
 
The only drawback?  It's two more lines than we had.  We loosened the trouser belt a little and, all right, maybe some tummy spilled over, Homer Simpson style.  I think it's worth it.  Notice in the revision how we don't say "the orb just misses her."  We describe the orb narrowly missing her feet.  And yes, maybe I did amp the sequence to 11 when Hudson dialed it to 8 or 9.  Nobody plays with me so I make my own fun.  Michael Bay knows how I feel.
 
58. "Dora hears a ramming against the door."
 
I wanted that RAMMING to be feel brutal.  I like the idea of this petite girl scout hitting that door like a refrigerator shot from a canon.  I'm imagining a shaggy Yeti plodding down the hallway and he notices Girl Scout attacking the door.  He watches for a moment, then delicately lifts her aside and says, "Dude, I got this."  WHOMP!  Brutal.
 
If I were to try again I'd definitely throw in some figurative language along those lines.
 
59. "She extends her leg."
 
Another oddly clinical word choice during an action scene.
 
Hey... HEY!  ONLY ONE PAGE TO GO.  Then this 10PTT is history.
 
I'm sorry for you.  You have no idea what you're missing out on.  These 14 pages are the warm up.  Things ramp up from here.  Considerably -- and supernaturally.  I wish I could spin out the story for you.  Give you a little teaser.  I wish I could discuss some of my fav scenes and why I think they're gangbusters.  I'm not saying this script will blow you away.  In this early draft there's plenty of room for the story to mature.  This is very much a case of seeing what's there on the page and what's almost there.  If you're like me you'll see this story for what it wants to be, and you will cheer.
 
Wait.  The logline!  Yes, I can give you a teaser.
 
Here's the logline I confabulated for Hudson early in the process.  Uh, am I permitted to do this?  Am I supposed to keep this secret?  Surely not.  A logline is your story's business card.  What good is a business card if it stays buried in your pocket?
 
Tell you what,  I'll consult the amyl nitrate...
 
Mmm. Yes, I see... Amyl Nitraaate saaays I should goooo aheeeead aaaaand tiiime sloooowing downnnnnn shoooooooow yoooooooooouuuuuuuuu the sooooo relaaaaaxed loooooogliiiiiiiiiiine.
 
PITCHPATCH'S SPLENDORA LOGLINE:
 
First, here's the LL the way it came in the door:
 
"After her mom is kidnapped, a sheltered teenager discovers she has supernatural abilities and must learn to control them in order to save her mom, defeat her 5 half-sisters, and face the greatest threat of all… her father."
 
That's a serviceable logline.  Definitely.  Reads a bit pedestrian though.  Lacking oomph.
 
I'll try to bring some sexy back.
 
"On her birthday, a lonely teen just wants to kiss a boy. Instead she gets supernatural powers, a kidnapped mother, five deadly sisters to battle, and disturbing news: her Father's the Prince of Darkness."
 
HEYO!  Surely hearing the logline reframes what you read in those script pages, right?  Ladies and germs, you ain't seen nothing yet.  Sigh.  If only you could see what I've seen in the other 80.
 
Ah well.  We have one page left, so there's that.  Even now, my third time studying these pages, it's hard for me to quit reading.  I'm driven to mentally replay scenes, fossick for new angles and connections that strengthen the story.  A company of talented filmmakers could do something crazy awesome with this story.  I'm convinced.
 

[Pitchpatch]

60. "Dora quickly catches the Girl Scout..."
 
It's implicit that Dora acts fast to catch her: we last saw Girl Scout tumbling out the window!
 
61. "Held up only by a NECKLACE around her neck."
 
After chopping "around her neck" there's a weak case for arguing the necklace could be clutched in Girl Scout's hand, and that's what Dora seizes.  Very weak case.  The context so far tells us Girl Scout wears her necklace, same as Dora.  So let's button that sentence on NECKLACE.
 
62.  "She doesn't speak, but her eyes beg for mercy."
 
For me, silence is part of the trope for "eyes begging for mercy."  I might not be typical.
 
I'll lay out the revision (further revised) in full to see how it plays.  I have a couple nagging questions.
 
----
...
Held up only by a NECKLACE.
Her life now in Dora's hands.  Literally.
Her eyes beg for mercy.
Dora eyes the necklace.  IT MATCHES HER OWN.
 
DORA: Where did you --
 
SNAP --
Girl Scout SHRIEKS BLOODY MURDER as she falls...
IMPALING herself on the white picket fence.
 
DORA SCREAMS and drops Girl Scout's necklace.
-----
 
So, I changed it up to avoid the repetition of "SCREAMS."  Mwahahaha: shrieks bloody murder!  I like that.  It's a delicious tonal shift for Girl Scout: moments ago a ferocious assassin; now a begging supplicant; and finally an enraged, doomed harpy.
 
I carefully considered the repetition of "eyes."
 
-----
Her life now in Dora's hands.  Literally.
Her eyes beg for mercy.
Dora eyes the necklace.  IT MATCHES HER OWN.
-----
 
I settled on it being a good thing.  "Her eyes beg for mercy.  Dora eyes the necklace."  There's a punctuated, interlaced brevity to it.
 
And this is where we wave goodbye to SPLENDORA.
 
Except for you there! You, Mr Investor with five million bucks you want turned into fifty.  If you love goofy-fun, crowd-pleasing action movies with baked-in franchise potential, start a conversation with Hudson Phillips.  Tell him Pitchpatch sent ya!
 
Seriously, don't do that.  Sober up and tell him Mike De Luca sent you.  Better yet, send Mike in person.  Dude would produce the shit out of this thing.
 
How'd I do on this 10PTT?  I can't help but think maybe for half these revisions I'm just slapping the bass, mon.  Not really making much difference but, you know, having fun.  Remember, this is a spec draft.  Doesn't make much sense to agonize over every word when you know big chunks of text will change in the coming weeks and months.  Right?
 
Or... does it actually make perfect sense in some weird way?  To treat every draft like it's your last chance to get the words right before that circus clown (it's always a clown) comes riding on his balloon-festooned miniature bicycle -- pumping those squealing pedals with focus and fury but moving no faster than a granny on her third hip replacement.  You watch this bozo arrive (eventually) and you watch him squeeze the tiny handbrake and plant his giant blue clown shoe on the pavement to steady his now-stationary bike.  You see his dirty white-gloved hand reach for that rusty horn clamped to the handlebars and -- BAAAOUUUGA!  BAAAOOOOOOUUUGA!  (Oh good.  Twice this time with that godawful ear-scraping horn.)  Your shoulders sag in defeat.  He straightens his crooked spine, leans forward in his seat, gives you that familiar lopsided stare, and asks, "Why you gotta make me do this every time, bub?  Me and Nancy got better things to do than rescue screenplays from overly precious hacks like you."  That's when you remember: this clown owns a monkey named Nancy.  Right on cue Nancy scuttles into sight -- that wretched, greasy, drunken excuse for a primate -- over the clown's shoulder.  Nancy wears a ragged pink ballerina leotard and a set of blood-soaked ballet shoes that must've looked adorable on the unfortunate child they originally clothed.  Atop the clown's shoulder Nancy begins to dance.  You've seen this before.  This is part of The Ritual. You watch Nancy dance and this time you wonder if it's not a dance but the spastic jerking that accompanies the final stage of chronic alcohol poisoning.  Did I mention there's no music?   There never is.  You're certain it would at least be amusing if this transpired to music.  Nancy struts and gyrates.  Attempts a  handstand.  There's an aborted backflip.  Oh swell, now you're seeing some late 80s pop-and-lock breakdance moves.  That's new.  Finally the monkey gives up.  You're not sure if it's from exhaustion or boredom.  Nancy reaches behind and produces a silver flask.  Gulps deep and long.  The flask goes back to wherever the hell it came from.  Now Nancy's glaring at you with narrow, bloodshot simian eyes.  This is the part in The Ritual where you hand over your precious script.  Nancy snatches it up in those leathery, grabby little paws and clambers behind the clown.  Once that hairy fucker's out of sight you wonder if it even exists.  Sure seems like something a self-loathing writer would dream up to channel feelings of guilt and frustration.   You snap out of your thoughts when the clown sneers and loudly mutters "Pussy" to nobody in particular.  Those giant blue clown shoes once again meet the pedals and away the clown goes -- squeak SQUEAK squeak SQUEAK -- taking FOREVER to shrink down to a wobbling dot on the horizon.

...

I... wow, hah, I kinda creeped myself out there.  Strange way to end a 10PTT.

Um... so...

Yeah, you should go.  I'm not sure what happens next.

And it's a full moon.  So you should run.  You should run FAST.